This morning while doing some sort of aimless, pleasurable websurfing, I found this great site on 20th-century "series books" for school-age girls:
http://www.series-books.com/
It's amazing how mild curiosity can plunge one pell-mell into the roiling emotions and yearnings of their youth, no matter what the era. As of late, Steve has been delving into his own school-age era, particularly with music. Today, I joined him, only it was my own journey, and it was with books.
I think it's a beautiful thing that no matter what era you grow up in, there will be specific culturally related obsessions that probably have no value outside of what they meant to you, and your young heart.
It's always a pleasant surprise to find the odd childhood obsession that actually stands the test of time (meaning you can honestly see the over-arching cultural value at age 40 that you could at age 11). But more often, it's a nostalgic pang that hits a seldom-touched deep in your heart.
I was a HUGE reader of series books as a little girl. I always loved the excitement of a specific group of characters and families, and completely fell prey to the "targeted demographic" of these books. I ate them up daily, nightly, all weekend long, all summer long with a jam-covered spoon: "All-of-A-Kind Family", the Noel Streatfield series; Trixie Belden, Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, and later, Sweet Valley High. I also learned that one of my favorite books as a child ("Understood Betsy") was written by Dorothy Canfield and published in 1917. Dorothy Canfield was born and raised in Lawrence, Kansas. Who knew? Certainly not me! I only read the danged thing.
One summer I lived across from the Lawrence Municipal Swimming Pool AND the Lawrence Public Library, which were right next to one another. I'd swallow down some breakfast in the morning and trot across the street to the library, where I'd spend the morning with one of the above-mentioned books...and every afternoon I'd take the day's haul with me over to the swimming pool where I could swim and daudle for a while in the hot summer afternoon sun, and hop out and lie on a towel to read my library books.
I didn't only read series books, of course. I read the hell out of books about ghosts and hauntings in the US, young girl ice skaters, dancers, or gymnasts, horrific 15th century versions of fairy tales, fables, and mythology, and even Little Black Sambo (my brother loved for me to read that book to him). The children's section of the Lawrence Public Library was the most wondrous baby-sitter I have ever had in my life. Every day was a new adventure, and I was never, ever bored when I was there. There was always some aisle in which I hadn't spent much time, and I learned so much as a result. I cannot even count how many books I read in that library from ages 8 to 10.
This entire rambling blog was inspired because this morning I revisited a series I was obsessed with in my teen years. I actually spent entire summers in my room reading the "Sweet Valley High" books over and over again; only coming out of my escapist haze to descend the stairs and crankily re-join the world for meals...and then back up again to the comfort of Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield and their world of faux teen angst and thinly disguised, badly written social platitudes. Here's an informative site for those of you who might understand, complete with book covers and synapses that gripped my heart and took me back 20 years.
http://www.series-books.com/svh/svh.html
My stepmom called my SVH summers "depression," and in retrospect I agree that it probably was. But what a lovely depression I could sink myself into! It felt a hell of a lot better then listening to everyone in my new stepfamily blather on loudly. Our house was so LOUD back then, and nothing was said that I found interesting, except for when my dad spoke (which wasn't that often, comparatively). All that changed when I got a drivers' license, of course. I had a much more tangible means of escape then.
We young fans of SVH were in puberty, way over-emotional, and totally unsure of ourselves. We were really starting to be immersed in the flashy, gluttonous, mercenary vibe of 1980s America. All of our parents were getting divorced. Compound that with the trials of being chubby and awkward in middle school or junior high school and the usual young girls' whim of yearning to be someone you weren't, and there you have a target demographic...and there I was, raising my hand and begging for more, more, more!
I do not expect people who weren't pre-teen girls in the flashy 1980s to understand the obsession with the Sweet Valley High series. But any girl who was born in America in the early-to-mid 70s would understand the sugar-sweet "coolness" that these books provided from 1983 to 1990. God, but I loved them, and collected them long after the obsession had cooled. I collected all of the books up to about #100 (which was at least 50 books past the point where they should have quit because they had totally run out of ideas)--including special editions, and later even some of the Sweet Valley Twins series, although I knew I was a little too old for those by then.
One day in my early 20s I knew that I would never need these books again, and I gave them away to a charity that assists disadvantaged women and their children. Today I would LOVE to pull out that big, battered cardboard box and rifle through them; maybe re-read a couple for old times' sake. I don't need them anymore, but once in a while, like today, I just want them.
At the time I discovered the Sweet Valley High books, my father was no longer teaching and instead was working as a manager at "Adventure, A Bookstore" in Lawrence, Kansas (typical over-qualifications for Lawrence, where your bartender has a Master's degree). I spent hours in that bookstore every day after school from 7th grade right up to when I got my drivers' license.
It's funny, though...I was never drawn towards particularly good literature, but when I tally it all up, I must have read about eight or nine of those 250-page books a week. Not just Sweet Valley High...the bookstore had a very well-developed Young Adult section, and at any given time I had pretty much read approximately 50% of the inventory in that store. The owners of the store really liked my dad, my little brother and I, and were totally fine with me coming there after school and burying my nose in their stock.
I know I usually read one book every day after school (I'm a fast reader). Also, to my writhing joy, every couple of weeks my dad brought home for me a couple of paper grocery sacks full of books that'd had the covers ripped off (for publishers' inventory, therefore the books are not sellable). I read, and I read, and I read. I mean yes, 70% of it was Young Adult schlock, but at a not-at-all overstated average of 8 books a week for five years, that means I read over 2,000 books from 7th grade until my senior year. And still had time to learn to drink Purple Passion, smoke Marlboro Reds, and make out with shiftless boys (if they were dropouts, they were that much hotter to me).
But THOSE days are another blog entirely.
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