My earliest memory of holding a book was when I was about 2 years old. Every afternoon, we had “quiet time,” an hour when we had to stay in our beds and not make any noise. My mother, who had four daughters under the age of 7 (my brother would arrive three years later), probably created this rule to save her sanity.
While my mother was cultivating a refuge for herself with solitude, her youngest daughter was discovering a sanctuary of her own with books. I do not know the name of the book I held while sitting in my crib, but I remember the pages were filled with colorful images. I also recall that I loved how my hands felt as I touched and then turned the pages. It was as if I had some magical power to make images appear and disappear by simply moving my hands.
At the tender age of 2, I couldn’t possibly envision what this discovery would lead to, not only for me, but for my daughters.
I graduated from looking at colorful illustrations in my “quiet time” book to checking out books from our public library. My mother, an avid reader, recognized in me a kindred spirit and took me with her when she went to the library. The children’s librarian, a woman named Patty, introduced me to many books that would help shape my life and reinforce my love of reading. “The Secret Garden,” “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,” and “Little Women” are just a few of the many books I now cherish.
Years later, I had the privilege of introducing my daughters to the world of books. Since I believe this introduction cannot happen too soon in a child’s life, I began very early — the day we came home from the hospital. A friend of mine had given me “The Real Mother Goose” and “Goodnight Moon,” assuring me they were the perfect literature for newborns.
The rest is literary history. Both of my girls loved story time. I believe those hours spent with my children sitting in my lap and listening as I read to them helped them learn to speak and read and to understand the beauty and power of language.
However, my desire to teach my children the power of language backfired on me more than once. Sometimes I would read books to them I had never read or had not read in a long time, turning an adventure into a fiasco when an unforeseen plot twist changed everything.
My first experience occurred when I was reading “The Clown of God” to my older daughter. It is the story of Giovanni, an elderly juggler, who sees a statue of Mary and Jesus in a church, notices that Jesus looks sad, and decides to juggle for him. After much exertion, Giovanni drops to the floor, dead. On the last page, we see a smiling Jesus, clutching a golden ball that belonged to Giovanni.
My daughter was very upset that Giovanni died and refused to read the book again for a long time. Ironically, she now gives this book to friends and family members who are having babies to encourage them to read to their children.
My younger daughter had her own bedtime story trauma when we read “Meet Kirsten,” one of the American Girl books. Kirsten’s best friend died of scarlet fever while they were sailing from Sweden to America. Unlike the Giovanni fiasco, the Kirsten tragedy had a different outcome — not only did we finish the book, but we also went on to read many other books in this series.
Several years later, I had my own story time trauma when my older daughter asked me to read “The Catcher in the Rye” with her. I had read it many years before and had forgotten how much profanity is in it. While I did my best to read the book aloud without blushing, I could not help but remember the good old days when I read nursery rhymes to her.
After all, jumping from Mother Goose to Holden Caulfield, the protagonist of “The Catcher in the Rye,” is quite a leap.
Decades later, we are still avid readers. While we differ in our choice of authors and books, we recognize the importance of reading and how it enriches our lives.
And to think it all began with a picture book in a crib.
Mary Zahran, who thinks you cannot own too many books, may be reached at maryzahran@gmail.com.
