The Power of Words

It's been fun participating in River of Stones and committing to writing a small stone daily. Today, I'm using a long-ago post from my other blog, Live and Learn. I believe those of you who are readers and writers probably have similar stories from your childhood. Hopefully, those who are parents or mentors will share their love of words with children. Fostering a love of reading/writing is a gift that lasts forever.

Today's Stone:

This morning, I was thinking about books and reading. From the time I was a little girl, books were a lifeline for me and a window to a wider world. When I was very small, my father supplied made-up stories. I'd climb on his lap in the evenings before dinner, and he would begin to collect his thoughts with "Once upon a time..." He was a factory worker; he smelled of sweat and White Owl cigars.

Around the age of 4, he started taking me to the grocery store when he did the weekly grocery shopping. Since my parents both worked in factories, I think they were "enlightened" about the division of household labor long before it became a cultural phenomena. While he shopped in the tiny store, I'd park myself in front of the spiral, rotating, wire book shelf that held an offering of Golden Books. I'd carefully remove a book, look at the pictures, put it back, revolve the shelf, and remove another that caught my fancy. Too soon, my father would finish, and it was time for me to choose - he bought me a new Golden Book every Friday night. By the time I entered school when I was 6, I had quite a collection - a library of both Golden Books and comic books - though I didn't know the concept of "library" at that time.

I was already an avid reader when I entered first grade. School was a difficult transition for me. I was an introverted child who loved words and books. I was the only kid in first grade who could already read. In that once upon a time (1950), teachers taught from Basal Readers; you were not allowed to turn the page until the whole reading group took turns reading (excruciatingly slowly) through the small paragraph on each page. The books were of the Dick and Jane variety - not much going on except a game of ball with Spot. I was so bored that I began to feign sickness so I could stay home and do what I loved best - read. The teacher finally called my parents. The next day, my father stayed home from work to drive me to the front of the school. He gave me a pep talk about all I'd learn someday if I'd just stick it out. Since I thought he was always right (and I was prone to being a "good girl"), I never tried to play hooky again.

My father died suddenly when I was 9. Stories and books were the least of my mother's worries. Luckily, the seeds were already sown, so I could continue to blossom on my own. At that point, I knew how to use the power of imagination after thinking "once upon a time." I also knew that the words in books could save my life. They did.

My Grandchildren reading a book belonging to their Daddy 40 years ago