Rated PG

Last night, I looked at the cover of a book.  On the cover, there was a framed photograph of a young man, a violin, and a stack of letters.  I looked at it for a long time, even though it was very familiar to me.  That book cover had been etched into my mind since I was a teen.

The book was called Rated PG by Virginia Euyer Woolf (not to be confused with Virginia Woolf) and it was a book that I had read when I was, maybe, fourteen, fifteen.  It was the story of a young girl's first love.  Bitsy meets an older guy (Hayes) and they have a sweet, summer romance, and then they part ways.  But the two write to each other, for years and years and years (real letters - e-mail had not yet been invented).  And the book follows the life of Bitsy as she finishes high school and then goes on to university (Smith College).  Finally, Bitsy realizes that it is time to marry Hayes, but it is too late.

The book is a girl's version of the Catcher in the Rye.  I read it over and over again.  It was a library book that I borrowed from the Sydney Public Library.  Even when I left home to go to university, I would borrow it whenever I returned home.  I don't know what it was about this book that I was taken by so much.  Of course, I was prone to those kind of girlish romances.  I think her academic life also appealed to me - especially the setting of Smith College since I had lived near Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts for a year.  Finally, I think it was the letter writing, since I was a dedicated letter-writer myself. 

Eventually, I made it less and less often to Sydney Public Library.  Finally, my parents moved away.  I still thought about the book and regretted that I had never thought to steal it (as I may have done once or twice to books that I could not bear to part with).

I searched for years and years for that book, looking in every used bookstore in Ottawa and every city that Jaime and I visited (in Montreal, Toronto, San Francisco, Boston, and more).  I never found it.

One day, not long ago, I mentioned this book to a friend of mine for some reason and told her that I had been searching for it for years.  Her husband happens to be a book collector.  She asked me for the name of it. I told her but then I didn't think about our conversation. 

Last night, my friend handed me a pretty pink bag.  I was surprised to be receiving a present in the middle of my kids' swimming lessons, but not as amazed as when I found that book in the bag.  I had never thought I would hold that book in my hands again.  It was even the same library edition that I would always read (though, no, it was not from the Sydney library). 

I don't know why, but that book means so much to me. It feels like it represents me as a young girl.  More than a book, it is home to me.

It will always mean so much to me, because it is one of the most special gifts I have ever received, and I will cherish it always.