Why books are more than just words

I think many of us have a story we remember above all others.  Maybe not because of the snazzy cover or even because of the story itself, but because someone took the time to read it aloud and brought the characters to life in our minds back when we were still young enough to have a fantastic imagination, yet old enough to appreciate an interesting tale.

For me, growing up on a farm didn’t allow a lot of time for reading that I can remember, not even at bedtime.  I was the youngest of five children–by a mile.  Chores came first, and learning, a distant last place.  It was the way of things and it was a good life.

However, there is one moment that sticks out in my mind and always will.  Every time I think of it my heart gives off a little glow.  My second oldest sister, Kathy (ten years my senior) and I were about as different as two creatures could be and still be the same sex and species.  She was the mom in training and I was the tom boy, riding my motorcycle and driving heavy machinery, all with my head in the clouds.  I’m sure we had our battles, but that isn’t what I remember most about our time together on the farm.

This particular day in my memory, she sat me down on the front veranda and started reading from Folk of the Faraway Tree by Enid Blyton. The scent of fresh cut hay and clover perfumed the air.  It wasn’t Moon-Face, Silky the fairy, The Saucepan Man, Dame Washalot, or Mr. Watzisname that affected me so profoundly, but that my sister took the time to read it to me.  Yes, the magical tree that reached into the clouds, leading to a different fantastical place each time, kept my attention and thrilled me to no end, but without my sister giving animation to the characters, it wouldn’t have been nearly as memorable. I’ve already purchased the entire series to read to my daughter.

So you see, a small effort by my sister began a love of stories in me that I’ll pass on to my daughter, and hopefully she’ll do the same if she decides to become a mom.

The words on the page become so much more when read by a loving voice.  A child will always remember the time spent with them. It doesn’t take a lot of time or patience, only a book, a quiet corner to cuddle up in and a pair of ears to listen.  And they will listen.

What story do you remember most as a child?

 

 

Fit in? Or be unique?

My daughter will be five next month. 

Already I see myself in her, not just in her appearance, but in her individuality and stubborness.  While we’re at home together, I try not to hinder her wild creativity in any respect. 

She wears six barrettes in her hair, clomps around in high heels wearing nothing but her underwear and one sock.  She mixes her paint colors until her pictures are mostly brown.  Sparkles cover her body head to toe instead of her artwork.  She writes stories about Spiderman saving Princess Brianna from a pirate ship in Madagascar where Zaboomafoo lives.  It’s all good.

Now that she’s in school, I worry her rather unusual fashion sense will see her ostracized from her group of friends. 

So, how do I walk the fine line of protecting her feelings against cruel kids without hindering her individuality?  How do I explain that green leggings, a pink and black leopard print skirt and a red paisley shirt don’t match in most people’s eyes? 

Or should I? 

Part of me says yes, and part of me says no. 

I want her to be the bright, creative, unique individual she is, but I also know what it’s like to go to school in clothes that didn’t fit in with the others in my group.  I grew up on a farm and didn’t know anything about fashion until I was an adult, as those sorts of things weren’t important in my life back then.  It still hurt when those little jabs came.  “Nice pants.  Did you get dressed in the dark?  Did your grandmother lend you her clothes?” 

At least it helped me sort out who my true friends were.  I can look at it that way now, but as a kid it devestated me.

The thought of my daughter coming home from school in tears because someone made fun of her outfit makes my heart hurt.  She’s confident enough she might be okay and stand up to anyone who made fun of her, but then again, she might not.  This morning we made a compromise after some ranting and raving about the red flowered tights and pink t-shirt she was determined to wear to school. 

I asked her to pick out the one piece of clothing she absolutely had to wear – which happened to be a shirt.   Then I offered her some options that matched:  a pair of jeans, a white skirt and leggings and a pair of yoga pants, all of which she poo-pooed.  Eventually she chose the jeans and went off to school satisfied with her outfit – mismatched socks and all, but it took some serious negotiating before she would agree to something reasonable.

Did I do the right thing?  Who knows.

I know it will only get worse as she gets older.  Yeah, not looking forward to that.  Here’s hoping her unusual style begins a new trend.

What would you do?