THE PULPWOOD QUEENS' TIARA WEARING, BOOK SHARING, GUIDE TO LIFE

THE PULPWOOD QUEENS' TIARA WEARING, BOOK SHARING, GUIDE TO LIFE celebrates female friendship, sisterhood, and the transformative power of reading. It includes life principles and motivational anecdotes, hilarious and heart-warming stories of friendships among the Queens, and stories from Kathy about the books that have inspired her throughout her life, complete with personalized suggested book lists.

Enjoy an excerpt from THE Pulpwood Queen Kathy L. Murphy’s book - it’s recommended reading for everyone who is interested in knowing what it means to be a Pulpwood Queen.

“Kathy L. Murphy is the real thing, and she will get America reading if she has to go door-to-door to do it. After you read this, you’ll want to be a Pulpwood Queen too!” Iris Rainer Dart, author of Beaches and Some Kind of Miracle.

CHAPTER 4 Books Saved Me

“The man who doesn’t read good books has no advantage over the man who can’t read them.”

—Mark Twain

In school I applied the same strategy for survival that I used at home. I would become invisible. I hated calling attention to myself as a child. Not only was I painfully shy then, but I also hoped to hide the fact that I wasn’t getting the hang of reading. If I didn’t understand something in our reading lessons, I would just let it go. Better not to understand than to go through the humiliation of calling

attention to myself.

It is ironic now to think about it, but reading didn’t come easily to me.

I suffered through read-aloud time in school, terrified that the other kids would laugh at my halting style. Although I can’t ever recall this happening, just knowing that all eyes would be on me when my turn came made even the anticipation unbearable. I couldn’t wait for read-aloud time to be over so I could slink back into my seat and fade back into the woodwork. I always chose a seat in the very last row, preferably behind a boy who was bigger and taller than me, so I could hide behind him. My teachers would always move me, though, as they liked to seat you alphabetically back then.

My rule was never to make eye contact with the teacher.

You never had to raise your hand in class if you knew the answer, because when you made direct eye contact, they would call on you every time. During class discussions I sweated bullets and prayed my teacher (pretty much all the teachers were women in those days) wouldn’t call on me.

Not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I would have to speak out loud in front of the class. I would become physically sick just thinking about getting up in front of the class. It worked. I didn’t get called on too often.

Whether this was a good or bad thing is hard to say. For just about three whole years, from the first through third

grades, my teachers really didn’t pay much attention to me.

I did everything I possibly could to avoid calling attention to myself. I succeeded in my goal because I became an invisible student.

Once there was a flicker of recognition that I existed, and I was caught for a moment in my teacher’s eye. In the first grade, my teacher called in my mother for a conference. She’d finally noticed me because I had sores on my legs, which were infected mosquito bites. She had called my mother in to speak to her about my legs, because the school nurse had informed my teacher I had impetigo. I needed a doctor’s attention immediately.

Mother, dressed to the nines, took me out of school and bad-mouthed me, the teacher, and the school nurse all the way to the doctor’s office. She was madder than hell that this woman had reprimanded her for what my teacher and the school nurse perceived as medical neglect.

The teacher, ever alert, was watching me. I was no longer sailing under her radar. A strict disciplinarian with high academic standards, she called in my mother once more that year.

“Kathy is just not picking up reading, Mrs. Murphy,” she explained. “May I suggest you get her some reading workbooks?”

My mother smiled and listened politely, nodding her head every now and again to show her concern. Even back then

I knew that behind that perfectly innocent smile lay hell to pay, because I’d made her look bad in front of a teacher.

Needless to say, after our meeting, my reading did not improve.

I continued to lag behind, growing more miserable and more self-conscious every year. That is, until I met Mrs. Boulden.

Mrs. Boulden was my fourth-grade teacher. She was a statuesque woman with a big, warm smile and an expansive personality. She was larger than life in every way. She loved clothes and dressed unlike any teacher I’d ever seen. At a time when the accepted fashion among Northside Elementary School teachers was suits, preferably in a subdued, pastel shade of blue or rose, Mrs. Boulden wore brightly colored, flowing scarves, ponchos, and large ethnic jewelry. In winter she even wore a big flowing cape. We kids loved her. She was our Mary Poppins and, just like the British nanny with her umbrella landing smack dab in front of the door of her new charges, Mrs. Boulden entered our fourth-grade classroom stern, firm, and definitely eccentric.

Mrs. Boulden was a bit more than the good citizens of Eureka were used to, but she was left to do her job as she saw fit. She was commanding and wealthy. She was a perfect example of the old saying “Money talks.” No one ever questioned her in any form or fashion. I know she

went to Europe every summer, and she always brought back unusual tins and packages of food for her students to try: smoked oysters, sardines, butter crackers from France, and, one time, escargots.

She was rumored to have been married more than once, each time to a wealthy man. No one knew for sure, and it was the source of endless speculation among our mothers when they gathered at PTA meetings. Just like Mary Poppins, Mrs. Boulden was a mystery. I didn’t fully understand the implications of Mrs. Boulden’s marital or economic status at the time. I thought of her as older than Methuselah, but I think she was younger than I am now, probably in her forties.

Her standards were high and we all rose to the occasion. She was passionate about literature and the arts, and she did her best to pass that enthusiasm on to the children of Eureka, who accepted it in varying degrees. As for me, she changed my life completely.

To read the rest of the story, pick up a copy of Kathy L. Murphy’s book, THE PULPWOOD QUEENS' TIARA WEARING, BOOK SHARING, GUIDE TO LIFE