Tell Me a Story

My mother loved books, and stacks of them crowded our kitchen table. Years before book clubs became fashionable, she and her friends gathered over coffee to discuss favorites. Since there were no preschools in those days, the joy from their infectious conversations became a fortuitous curriculum. Picture a skinny little preschool me lingering at the table's edge; fingers crossed that no one would point me to the door to play outside. On some level, I coveted the attention my mother conferred upon her beloved books; more than anything, her passion only fueled my curiosity and desire to be able to read. 

Some tattered Golden books kicked around the house, but, in truth, I don't recall being read to. My early memories focus more on my mother's knack for storytelling, a topic I touched on in December. As a child, she had enjoyed elocution lessons, so not surprisingly, she encouraged us to memorize a poetic night prayer addressed to Mary, Jesus' mother, a favorite that mom recited aloud to us at bedtime every night. Though I couldn't have defined it as such, I know now that the articulate sound of her voice and her gentle encouragement to learn the words exposed us to the age-old tradition of transmitting beliefs, stories, truths, and enthusiasms orally. As a middle child, I had sisters on either side of me, so mastering the prayer became a fun team effort. No wonder I find a kindred spirit in poet and spoken-word artist Kim Rosen. Her book, Saved by a Poem, champions the transformational power of learning poems by heart. Mom introduced me to the power of committing words to memory. To this day, I'm always looking for words to memorize to help me overcome a recent hurdle or lines that breathe life into my latest aspiration. 

My sister, Bethie, two years my senior, a bookworm and straight-A student, taught me how to read before I entered grade school. This was a great courtesy of circumstance since I suffered immense separation anxiety and cried inconsolably for most of first grade. It must have been a great relief to Sister Marie Michael when she learned to distract my anguish by having me stand at the front of the class and read aloud for my fellow students. I still recall the puff of pride I felt after I mastered, due to my sister's unwavering support, the word T-h-a-n-k-s-g-i-v-i-n-g: a formidable three-syllable accomplishment.

Always (and still) an avid reader, Beth's enthusiasm back then ushered me into the world of books. In an earlier post this year, I mentioned the Good Readers Club at our library and her gold stars' role in cultivating my passion for the written word. One occasion during my early chapter-book days, I found myself deep in an African jungle. Chapter after chapter, darkness prevailed as I tore myself through wordy descriptions of tangled vines and swampy ground. Giant snakes heaved through a dank thicket. The screech of birds and the sting of mosquitos bled my interest, but I continued to paw my way through a plot that held no relevance. There was a boat that wound its way through the confusion of this tropical forest, but that's it. I don't recall a title or anything else about what drove the protagonist to forge himself tirelessly along this obscure, overgrown river. I wonder if she knows what book I'm remembering. 

Regardless, I love that I still remember plowing through this book and the effort of sticking with it. What captured me, what kept me reading, was that my older sister had read, loved, and recommended it. Whatever she liked, I wanted, so Its thick, green spine beckoned to me from the intermediate-reader shelves across the aisle from the children's section at the library. Although I took it on, albeit prematurely, devotees of reading hard books know what I mean. Little did I know that I was in training for a lifetime that’s been full of rich and rewarding reading experiences. 

A lifetime of books