The metro Detroit area has been blistering under the 3-digit temperatures these past couple of weeks--the sun so warm and air so thick you'd think you were walking through a blast furnace. But in true Michigan weather form, if you wait one hot second, that sticky air clouds up and turns dark for a thoroughly quenching thunderstorm.
One such thunderstorm rolled into my little lake-side city recently. It was night--I had been asleep for a few hours before strong torrents of rain began pelting my bedroom windows. Still in that half-cognitive sleepy state, I kept a light ear to the sound. I happen to like thunderstorms, particularly at night. That pitter-patter of raindrops soothes away any busy, wandering thoughts. Then a low grumble of thunder accompanied by a lightning clap zig-zagging across the sky filled my room. I snuggled down further into my bed and had just reached the threshold of deeper sleep when a loud buzz culminating in a static-y zap awoke me in time to see electric spit-fire through the trees and my digital clock's digits grow dim--our block's transformer had blew.
Soon after, I heard a long squeak and a pattern of creaks emanating through the hall, those familiar sounds registering as my brother's squeaking door and parents' creaking footsteps down our wooden stairs--everyone was up. As I wandered downstairs, white light beamed across the kitchen. I nodded to everyone that I was okay and continued down to the basement, my dead flashlight in hand.
Now, my basement is one part my dad's business, one part standard creepy basement--and in the dark, the creepy basement is the more prominent part! I ventured gingerly down the steps, peering under the ceiling as I descended. It was completely pitch dark; the kind of dark where you wonder if you should even bother keeping your eyes open. Dodging around all my dad's equipment, I reached the shelves where he kept extra batteries. I grabbed a couple, too aware of my invisibility in the darkness, and rushed back up to my parents.
Up and about with my working flashlight, I felt fully awake. So I decided to grab an old stand-by book: a Nancy Drew Mystery. My mom is a collector--not in the monetary sense, but rather as a dedicated fan. An entire column of a bookshelf in our sun room houses nearly all books from the Nancy Drew series. I grew up on these books and still love reading the simple yet admirable stories. I went straight for my favorite, The Hidden Staircase, and curled back into my quilt to read by flashlight--as if I were transported back to my 4th grade self.
Since beginning my job search in publishing, I've acquire the habit of reading the publishers page first. Flipping through the first couple of pages, I recognized the publisher--Applewood Books (Check it out here: http://applewoodbooks.com/) and it was only then that I realized I had picked up the reprinted original edition of this first Nancy Drew book. I hadn't actually read through this version before so I decided to start with the prologue, written by Nancy Drew fan and fellow mystery writer Nancy Pickard.
I thoroughly enjoyed her insights into the series. Written in the 1930s, the original Nancy Drew books by today's modern societal views are not very politically correct, featuring the stereotypical white Christian patriarchal-esque American family, references to African Americans with dated names, etc. However, Pickard clarifies that while some aspects of the series are better left to rest, the essence of Nancy Drew's spirit provides an unparalleled relateable female role model for young girls.
I hit my Nancy Drew phase in 4th grade. I was thoroughly invested in her character. I loved her spunk, her witticisms, and even her unrealistic, too-perfect circumstances in which she found herself. Just good, old fashioned who-done-its without the Criminal Minds creepy factor or CSI gore. As an English major, my fascination with diction reached new heights as I re-discovered the very staged but yet sincere dialogues between Nancy and her friends and family. I honestly think her knack for using words like "nonplussed" and using formal sentence structure in every day conversations inspired my love and study of diction. Even the extremely detailed background thoughts about Nancy's mood are full of didactic descriptions. I love that Applewood Books has continued to provide these experiences with their genre niche in historic American Literature.
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