Reading Down Memory Lane

I don’t remember the first book I ever read. I can’t possibly remember the first book ever read to me. But as I write this, I am reliving some of my reading-past as I spend the last few hours of Mother’s Day sorting through some of my children’s books to give away.

When I was small, bedtime each night brought a story read by one of my parents. Usually it was dad, as he had the best character voices, but sometimes when dad was working late, mom would step in. I loved a good Alphapets story, and to this day we still quote one line from Take One Home Free. “Perhaps I’ll like it, if I try” became a motto of sorts for us all, and my parents would recite it each time we were hesitant to try new things.

Dad’s best voices were reserved for Grover, though. By the third page of The Monster at the End of this Book, my siblings and I would be doubled over with laughter. It didn’t matter how many times we read it, Grover’s antics never grew old and our laughter never grew weaker.

Mom usually opted for more tame books. You know, ones that would actually calm us down to get ready for bed. Biscuit was one of my favorite “Mom Books” because I always thought he was quite cute. Mom would have us point to certain words and read along with her when we could, helping us with tough noises like “tch.”

Later, as I began reading on my own, we continued to talk about what I was reading and what I learned from those books. Whether it was Amelia Bedelia (don’t take things too seriously) or Magic Tree House (history can be fun), my early chapter book days were filled with communal rereads and discussions.

Children’s books are wonderful, but without the love and support of my family, I don’t know that they would have been as effective. I certainly doubt that I would have been as “big” of a reader as I am today. There was nothing quite as great as coming home from the school library with a stack of new books and a smile on my face, ready to share new worlds with the people I loved most. Without this early foundation, I might not have ever chosen to study English at the collegiate level.

As I sort through crates of these books, each carrying memories sealed between small covers with brilliant illustrations, I find myself holding on to each one. My heart aches as I wonder how I could possibly give any of them away. They are sweet and lovely, but more than that, they are my history. They are my father’s work days come to an end. They are my mother’s hugs as I successfully read a word. They are my siblings drifting to sleep as the page turning slows. They are my grandparents’ gifts. They are the worlds that shaped me.

And it’s hard to let that all go.

Margaret Iuni