Saturday, November 14, 2009


Books, books, book. Yesterday I cleaned the house and moved my piles of books. Books from my childhood, books I've collected, books on nature, table top books, books I have yet to read, books I have read and cherish. Books.

When I as a child, no one sat and read with me yet the books that were my sisters and those given to me by my Aunt Alma were worn by the small hands that turned the pages over and over again. I loved the books.

There was a time when a book was read to my oldest granddaughter every night before bedtime. Then the second baby came. Book reading was more infrequent. Now the girls are older and reading on their own. Sydney loves to read like her grams and Gabby struggles. I do my best to encourage the girls to read. Reading with Gabby involves hugs and patience. I try to instill in them the excitement and wonder of the page.

Perhaps I was turned on to book on my own because I love the written word. My head is already full of words as you might have noticed. Perhaps the words are leftovers from past family writers embedded in my head. So many words. Sydney has a gift to write; Gabby has the imagination and humor I hope she learns to express. As their grandma, I am but a tool to guide.

Maybe some day I will write a book that someone else will move around their room when they clean or pass on to another reader or the bookstore. Who knows what appeals to someone else. I can only write from the mass of words and observations that in their own quirky way fall onto the paper.

When a teenager full of the anxieties that all teens face and a faith that a God watched over me, I wrote a long piece about my future. My mother gave it to my Aunt Alma, yes, the one who gave me books. She was impressed sending it on to the Gospel Messenger. They never printed the story yet her recognition of my 'talent', my perchance for writing, gave me inspiration and courage.

Books. Opening books opens minds. What better gift to give a child.

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