How fortunate I was to grow up with Oliver Twist,  Little Dorrit,  Nicholas Nickleby and David Copperfield.  I spent hours in The Old Curiosity Shop and Bleak House.  Our Mother loved Charles Dickens novels.  She read  out loud to us through the long, cold winter nights.  Not for us tame fairy tales.  The dark underbelly of  Dickens’ London, his villains and heroes, were our bedtime stories.

I was thrilled to bits when I discovered these five volumes of Charles Dickens at our local Ladner Thrift Shop.  These familiar small, red books  held the magic, the enchantment, the mystery, of another world.   Published  in 1911 these one hundred year old books are in almost pristine condition.  Their scarlet covers and gold lettering still rich and bright.  The illustrations are delightful.

When I hold these books I hold precious  memories.   I grasp firmly the days of my childhood. Who says you can’t go home again.    All it takes is one  book and I am there.


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