A rumination that’s crossed my mind multiple times this year has been the first stories that made me: my favorite books as a child, and just how deep their influence ended up running. I started reading before grade school. I’d had exposure to reading basics in pre-school, and more importantly, strong supplemental at-home efforts by an elder sister. It was through her guidance that I was taught to read out of my collection of Walt Disney Fun-to-Read Library books. These beginning reader books were fascinating to me, stories featuring my beloved Disney characters that couldn’t be found in their TV cartoons or movies. And In book form, they weren’t just entertaining me, they were providing instruction and making a good case for its usefulness in life. Some were original stories expanding beyond what happened in the movie, such as The Ugly Stepsisters Cinderella story. But many of them were adaptations of classic stories and fables like “The Tortoise and the Hare” (Goofy’s Big Race) and “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” (Donald Cries “Wolf!”). Between that set and the encyclopedic Fun-to-Learn library, those Disney books were my constant companions in the lulls of childhood before portable electronic devices. They taught me to be curious about the world and appreciate it for what it is. I feel rather guilty for having forgotten them altogether in the time since, and only just remembering them now as I started to write this. The books I’ve held in memory as my favorites from back then are the ones I read after starting elementary school—Arnold Lobel’s Fables, which ended up steering me to The Aesop for Children. Those were incredible, it was like finding the unfiltered originals that the Disney cover versions I had loved so much when starting to learn to read were based on. And since they weren’t interpretations featuring licensed characters, those stories could be more explicit about real consequences, including punishment or even death. They spoke of the world without...





