Sammy Rose on the three books that shaped her
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Reading is the way I escape. Snuggled up on the couch or under my doona on a Sunday morning with a good book that I can’t put down is my happy place.
I have such fond memories of reading as a child, and my parents fostered my joy of reading from a young age. When my younger sisters were running around in the paddocks outside, I’d be tucked away in my bunk bed, content and cosy with my nose in a book.
When our Online Editor Erin Cross asked me to write about the three books that shaped me, I struggled to get the list down to three. Here are the first three books that came to mind.
The Wind in The Willows by Kenneth Grahame
My Nan bought me a deluxe illustrated version of Wind in The Willows as a child. It still sits on my bookshelf in a spot where I can see it, and it’s one of the first books I consciously remember reading. I can recall being worried about Toad’s dodgy behaviour, while marveling at his stylish waistcoats. My Dad always reminded me a bit of Mr. Badger: stern on first appearance, but a teddy bear beneath it all. The part I remember most is the friendship between Mole and Rat. I couldn’t tell you the details, but when I think of this book, I think of how, as friends, they are always there for each other despite their differences.
The Cry of the Icemark by Stuart Hill
During my tween and teen years, I was inundated with fantasy novels with male protagonists. I devoured the pages of every Deltora Quest, Rowan of Rin, and Harry Potter novel. It’s no surprise then, that the most memorable book of my teen years is The Cry of The Icemark by Stuart Hill, a fantasy fiction novel with a female heroine.
The plot revolves around thirteen-year-old Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield (such a regal name) who fights to save her small home, the Icemark, from the invading Polypontian Empire. She shows wit and strength by bringing together the most unlikely alliance to save her father’s legacy. I remember revelling in the notion of a young girl standing up to men who thought she wasn’t worthy and proving them wrong. Girls could do what boys could. It’s a theme I think lots of us as women have come up against at one time or another.
Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
I’m one of four girls, so it comes as no surprise that one of the books that shaped me most was Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. I can strongly relate to the juicy frantic chaos of growing up with three sisters – how we are all the same in so many ways, but different in so many others. This book helped me feel okay growing up in my teen years about the sometimes-complicated sibling relationship.
It was okay that I clashed with my sisters. We were strong in our own ways. It made me appreciate my Mum and Dad more. How they managed four hormonal teen girls between the ages of 13 and 18 at the one time, who knows?! Our raw unfiltered emotions filled every corner of our small home, along with regular explosions over the most trivial things. Used my brand-new Remington straightener? Screaming match. Borrowed my favorite top without asking? An even louder screaming match. The joys of puberty.
I believe the order of your birth amongst your siblings does play a part in your personality. My older sister Mikaela was studious and did things by the rules, much like Meg March. I was always known to be a bit spiky with my words, independent, and set in my ways, like Jo. A middle child in so many ways. Our Ali, like Beth, preferred to remain a hermit rather than be in the possible insecurity of an unknown social interaction. Ali also had the benefit of Mikaela and myself to do all the talking for her. While Steph, the youngest, is our wild child (my feral bugalugs). She’s strong, and outspoken, and I don’t think she’ll mind me saying she has a flair for drama.
Jo March was an independent thinker and someone who was often misunderstood by the people around her, which is a feeling I’m sure we can all relate to in some way. Throughout my school years, there were many times I would sit crying with Mum or Dad, asking them why I had to be different, why couldn’t I be more ‘normal’? I liked to ‘try hard’ and put extra effort into most things I did. Dad called me his little wolf, reminding me it was okay to act independently and do what I thought was right, rather than follow along like sheep. To this day, when I’m having a hard day I write ‘WOLF’ on my hand or wrist to remind me.
A psychologist once told me, I just needed to find my tribe. I needed to find people with similar interests, who appreciated the same things I did and embraced the weird and wonderful. I can now say I’ve found a tribe of fellow weirdos who aren’t intimidated or threatened by something different but celebrate it.
Jo March and the writings of Louisa May Alcott helped me understand there was joy in embracing our uniqueness. I love being a weirdo.
