![]() ![]() While the appointments, and the cast and crutches that preceded them, made me noticeably disabled, they were-as my parents reminded me-temporary. I was also beginning to doubt I could even make real friends. It had been a little over a year since my family moved across southern Ontario, from London to Brantford, after my father accepted a new teaching job, and I worried my physiotherapy appointments would rob me of the chance to play with my new friends. All I knew was that I was tired of physiotherapy appointments, the result of a muscle-lengthening surgery in my left leg a few months earlier, and my mother was on the brink of losing patience with my miserable attitude. I didn’t know that its author, Jean Little, was sixty-five at the time and had already amassed an award-winning catalogue cementing her as a giant of Canadian children’s literature and leading to her induction into the Order of Canada. ![]() I was only eight, and I didn’t know that the book I held was more than thirty years old. For more audio from The Walrus, subscribe to AMI-audio podcasts on iTunes. ![]()
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