The prompt for Week 25 of the 52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks Challenge is “Storyteller.” While I don’t have an ancestor who was a storyteller, books have always played an important role in my life.
Loving books is a gift my mother gave me long before I knew how to read. She filled our house with books and read to us daily. Regardless of how busy or tired she was, if I climbed into her lap clutching a book she read it to me. She did the same for my brother, even though his attention-span usually lasted a couple of pages before he hopped down, and she was stuck finishing the story for me. Once when my grandmother was babysitting, she missed an entire line from Beauty and the Beast, which I promptly and probably obnoxiously pointed out, and for a moment she thought maybe three-year-old me could read. I couldn’t, but Mom read me my favorite book so often that I had it memorized. About the only time I couldn’t get my mom’s attention was if she was lying on the couch with a thick paperback propped open, lost in her own fantasy world.
She was the parent who “got me” when it came to books. She pretended she didn’t know when I sneaked a flashlight into my room to read under the covers at night, or that I’d lie on the floor and open the door a crack to read by the light of the hallway. Once I could read, she shared all her favorites with me – Treasure Island, Little Women, Johnny Tremaine, Alice in Wonderland, and all the Nancy Drew books which were my first taste of mysteries. “Banned books” was a concept that didn’t exist as far as she was concerned. Nothing was off-limits. If I wanted a book, she bought it. Like many 80’s middle-schoolers, I learned sex-ed through the trashy V.C. Andrews books I begged her to buy me at the grocery store – and yes, she read Flowers in the Attic years before I did so she was familiar with the story. An epic fight erupted between my parents after she handed me ‘Salem’s Lot in 7th grade. My first taste of Stephen King was terrifying, but I loved every thrilling page! When the wind rattled my window in the dead of night, I was sure it was a vampire child knocking. I slept with my light on for a week, and my dad ranted that she never should have let me read something so scary and that I wasn’t allowed to read books like that anymore. Ha! He should have known better! Forbidding me to read Stephen King made me want to read him more. This is why book bans never work. Like an addict, I sought out my dealer. Mom was only too happy to hand me a fat stack of King’s books, which I devoured.
Though Dad didn’t enjoy reading, and certainly didn’t understand my love of horror novels that scared the bejeezes out of me, he was the one who taught me to read. By the time I was three, I had memorized several books, but it was frustrating to pick up something new and puzzle over the letters. And by that time, I already knew many of my letters. Dad quizzed me at night with homemade alphabet flashcards and rewarded me with pocket change when I did well. I didn’t know how to turn the letters into words though. Every time I asked my parents to teach me to read, I heard the same answer, “They’ll teach you how to read at school.” Preschool at age four was fun and games, but we didn’t learn how to read. When I started kindergarten at five, I was sure I’d learn since it was “real school.” Apparently, my dad thought so too. One night while Mom was at work, he asked what I was learning. “The Letter People,” I replied.
“What the hell are the Letter People?”
“You know….the Letter People,” I delivered in a “duh” voice. He went to school, so he should have learned the Letter People! “Like Mr. T has tall teeth and Mr. N has a noisy nose. Sometimes we get to dance with them,” I smiled. The Letter People were the best part of kindergarten as far as I was concerned.
“What do you mean you dance with them?”
“They’re blow-up letters. Sometimes our teacher plays the song, like the one about Mr. H and his hair and hats and we get to dance around like this!” and I spastically danced around to demonstrate.
“So your teacher hasn’t taught you how to read yet? You just sing and dance with these Letter People?” Dad sounded annoyed, which put an end to my dancing.
“No,” I sighed. “We only learn the Letter People and we don’t learn them in order. We haven’t gotten to any of the girls yet. Miss A comes later.” Now Dad looked not only annoyed, but confused which only annoyed him more. For context, which I was too young to give him, all the men in this curriculum were consonants, all the women vowels. He didn’t know that. All he heard was more gibberish. Over the past two years, he had taught me all my letters – upper case and lower case – and the sounds they made. I didn’t need the Letter People or their silly songs.
“All that money in taxes for ‘Letter People,’” he snorted in disgust. “Come on, I’ll teach you how to read since the school obviously isn’t doing their job,” and so he did. He grabbed Little Racoon by Mabel Watts, which was short, but not an easy first read. It was no Dick and Jane with simple “Run Spot, run!” sentences. I started off with, “Ricky Racoon lived at the edge of the forest, near a river...Along with many other racoons.” Over the next two nights, Dad helped me string the letter sounds into words and the words into sentences. Thanks to all the nights he spent teaching me letters and sounds coupled with the strong love of books Mom instilled in me, it was easy. Reading felt like a super-power. By the time summer hit, I was reading chapter books on my own.
When I learned to read, I was handed a passport to other worlds. My body may be curled up on the couch at home, but my mind is combing a deserted island for buried treasure, riding broomsticks at a school for witches and wizards, or solving mysteries on the gritty streets of London. I shed my own skin and become someone else. I’ve been Jo from Little Women or Scout from To Kill a Mockingbird more times than I can count. I’m grateful Dad taught me how to read even though he didn’t read for pleasure. And Mom… she filled my life with books and shared the most incredible stories with me. For those lucky readers like Mom and me, reading is a totally immersive experience. We’re fortunate to have this love affair with books.
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