The joy of a young bookworm

Funny Miss Twiggley

lived in a tree,

with a dog named Puss

and a color TV.

She did what she liked

and she liked what she did,

but when company came,

Miss Twiggley hid.

So begins my favourite book from childhood – recalled from memory. Yes, I re-read Miss Twiggley’s Tree, by Dorothea Warren Fox, so many times I had it memorized. Alas, those two paragraphs are all I can recite now, but I remember the story. Puss does the shopping, there are friendly bears, a flood leads to a giant tea party, and new friends are made. The illustrations are charming and full of life, and conjured fantasies in my young head of living in my own treehouse.

I was a voracious reader as a child, ahead of my grade level from day one. My parents gave me membership in a book club that sent a new hardcover children’s book every month. Oh, how I loved coming home from school to find that large, flat package addressed to me. I’d then retreat to my room to read my new book, and then I’d read it again, and then I'd read it again.

I still own my copy of Miss Twiggley’s Tree, and I feel warm and cosy just thinking about it. I loved that book. I read the story to my boys and perhaps one day I’ll read it to their children – though I’m not holding my breath on that one.