Dear Mr. Richard Scarry,
All too often I point out the little oddities in everyday life, the ones that seem insignificant, and go unnoticed by many. All too often I see things that aren’t by design, like making a face out of a car’s headlights and grille. All too often I relate my struggles to those of fictitious characters, rather than my peers. And I am positive that this quirkiness of mine is a direct correlation to your splendid story, Cars and Trucks and Things That Go.
Yes, I realize this is a children’s book, but that is the exact reason it has impacted my life as greatly as it has. As far back as I can remember, and even before then (my mom can vouch for this), I have been reading this book. Everyday I would plop down on a handmade quilt from my grandma, spread out on the floor and crack open the book. Back then it was crisp: the edges were still sharp; the purple cover still vibrant; Goldbug in the center still clear from the smudging of my finger. Goldbug was Waldo before Waldo got cool. My parents would lie beside me and ask, “Where’s Goldbug, honey?” and, without a pause, I could be able to point to his location on each of the 48 pages. Point, “Goldbug.” Point, “Goldbug.” I think it was the first word I ever learned.
But the point is that Goldbug helped me become the person I am today. Goldbug helped me memorize information, of both the trivial and important varieties. I am now able to remember the Alamo, as well as 98% of the lines on every Simpsons episode. Well, at least the storyline, anyway. I’d bet I can still remember where Goldbug is on every page. With the aid of Goldbug, I was able to learn how to read; yes, your book was my first.
I used to compare myself to Goldbug when I was starting school. I definitely didn’t fit in, and friends were scarce, if any. I was born with missing fingers on my hands, and, for some reason, drove people away from becoming friends. As if pinkies determine the quality of a person. A sad fact, but true—at times I tried to remain hidden, like Goldbug. Going unnoticed was not an easy feat, as the oddity of my hands spread like the plague among my classmates. Then I tried a different approach. Thinking I was still like Goldbug, I tried to be what everyone liked, or what I thought what everyone liked. Goldbug is in a new spot on each page, so I thought I could be friends with a new person each day. Didn’t work. Again, underage immaturity stood in the way.
But then I realized that Goldbug isn’t trying to please everyone—in fact, he’s doing the opposite: he’s doing his own thing. He goes wherever he wants, whenever he wants, in whatever car he wants. Unfortunately, I have only realized this recently, but I have been following it. I wear whatever I want and I don’t care what others think. I’m not trying to fit a mold or trying to be what people want me to be. I’m just me.
Along with the individuality lesson, I’ve learned quite a few others from Cars and Trucks. Like not eating food until it’s properly cooked and cleaned, that only propeller cars can go in the ocean, and to not run over parking meters because they are very easily frightened. If only Dingo Dog would have slowed down for Flossy the Officer to pull him over, he might not have been so destructive. And the many odd characters and vehicles rivaled those of Dr. Seuss. Ever since I read your book I’ve wanted an alligator car (I still do).
I still live the life of Goldbug: an independent, carpe diem kind of life. I learned it all from your book. Dr. Seuss doesn’t teach lessons in his book. Heck, he even tells people to eat green eggs and ham. Why don’t we just call the morgue now? Dr. Seuss may have a PhD in tongue torture, but he’ll never replace the lessons learned from your books.
Sincerely,
Robert Parker
