Growing up, one of the first books I was assigned to read was “Of Mice And Men.”
It was the Seventh Grade.
I fell in love with it. In fact, I couldn’t wait to get to the end to see the farmhouse and land that George and Lennie were going to buy.
I couldn’t wait for Lennie to get his rabbits.
I don’t remember how old I was in the Seventh Grade, but I remember this: Crying.
A book had made me cry.
It reached deep down into my Soul and brought out feelings I didn’t know I had.
I also remember screaming, “I’m too young to read this!”
I admit I had no idea what was happening at the end.
I was picturing the farmhouse, the land all along with Lennie.
I thought that poor Lennie was probably going to go to jail when suddenly, “Bang!”
“What?” I said. I reread it. “Bang!”
“NOOOOOOOOO! This sucks! Why was I assigned this to read?” I screamed.
It took me a day or two to prepare myself for my next assigned reading. I just knew the next book had to be better.
I couldn’t wait to get to the happy ending of the next book I was assigned to read. After all, it was about a boy and his dog. What could go wrong?
The next book up? “Where The Red Fern Grows.”
Seventh Grade was sad.
