When I was six, I brought home from school the book, “Green Eggs and Ham” by Dr. Seuss. I was thrilled because it was a big book with many pages (by first grade standards) and I could read it all by myself. I joyously announced after supper that night that I had a surprise for my parents. They were going to get to listen to me read my book to them. Like the troopers they were, they planted themselves on our 6 ft. long brown sofa (I know this because I remember my father lying down on it to measure it when it was purchased to ensure he could comfortably nap on it), and it had industrial-grade upholstery fabric. Like the Queen Mother with her loyal subjects as audience, I prepared to wow my parents with my superb mastery of the written word.
I could not tell you exactly how long it took me to toil through that book, but when I had read the last words on the last page, my parents were nearly comatose. With glazed eyes they heaved an almost audible sigh of relief that it was finally over, but then they did what parents around the world have done countless times. They gushed and praised and made me feel like I was the best reader that had ever walked this earth.
I remember that day, because that’s the day I fell in love with the written word. It changed my life to be able to decode the mysterious symbols on the pages of a book. Now I could go anywhere and live vicariously through any character. I could visit exotic locals and meet interesting people. It opened the doors of imagination that had previously been closed to me. Now I found myself learning to survive on an island with the Swiss Family Robinson, I drank goat’s milk with Heidi, and fell in love with the miracle of a dormant seed in the The Secret Garden. Reading became my second favorite past time, enjoying the outdoor being my first. Those are still my top two favorite activities, and in that order.
This love of reading came directly from the woman who gave me life…my mother. She gave me two incredible gifts in my life that have been formative in shaping who I am and what I have become. They are the ability to laugh at myself, and the love of reading. My earliest memories are of her curled in a chair, or propped in a corner of that brown sofa, nibbling on a fingernail and engrossed in a book. She used to belong to the Reader’s Digest book club and would receive a volume every month of condensed versions of the latest literary offerings. She would unwrap her book and I would think that surely it would take her weeks to complete that gigantic tome. But several hours later she would close the book with a satisfied sigh and to my wonderment, have finished the entire book in less than a day.
To my mother a book was akin to priceless treasure. She cared for and about good literature, nothing trashy here. She filled her mind with good and noble stories and it reflected in her everyday life. It was always a joy to head to the public library and get to choose new books to take home, and for free! That pink card with the metal strip bearing my library number was magical to me and a thing of great pride. I could get all the books I wanted with that baby. Those early trips to the library were the beginnings of a literacy bond with my mother that is still in place today. Her love of reading was transferred to me, and even today, we share books and talk books, and revel in the joy and wonder of the printed page. When she visits me or I visit her, we scour each other’s cache, and will freely borrow each other’s treasures. I doubt that either one of us possesses the original books either one purchased. We have steadily over the years created a floating library that is fluid and ever changing. Most birthdays and Christmases, books were a regular gift to my siblings and me. And every time, every single time I receive a book as a gift, I feel as though I have received pure gold.
Good readers are also good writers. My mother discovered that she had a knack for writing and over the years has done a fair amount of published writing. She penned a weekly column for the local newspaper when she lived in Vermont. She also wrote a book chronicling her life with my dad and their journey of faith. Obviously, writing is a creative outlet for me as well, and I fully credit my mom for making writing seem like an important part of life.
Writing helped ease the grief process when my father was in his final days of cancer. As we watched his mortal frame waste away and knew the end was imminent, pouring my feelings onto paper helped me cope with an incomprehensible event. By using words to capture my emotions, I found solace. In the act of freezing time, you also have a record that allows for looking back to see how far you’ve come. To be quite honest, I don’t go back and read those tearful entries, they are still painful reminders of a difficult time, much like the photo taken of my father just days before he died. His siblings knew the end was near and flew to his side to have one last reunion before the window of that opportunity would close forever. My mother had the good sense to hire a professional photographer to come to their house and record this meeting. The picture itself is beautiful, professionally done and vivid. Everyone is smiling and posed beautifully. I’m glad I own a copy because my two aunts and my uncle look dapper and beautiful, smiling like their hearts weren’t about to be broken. But my poor dad, skin yellow and waxy, dark circles framing his sky blue eyes. He is literally just days away from losing his fight, and the shadow of death can be seen hovering near. It’s too difficult for me to remember him that way. I choose to dwell on healthier mental pictures of his smile wide, and his eyes twinkling. The framed picture lies buried deep within a drawer somewhere, not forgotten, but not a daily reminder of That Time.
Even now as I chronicle that event, I can feel the cleansing that writing affords. Yes, it was a difficult and dark time, but the sun did shine again, and life is sweet once more. There is a dull ache there that will never fully be removed, but that’s OK. Dying is part of living.
So when I pay tribute to my beautiful mother, who is Sunshine itself, and smart and capable and funny, I want to thank her on the world stage for the gift of literacy. Not simply because reading and writing are enjoyable experiences for me. No, it is much, much more than that. Those GIFTS handed to me have helped me excel in school, they have broadened my base of experience, and yes, they have helped me cope with life’s disappointments and sorrows.
Thank you, Mom, for giving me all of that and more. Thank you for pulling me into the circle of the things that brought you joy, and thank you for letting me share that very special part of your life. As I feebly try to convey my gratitude, those symbols that I spent these many paragraphs penning, now fail me. There are no words in the English language to adequately describe my love and appreciation for you.
So I will end with simplicity, sort of like that excited first grader who pulled you to the sofa for my first book.
Thank you.
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