Prominently displayed on my book shelf is a battered copy of a Calvin and Hobbes book. I don't know which one, its cover has long since been torn off. The pages are ratty, dog-eared, and a few are missing entirely. Many of the pages are stained and smeared with grease from long-ago meals. The book, for all intents and purposes, is a piece of garbage. There's no way I could even give it away. It's filthy and worn, yet I still pull it out to read it. Calvin and Hobbes stands as a testament to my childhood. This particular book has been with me since I was three, as have the antics of Calvin and his tiger, Hobbes. I was much like Calvin. Imaginative, active, and a spitfire, preferring the company of imaginary friends to neighborhood children. Calvin was my friend, a kindred spirit. Hobbes watched over the both of us, providing endearing wisdom and guidance. In the many years since I first met the boy and his tiger, I have grown. I was always curious about my childhood, what I was like as a small child, how I thought, and the places I went within my own mind. I've come to realize that Calvin and Hobbes is a perfect record of my life. Though I did not do all the things Calvin did, though I was not as intelligent as Calvin, reading that same careworn book brings me back to myself, 3 feet tall and full of opinions. And for that, I will ever be indebted to it. If you haven't all ready, pick up a Calvin and Hobbes anthology from your local library. You'll be glad you did.
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