Read Me A Story

As a young child, my mother read to me every night. She was the bedtime storyteller.

Last Sunday, when I tested positive for coronvirus (again) I’d just published the essay about my relationship with illness. Ah, the irony. I’m sure that as I was getting sicker and sicker through the course of last week the idea for that essay landed easily in my lap. I haven’t been at peak functioning this week, and thinking about writing anything has been challenging. Sadly, because I’ve got “The Covid” I’m missing my favorite weekend event of the year, Woodstock Bookfest. I’m the graphic and web designer for the festival, and the weekend is always an exciting plunge into all things reading and writing. I wanted to give you something, so I thought I’d share a little about my love of reading and books.

Books are my lifeblood. I’ve always been a reader, and always will be.

I can’t imagine my life without books. I can’t imagine being a person who isn't called to read. Even the act of holding a book in my hands, and inhaling the dusty scent that’s between the boards is heaven to me.

I was lucky. I grew up in a family that read. As a young child, my mother read to me every night. She was the bedtime storyteller. Now in her 80s, she can still recite Madeline by heart with very enthusiastic gestures thrown in, especially when Miss Clavel knows “something was not right.” I remember her miming Miss Clavel running fast, then faster up those stairs!

Stories ground me and connect me to something greater than myself. They have not only been my teachers, stories have been my companions. As a child, they gave me amazing friends. They were strong, brave, funny, ornery, creative, kind, and sometimes just the slightest bit rude. Max, Madeline, Pierre, Harriet (I've told you about Harriet), Curious George, Wilbur, Charlotte, and Stuart. There was also Pippi, who I found a little too silly. I only kind of liked the Bobbsey Twins. They were too goody-goody (but the older sister’s name was Nan, and that made me feel special!). As I got older, I got to know Holden, Scout, and Molly Bolt (IYKYK). There was always someone to hang out with.

I didn't read things that weren't contemporary. So, no Little Women, no David Copperfield (until I was older). I didn’t like books about fussy, overly feminine girls. I was, and am pretty literal, and I couldn't make the leap to a time that was unfamiliar to me. I needed to read things that were solidly relatable. I wanted to see myself in those settings. Reading anything from the early 1900s or before felt like time travel that was too foreign, too scary. The girls always had to wear dresses, and the language was too stiff and polite.

When I was 6, my mom took me to the 92nd Street Y in New York City. Maurice Sendak, the famous children's book author and illustrator, and Orson Bean the actor, were appearing together. On stage Orson read the books that Maurice Sendak wrote and Maurice stood before a tall easel with an enormous drawing pad. As Orson read Maurice drew. He kept up with the story, his black marker flying as he sketched, wildly flipping the pages to the back of the pad as he kept up with the pace of the story. I sat frozen in my seat, mouth gaping at the magic happening before me. It was almost 60 years ago yet when I think of that day I get goosebumps as if I were sitting in that auditorium right now.

Maurice Sendak at the 92nd Street Y in NYC. April 23, 1967

Reading was a happy activity for me. It also provided solace against the isolation I experienced as a kid. I didn't have an easy time socially, but my life in books was busy, fascinating, and filled with all kinds of adventure. It helped keep loneliness at bay.

One Saturday night when I was about 9 my parents had a dinner party. My little brother and I were allowed to visit with the company for a bit, once we got into our pjs, but then we were sent up to bed. I was allowed to read until 8:30 every night, and then it was time for lights out. I was never ready for lights out. So at 8:30, after my parents came to tuck me in and kiss me goodnight, I’d turn off my bedside lamp, wait for the door to click shut, then grab my book and move to the floor tucked under my desk where my nightlight was. I’d lie on my belly, knees bent, ankles crossed, propped up on my elbows, chin in my hands, with my book open in front of me on the floor. I’d read like that for as long as I could, until I was really ready for sleep.

The night of this party though, something unexpected happened. My door swung open, light from the hallway flooding my bedroom, and there framed in the doorway was my father and all the company behind him. Apparently, there was a tradition of looking in on the cute kids while they were sleeping. I guess I never knew that, because the other times I was sleeping! So. I was nailed. My dad made a little joke, and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him. I thought to myself, “I’m in big trouble now.”

About 10 minutes later, my bedroom door opened again, and there was Dad, alone this time. I’d gotten back into bed and was lying in the dark, covers pulled over my head, hoping he’d think I was asleep. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stroking my head said, “Honey, you can’t read on the floor by a nightlight. It’s bad for your eyes. How about if we make your lights-out time a half hour later?” I was shocked. No punishment? A reward? I was so grateful and so relieved. From then on, I’d turn my light out at 9pm on the dot. Then I’d take my book and go lie down on the floor by my nightlight and read some more.

I always read beyond my grade level, and my maturity level too––I don't recommend Portnoy's Complaint for any 11-year-old, no matter how precocious––but I was voracious, and so curious about life. But that part with the liver? I could have existed without reading that…ever.

I thought one day I could grow up to be a writer. I had doubts though. I wasn’t a confident kid, but who knew? Maybe it would happen. So today, as a writer, I celebrate reading and all the people who wrote the books that informed who I was as a child and who I’ve become as an adult. I thank the writers who’ve made my life so much sweeter.

Tell your stories. Write them down. And read as much as you can.