Reading is perhaps my greatest joy. It has been my delight since I managed to to crack the rosetta stone of the alphabet.
But long before there was reading, there was being read to. Our parents read aloud to us, often the group of us for years. We gallumphed through Winnie the Pooh and wept through “The Yearling” and “Ol Yeller.”
And they schooled us in reading aloud as well. And we all read. And we all read.
Barbara Kingsolver is a favorite. An old beau and I once read “High Tide in Tucson to one another. Steve and I read to one another (and push poetry at each other). It’s a wonderfully intimate and comforting thing. In fact. Steve and I like it so much we’re working on reading children’s story with voice and drum.
My parents aged and stopped being able to read. Dad couldn’t see it. So i started reading. I chucked the mysteries for other things. We spent many months slowly working our way through “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.” The day he died we were giggling about reading “Jesus for the Non-Religious” in a very religious setting.
Mom doesn’t necessarily comprehend it. But Winne the Pooh is an old friend with whom we visit from time to time.
Tip: So go read Verlyn Klingenborg’s essay in the NYTimes. and then turn off the tv, find a favorite book and read it to some friends.