Tradition of Reading
When my sister, Sara, and I were very young, my mother frequently read us stories—from Little Golden Books to Scholastic classics, we always had picture books at our fingertips. One Bernstein Bear book in particular was such a favorite of mine that I memorized it by the age of five and dazzled neighborhood kids with my “reading” abilities when we looked through it.
By the time my youngest sister, McKenzie, was born, our family was in the process of moving to a new town and settling into a new routine consisting of career adjustments, house modifications, social clubs, preschool and kindergarten activities, and church groups. My mother and youngest sister spent a lot of time together, but I was never sure how they occupied their days. To be honest, as an elementary-school student, I didn’t pay attention. My priorities were recess games of four-square, friends’ birthday parties, classroom reading competitions, a pretty consistent sibling rivalry with Sara, and a love/hate relationship with weekly piano lessons.
Not until the summer after I started high school did my mother pull me aside and confess, in a cracked voice, that she worried she did not read to my youngest sister enough when McKenzie was younger. I didn’t understand what my mother meant or why she was upset about it now. Approaching middle school, my sister had not shown any problems with reading.
“I can tell that I didn’t read to her enough,” she said again softly, making sure she wasn’t overheard by anyone else.
I explained that I thought everything was okay. McKenzie liked reading, didn’t she?
My mother looked me in the eye and told me that she wanted my sister to be excited about books. My mother told me to spend the summer reading with her.
And so we began with the first book in a brand new series our grandmother had given my sister for Christmas the previous year. I read a chapter out loud, then passed the book to McKenzie to read the next one. Thus, we read Harry Potter in tandem. She read the second and third books by herself, and I picked them up when she finished. As the subsequent books were published, she got those, too.
I don’t realize until much later that my mother’s ploy to have us read together was a plan for getting us to spend more time together. It works, and we share positive memories of these books and the characters. By the time Hollywood releases the last Harry Potter movie, my mother can no longer find meaning in any written words.
During her last Thanksgiving break from college, I lend my McKenzie a book about a group of friends that start a walking club. A month later, I arrive at our parents’ house for Christmas and find her in the living room. Sitting next to our mother on the couch, she has the book open and is reading the final chapter aloud.
By the time my youngest sister, McKenzie, was born, our family was in the process of moving to a new town and settling into a new routine consisting of career adjustments, house modifications, social clubs, preschool and kindergarten activities, and church groups. My mother and youngest sister spent a lot of time together, but I was never sure how they occupied their days. To be honest, as an elementary-school student, I didn’t pay attention. My priorities were recess games of four-square, friends’ birthday parties, classroom reading competitions, a pretty consistent sibling rivalry with Sara, and a love/hate relationship with weekly piano lessons.
Not until the summer after I started high school did my mother pull me aside and confess, in a cracked voice, that she worried she did not read to my youngest sister enough when McKenzie was younger. I didn’t understand what my mother meant or why she was upset about it now. Approaching middle school, my sister had not shown any problems with reading.
“I can tell that I didn’t read to her enough,” she said again softly, making sure she wasn’t overheard by anyone else.
I explained that I thought everything was okay. McKenzie liked reading, didn’t she?
My mother looked me in the eye and told me that she wanted my sister to be excited about books. My mother told me to spend the summer reading with her.
And so we began with the first book in a brand new series our grandmother had given my sister for Christmas the previous year. I read a chapter out loud, then passed the book to McKenzie to read the next one. Thus, we read Harry Potter in tandem. She read the second and third books by herself, and I picked them up when she finished. As the subsequent books were published, she got those, too.
I don’t realize until much later that my mother’s ploy to have us read together was a plan for getting us to spend more time together. It works, and we share positive memories of these books and the characters. By the time Hollywood releases the last Harry Potter movie, my mother can no longer find meaning in any written words.
During her last Thanksgiving break from college, I lend my McKenzie a book about a group of friends that start a walking club. A month later, I arrive at our parents’ house for Christmas and find her in the living room. Sitting next to our mother on the couch, she has the book open and is reading the final chapter aloud.
Comments
Post a Comment