Ann Turner, author and poet, shares a piece about being read to as a child:

Being read to by my beloved father had a certain ritual attached to it. Certain things had to be done first, rather like food being served properly, or perhaps a religious ceremony with the right dishes, candles, and incense.

First we had to go visit the library in town, that marvelous place redolent of books and paper. We would climb the steep steps to the Children's Section, feeling as if we were on a pilgrimage. We could pick out our own books, but my dad also would scoop up enough books to keep three eager children happy over the next week. It might be picture booksÑfor my younger brother; science and astronomy, for my older brother; and great fiction with a dash of fantasy for me.

After supper and before bedtime, the three of us would climb into cotton ski pajamas, trot down to the living room, and array ourselves on the soft, flowered carpet. Dad would take out a book he had chosenÑsomehow finding something that would span an almost 6-year age span between the oldest and the youngestÑand begin to read. Perhaps he smoked his pipe then; I'm not sure. The words would roll out over us, and we would settle further into our comfortable positions, listening to Edward Eager's marvelous story, "Half-Magic," which cracked us up when the wish caused the cat to speak occasionally in recognizable words, but also in sounds like, "Mmm-zzzt, phzz-ttt! We listened to some of the Narnia books, holding our breath to find out if the children actually could find their way through the wardrobe to Narnia again or not. "Homer Price" is another book I remember, along with "Miss Piggle-Wiggle." To this day, I wish she lived in my house and could led me her wisdom in child-rearing. "Pippi Longstocking" was also a favorite, and we all wished we owned a pet monkey, a horse to keep on the porch, and a dashing father who had a fund of pirate gold.

For some reason, only my mother read the Laura Ingalls Wilder books to me; perhaps she thought the boys wouldn't be as interested in them? I'm not sure, but I do remember huddling under a quilt together in mid-July as Mom read "The Long Winter" aloud, the descriptions so vivid that I felt the bitter wind fighting its way through the cracks in the roof and saw the white frost on the nail ends above Laura's bed.

There's no question in my mind that being read to did all sorts of magical things for all of us. For me, it laid the foundations for wanting to become a writer, and, indeed, I wrote my first "story" when I was 8 years-old, about a brave dwarf confronting a dragon. I also believe that sharing those stories together helped knit us together as a family; my brothers and I can still reminisce about Eager's books and others, which meant so much to us. Being read to gave me an ear for language, for the beauty of words which is part of my soul. I would give a great deal today to be able to climb into some comfy ski pajamas, traipse downstairs, and lie on the rug yet again to hear my father's sonorous and comforting voice tell us of the world as it was, as it might be, and as it could be if magic made the laws.

Go Back to Special Projects...