Grandson Benjamin asked me a hard question, “Grandma, when did you start liking books?” Truthfully, that goes back beyond my memory, although I remember loving books long before I could read.
Mama could have been the inspiration for the line in the poem, “Richer than I you could never be. I had a mother who read to me.” She took me places most people would not think to take a preschooler with her readings. I remember feeling the wistfulness of “Annabel Lee” and the doom and gloom as the raven quoth, “Nevermore.” I was filled with glee in her telling of the unsanitized version of Grimm’s fairy tale when the wolf climbed down the chimney into the waiting pot and was boiled for the third little pig’s supper (just one since, unlike Disney’s version, the wolf had eaten the other two). The lesson from “Maud Muller” filled with “what might have been” settled into my young mind. I had no idea what a “runcible spoon” might be, but I loved the sound of the Owl and the Pussycat eating quince with one. Even more nonsensical and giggle-producing, were the Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat who in their enmity “ate each other up.”
I wish I could locate the first story that engaged me from my third-grade reading book as a seven-year-old independent reader. (Knowing how to read when I started to school brought on a skip of second grade.) The protagonist was named Yvonne, whom I called “Y-vonne” since I was reading ahead in the book and knew no better. Yvonne lived in France (how exotic is that!) and was making an omelet for some soldiers. After that the story gets fuzzy so I wish I could find the reader and see if the story is still as good as I thought at the time.
Since, I didn’t have a good answer to Benjamin’s question, I have projected ahead a couple of generations to a time when he may have a grandchild ask him the same question. I’m predicting that he will not know the answer either. When he slept in a crib, Mama read books to him before putting him down for the night. In the morning, Dada got him up and sat in a rocking chair to read him into the day. In fact, it is recorded in his baby book that his first word was “book.”
In the meantime, seven-year-old independent reader Benjamin shares the joy of reading with his younger brother as you can see in the photograph. And if you have the same question I had when his mother sent the picture, he really can read upside down.
I would make a case that it would be wonderful if all children could grow up without remembering when they first learned to love books.