From Lavender Nights To Library Cards: A Journey of Reading

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A World Half Seen

From the moment I was born, the world always seemed out of reach, my vision never quite clear enough to see with ease, though not so dim as to be completely dark. I was born blind, requiring corneal transplants just to make sense of a blurry reality that moved on without me. The edges of everything were like a dream half-remembered, and I learned early to rely on sound and shape recognition. I grew up moving through a life where things around me felt both distant and elusive, forcing me to work harder than everyone else, all the while believing I would always fall short.

Grandma’s Bed

In 2nd grade, my little brother and I lived with my grandparents because my family had been evicted from our apartment due to my father’s ongoing employment struggles and his and my mother’s trial separation. While living there, we had a bedtime routine­­; something I didn’t have while living with my parents. After our nightly snack, usually a bread-and-butter sandwich—my brother would sleep in the living room with Grandpa, falling asleep to the sound of westerns, while I slept with my grandmother, who always prepared our shared bed by putting up a blue kid bumper on my side. Before climbing in, she would lotion her hands and feet, offering me a dollop; most nights, we fell asleep smelling of lavender.

Once we were snug, Grandma would grab her glasses and pick up the books on her nightstand: a romance novel she was reading and a Baby-Sitters Little Sister book she’d read with me. With her gentle British accent, she’d read a chapter aloud, pausing occasionally to adjust her glasses or chuckle softly at a scene. I’d try hard to focus on her voice rather than the chatter of KKAR playing softly on the radio behind us, and inevitably, she’d pass the book to me, encouraging me to read. But the words were daunting and blurry as they danced around the page. Eventually, frustration would bring tears.

“I can’t do it,” I’d plead, claiming my eyes hurt.

Seeing my tears, patiently, she’d take the book and continue reading. Despite my reluctance, she persisted in pushing reading every night, choosing to read kiddie books like Baby-Sitters Little Sister instead of the Danielle Steel novels she loved, always making me feel like reading together was the most important part of her evening, even when I knew the books bored her.

School Rewards and Pretend Reading

At school, we were given rewards for attendance, good behaviour and of course, reading. I wanted those rewards desperately, but my reading struggles made them feel out of reach. Cleverly, I began reporting what Grandma had read to me as my own accomplishments for the R.U.F.F. reading program. When I ran out of titles, I started listing movies instead. One time, I sat in the dimly lit classroom and proudly told my teacher I had read Ernest Scared Stupid, Salem’s Lot, and Friday the 13th and, to my astonishment, I received full credit. Looking back, I suspect the teacher knew I was lying. After all, what third-grader could read Salem’s Lot, especially when they couldn’t even read out loud to the class? I often lost my place, didn’t know where we were when it was my turn, and as a result was teased by my peers for not keeping up. It made me feel small, like I wasn’t smart enough to be part of the group, a shame I carried with me for years.

Life Back with My Parents

At the end of that summer, my parents asked my brother and me if we wanted them to stay together, and of course, we said yes. So, before the beginning of the school year, we moved from my grandparents’ house into a cramped bedroom at the house where my parents were living at the time. Shortly after, third grade started and reading disappeared from my life. My parents were into movies and computer games, so those quickly became my focus. My dad’s measure of success wasn’t reading or academics, but whether we could last 20 minutes against him at Empire Earth.

On Saturdays, I loved playing outside in the neighborhood, but my dad didn’t want my brother and me around other kids because he didn’t want us to compare our lives to theirs and realize how different ours was. Before he went to band practice, I’d lie in bed pretending to read so he wouldn’t suspect I was going to sneak out as soon as he was gone. Staring at the pages, I’d often hear my grandma’s voice: “If you can read a book, you can go anywhere.”

One Saturday, during the summer before 5th grade, it just happened. I wasn’t pretending anymore. As sunlight streamed through my bedroom window, set to the scent of freshly cut grass, I finished a book on my own for the first time. Hearing it in my grandmother’s accent, I’d crossed the threshold and became a reader.

Discovering My Own Path

By the summer I turned 10, reading became my escape from a difficult home life. That year, I skipped Christmas dinner, lost in Around the World in 80 Days and Karen’s Unicorn. In 7th and 8th grade, I devoured books with an insatiable hunger. By the end of eighth grade, I feared the school library wouldn’t have enough to keep me occupied through the summer. Then, one morning, I found my dad’s copy of Stephen King’s Dreamcatcher. Thrilled to bring it to the pool, my excitement quickly faded when he refused, worried I’d ruin it. Undeterred, with two pieces of mail and my middle school ID, I walked 2 miles to the public library under the scorching sun and dripping with sweat and applied for my first library card. Once approved, I immediately checked out Dreamcatcher using that same card that still resides in my wallet all these years later.

In high school, my home situation deteriorated once again, and I moved back in with my grandparents. By this time, reading was my everything. I made extensive “to-read” lists, which I plowed through thanks to the library. My grandparents supported my reading so much that they allowed me to read books at the table, even at restaurants. I carried a book everywhere, and instead of being teased for not being able to read, I was teased for reading too much, which I didn’t mind. Not a moment went by that my nose wasn’t buried in a book, quite literally, due to the same poor eyesight that once prevented me from reading in the first place.

In school, we were required to read books and take tests on them in English class. I always went above and beyond, consistently finishing the required reading before the other students, then reading and testing on additional books. In 11th grade, my teacher acknowledged that the assigned book was beneath me and had me read Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card instead.

In college, I was always reading fiction alongside whatever was required for classes. During my senior year, I managed to get a supervisor override so I could take two literature classes in the same semester. Not surprisingly, I aced both of them. While working in a dimly lit bar, I always had a book with me. When it was slow, I’d read by the light above the pool table. A few years later, while working retail, I would often stash a book and high-magnification reading glasses in my locker so I could read on breaks. My life partner often tells the story of when she first saw me, before we met, sitting in the break room reading. Every time she does, she refers to me as the “owl lady.”

Reflection and Legacy

Now, I read voraciously and even write my own fiction. I have more books than I know what to do with, so I’m never wanting for something to read. My husband will read a book if I recommend it to him, or he’ll recommend books to me. My life partner and I read together, taking turns reading aloud to each other. My son, who is four, is already a skilled reader, tackling beginner chapter books.

Today, when I read and write, I think of my grandmother. Her persistence and patience laid the foundation for my literary journey. She taught me that books are passports to everywhere. Now, I don’t read to escape, I read to explore and learn. I write to take others on journeys of their own. And when I explore new genres or craft stories, I hear her voice, reminding me the world is within reach, one book at a time.

Author: Chelsea Furman

Contributors:

Samantha Rose Fairchild: editor and revision

Luke Furman: editor and beta reading

Israel Onoja: image creator and revision

Chelsea Furman is a graduate of both Creighton University and the University of Nebraska- Omaha, taking creative writing classes at both colleges as electives. She lives with her husband, queerplatonic life partner, son, and collection of cats in Omaha, Nebraska. She was born blind but after surgery as a baby, has some vision in one eye. When not reading and writing, she enjoys pursuing artistic ventures, video games, cooking, and karaoke. She wrote her first story on her dad’s computer at age seven, before she could even read it. She has been participating in NaNoWriMo every year since 2014, completing its 50,000 word count goal in 2015, 2022, 2023, and 2024. Her writing has been featured in the game Thimbleweed Park and in the local newspaper Heartland News.

Categories: : family, Inspirational, memoirs, reading, short stories, writers