On The Chronicles of Narnia

Just Another Crazed Narnia Fan

By Deb Caletti

When I was in the sixth grade, I loaned my copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to Lisa Miller and never got it back. Not that I hold a grudge. Lisa had a surgery that required breaking both her legs and resetting them, putting her in a wheelchair for the good part of a year. Flimsy excuse, yes? I mean, this was my beloved and cherished copy, part of the ENTIRE SET of the Chronicles of Narnia that my parents had given me for Christmas when I was ten. An entire set of Narnia books without The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe–it’s like an entire set of dishes without the, well, dishes.

I still remember getting those books. For some reason, my mother had hidden them, unwrapped, inside a set of decorative drums that were underneath the Christmas tree. One day I was messing around, as any proper ten-year-old will do, and I opened up the drums. I was shocked, thrilled, surprised, and guilt-ridden at accidentally finding my gift. I knew they were meant to be mine. They had to be. First of all, I was the resident inhaler of books, bringing home stacks of them from the library that I’d consume same as popcorn before the movie even started. Second, they were meant to be mine because they just had to be mine. The covers alone told me so–that castle and the crazed-haired witch; that prince against the orange background, sword drawn against his chest; that  …

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