As a child, I loved fairy tales. The drama, magic, and romance captivated me in a way other stories could not. I would re-enact them with my Barbie dolls and dress as the heroines in whatever sparkly dress I could dig out of my plastic dress-up bin. I stacked couch cushions into large towers and lowered down a feather boa, as my Rapunzel hair. The only flight of stairs in my house lead to an unfinished basement, but I ran down those stairs, leaving one child’s kitten-heeled Easter Sunday shoe as my glass slipper. When my friend, Josh, would come over, we would play Peter Pan and Wendy. Part of this was just an excuse to jump on beds so we could “fly”. As I grew older, I saw “The Wizard of Oz” and read the book. I ordered my sister and best friend around as we played all the parts of the movie in our three-woman show. My mom barely contained her laughter as we pretended to be The Lollipop Guild with shocking accuracy. Something else that happened around this time was my grandmother’s purchase of my favorite fairy tale book.

My grandmother said she bought something and wanted to show it to me. She pulled out a big book, covered in colorful pictures of my favorite fairy tale characters. As we flipped through the book, the illustrations seemed to come alive. Their colors seemed realer than real and pulled me into the stories. I don’t remember many of the stories from that first night, but I remember loving each one. My grandma read story after story, as I watched and listened with rapt attention. We stayed up well past my bedtime and she said that “The Little Mermaid” would be the last story for the night. I agreed because Ariel was my favorite Disney princess. Just as she was about to close the book, I begged to see what was on the next page. My grandma sighed with exhaustion, but turned the page.

On this page was the most beautiful painting I had ever seen. Her hair was long and icy blue. She wore a crown and a jeweled hair ornament. Her face was serene, but mischievous. She was the snow queen. I begged my grandma to read it. She said, “You made grandma read and read and read! It’s time for bed. We’ll read it tomorrow.” Looking at the book now, “The Snow Queen” starts on page 108. My grandma really had read a lot that night.

We did read the snow queen the next day and, although I was disappointed that she turned out to be a villain, the story was just as magical as the others. Over the years, I read the book again and again until it seemingly disappeared. I spent several nights thinking of any keywords I could that might bring the book up in a Google search. It never appeared. This Christmas, I asked my grandma if she had any idea where the book was. I wanted to look at the ISBN so I could find a copy for myself. My grandma said she knew where the book was and dug it out of a closet. She placed it in my hands and said I could keep it. The illustration of The Snow Queen was still as beautiful as ever. The book now sits next to my prized copy of American Idiot on my bookshelf. Every once in awhile, I take the book out and relive the magic of The International Collection of Classic Fairy Tales.

P.S. The ISBN is 9781890409623

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