A reading autobiography told in parts: Part II

About eight years ago, I watched my son, Henry, open a "big-brother" gift at the hospital just after his sister was born.

It was obvious to every adult in the room that a large picture book was concealed under the gift wrap, but that did not deter Henry from tearing into the paper with wide-eyed enthusiasm.

A favorite Richard Scarry book

When the cover of the book was revealed to him, his eyes further widened. He exclaimed, “A Richard Scarry book! A new Richard Scarry book! Look! Cars and trucks, my favorite.”

In those sentences, Henry identified himself as a reader, even though he was not quite a three-year-old at the time. He was a reader with a profile of likes, preferences, and affiliations. He was a reader among a community of readers that included both his parents and the doting grandma who had thoughtfully selected and gifted the book.

We are “readers” even before we know how to read. That is because reading is much more than simply matching sounds to symbols on a page. It’s a process of listening, speaking, and being in relationship with others. If we are fortunate enough, we are born into a community of readers, namely our families and closest loved ones and caregivers. The induction phase begins at (or before) birth, and books are integrated into the daily rituals of the household, as in my all-time favorite refrain of parenthood: “bath, books, bed.” 

This is how I remember my own process of becoming a reader.

I remember inheriting a library of books from my mother, who passed down such classics as A Child's Garden of Verses and Winnie the Pooh. Some of these same volumes now reside on my own children's bookshelves.

I remember the arrangement my mother made with a neighbor, an elementary school teacher, who taught me to read during my preschool years. For weeks, I toted Dick-and-Jane basals to and fro, between our house and hers. I was happy for the privilege and felt quite grown-up, not so much because I liked Dick and Jane, but because I was enchanted by her funky A-frame house bedecked with macrame planters and homemade God's eyes and her pup Rontu, named after the feral dog in Scott O'Dell's classic Island of the Blue Dolphins, which I later read based on her recommendation.

I remember regular Saturday morning trips to the library with my parents, and, later, when I learned how to ride a bicycle, anytime trips to the library.

Then came grade school and the beloved Scholastic book orders, every six or nine weeks. By second grade, I was selecting and purchasing my own books. (Mom wrote the check.)

It was the 1970s, and shopping malls sprung into vogue. In what seemed like an overnight development, we now enjoyed the convenience of mass booksellers like B. Dalton and Waldenbooks (and caramel corn and candles). Through numerous trips to the mall, I amassed quite a collection of tradebooks by YA standbys like Blume, Byars, and Danzinger.

All of this was well before the age of social media, Goodreads.com, and Amazon recommendations waiting in your email inbox. My mother helped me select books based on word-of-mouth recommendations from her friends. Eventually, I learned to scope out the publisher's recommendations, typically printed in the front or back matter of my paperbacks. In fact, this is how I discovered there was more to Beverly Cleary than Ramona, Henry, and Beezus.

I blame Cleary for indoctrinating me into the romance genre with her book, Fifteen. From there, I quickly advanced to reading excerpts of top-selling bodice-rippers, serialized in the back of my mother's Good Housekeeping magazines. This short-lived fascination culminated in me reading Shirley Conran's Lace: A Novel in its entirety, just ahead of the release of the made-for-TV miniseries.

The 80s had arrived. (Out of curiosity, I Googled Lace, only to discover its re-branding on Amazon.com, i.e. "Before FIFTY SHADES, there was...." Hee.)

 

A reading autobiography told in parts: Part II