When you were a “young adult,” you had lots of books to choose from. You could read Christopher Pike, and get the caca scared out of you by the same horror plot over and over. You could discover touching tales of rural life, like “Where the Red Fern Grows,” “Hatchet,” and “My Side Of The Mountain.” Or you could slog through those large font novels about how your teachers are aliens.
But you chose a different path. You may have found the books in your aunt’s house, or at the library when you wandered around after school when everybody else was playing junior basketball. Chances are your parents didn’t give them to you, but you found them anyway. And when you did, it opened up a whole new world of adventure, love and bliss... And melancholy walks through the shaded woods.
Oh, “Anne of Green Gables.” How you loved her red hair, and fussy way of describing things. How you wished you lived in a garret, and had foster parents like Marilla and Matthew. How you yearned (okay, lusted) for Gilbert Blythe, who started off coarse and mean, but turned into a handsome, bushy-haired gentleman. Did you believe in corporal punishment, you wondered? Would you have given up the Avery prize?
You may have even continued reading the series, devouring “Anne of Avonlea” and “Anne of Windy Poplars.” You may have gotten the book on tape, and forced your parents to listen to it in the car over and over. You may have even watched the movie, or the miniseries!
Whatever you did, you did it with wistful glee, just the way Anne would have. Except she didn’t grow up to be a giant man-swallowing ass vacuum, and you did.