An Enid Blyton morning.

29. Oct. 23.

Good morning, good morning.

Morning walks are wonderful, aren’t they? Yes? No? Oh dear.

Morning walks are birds warbling; they are the trees singing and swaying and dropping leaves like musical notes at my feet; they are the glistening blades of grass, and light fragrance of fresh-blooming flowers mingling with the old perfume of yesterday’s blossoms.

When the sun is rising, dress-up in he gold-light and dew-shine, and he drape he-self upon the universe, and the breeze is cool, a childhood thought comes back to me: aaaah, it’s an Enid Blyton morning.

I went strolling one such morning last week and tumbled back to that Saturday in Austin’s Bookstore.

I was browsing in the Enid Blyton section, looking for a birthday book for Rehanna, Auntie M’s granddaughter. Well, actually, between you and me and these four walls, I was gallivanting with Mr. Galliano’s circus, tossing my thick black hair like a flirt as I drove my horse-drawn wooden caravan. I was pleased with its new paint work, the coat of red and the blue and yellow flowers. The only thing bothering me was the fact that my caravan had no flush-toilet. I was working on a design.

“My children don’t like to read,” a man-voice interrupted.

Y’know that feeling when you jump from a book and land back in real life? I was a little surprised to see the quiet-looking man standing near me. “We live in New York and I can’t seem to find books they want,” he said.

“Oh! Give them Enid Blyton books,” I suggested. “There are books for all ages here. They won’t stop reading.”

“You’re right,” he said. “Now that you mention it, I remember somebody gave them an Enid Blyton book once and they loved it.”

We gyaff…chatted…about books, his holiday back home in GY and life as a young, educated coolie Guyanese in New York. (Now friend, please don’t come calling me racist! Me is coolie too, and in GY we use this word as one way to connect with our East Indian-ness. Coolie man food. Coolie gyal, how you do? Remember Mystic song, Coolie boy dance?)

The nice, polite man chose some books and left. Not me, budday! I don’t leave bookstores easily. I stroke, flip open, sniff like an addict, read. I barely hold back meself from licking pages. Sunset would find me there if the staff didn’t need to go home. But that’s another story for another day.

I burrowed through the bookstore, returned to Enid. A sudden hissing scared de hide off me skin. A short-ish woman, jet black hair falling over her face, was glaring at me through black rimmed glasses.

Eeeek! Coolie woman in menopause! (Yes, dear reader, that was the horrid thought that assaulted my harried little head. Please don’t cancel me ten years in the future, I plead deep sorrow and great regret in advance for that vile thought that assailed me a few years ago.)

The woman hunched over, jooked…poked…the books, hissed. “People need to stop reading foreign books and start reading local books!”

Nah, nah, I ain’t know about that ‘stop reading foreign books’ idea, but I agree one hundred percent that we should read books by local writers, you’d better not go after our writers, though, for describing what they see and think.

Ha, ya crazy if ya thought I said that out loud, not me, friend! I wasn’t about to engage in a discussion with any war-ish body. Besides, I was in a warm state of mellow.

“Oh, okay,” I nodded and tippy-toed away, leaving her a bit deflated.

I turned to the rack with children’s classics. Maybe I should…

…a man, a woman and a girl about ten years old came up to me. Today is coolie-people day, yeah, I thought. I don’t remember ever seeing so many at one-single-same-time in this bookstore.

“What books would you recommend?” the father asked. The girl looked at me, big, dark eyes shining. I got the impression they were here to buy books just for her.

I was so excited, I was almost wagging. “This was my favourite book when I was little, I read it eight times,” I said and gave her a short rundown.

This would be my glory-moment, seeing her choose Heidi. She would remember today forever.

That child replaced Heidi on the rack without a glance at it.

Child! Whaz wrong with you?

I wanted to hiss like you-know-who, but I hid my disappointment like a true champ and described other books. She examined, replaced. I pointed to Black Beauty. “This is a lovely book, but full of sadness,” I said. “People are cruel to the horse and…”

The child grabbed the book off the rack, gazed at the cover. “I want this,” she said to her parents.

My work was done.  A happy me left them browsing, the happy, smiling three.

And now, dear friend, I’m skipping off to read The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams.

After that, I will continue reading this very grown-up book from Jamaica, a contrast of landscape beauty and a man’s cruelty.

Before I go, I’d like to repeat something I’ve shared earlier:

What do you think, dear fellow book lover? What books would you give for trick and treat? What books would you give a child any time?

Until next time, take care of you. Eat good books and dance up li’l bit. Plenty lurve, neena.

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