Raising a Reader

by

Rebecca Rowan

“Read to me, Mama! Read to me!”
 
To hear my mother tell it, these were nearly the first words out of my mouth. More than likely, she’s right. My earliest memories certainly pertain to books and stories, and the pleasure of cuddling close to my mother or grandmother as they read to me.

I’ve often wondered how I came by my love for all things bookish, since neither of my parents was particularly inclined toward reading. Both grew up during the Depression, my mother on a farm in the south, my father in the shadow of Henry Ford’s Rouge Assembly Plant. Neither of them finished high school, and I don’t recall either of them picking up a book for pleasure. My maternal grandparents, who lived with us, weren’t literary sorts either—both of them were the children of farmers, and there was precious little time or money for books during their growing-up years. Given a different set of circumstances, my grandmother might have been a reader for, of all the adults in my life, she was the one most likely to drop whatever she was doing (even baking one of her famous coconut cream pies) to read with me whenever I came around with a book in hand.
 
Somehow my parents and grandparents had the insight to be aware of my passion for the printed word and they nurtured it with great care. Luckily for me, the neighborhood library was just across the street from our house and many mornings my grandfather walked me over to browse the stacks while the women of the house were busy with their chores. This excursion was quite a ritual, and I still recall the sense of wonder with which I encountered those shelves packed with books in all sizes and shapes, marveling at the ability to take down as many as I could carry home with me.
 
Our weekly shopping trips were equally memorable, since they always began with a stop in the book department where a purchase guaranteed I would be content long enough for my mother and grandmother to complete their errands. Since neither of them could drive, my grandfather played the role of chauffeur and babysitter. Our local Sears department store had a large book department, conveniently located next to the snack bar. For the price of a hot dog, an orange soda, and the latest Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, or Cherry Ames, my entertainment for the afternoon was complete. My grandfather would sit patiently across from me on the orange plastic chairs in the snack bar, nursing a Coke while I sat happily reading and munching, swinging my short legs merrily beneath the table.
 
Most importantly, books were my greatest comfort. As a child, I was plagued by chronic allergies and asthma and I often awoke during the night, gasping for breath and coughing like a barking seal. My grandmother sometimes got up with me, filling the vaporizer and settling me on the couch with lots of pillows and a soft blanket.
 
“Read about Heidi and the Grandfather,” I would beg hoarsely, trying not to panic when I couldn’t catch my breath. I cuddled close to her as she read the familiar tale of a little girl living with her taciturn grandfather in the Swiss Alps, her voice with its gentle southern accent relaxing me, easing my fears, until my breathing became easier and my head fell sleepily on her ample bosom.
 
Naturally, I wanted to raise bookish children of my own. During the time I was pregnant with my son, I read voraciously, eschewing my taste for popular mysteries and bestsellers. Instead, I feasted on the classics—Dickens, Tolstoy, Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters—hoping this great literature would pass through the placenta like another essential nutrient.
 
I wasn’t disappointed. My son was a reader practically from birth, the only infant I’ve ever known who would “sit” quietly for an hour at a time, and follow along while I read picture books. I’ve placed quotation marks around the word “sit” because this occurred before he could officially sit up. I just propped him against the bed pillows and he would stare in wide-eyed fascination at Pat the Bunny and Goodnight Moon for as many times as I cared to read (and re-read) them.
 
Sometimes I wonder about the existence of reading genes. Are there tiny chromosomal filaments that predispose us to love books and stories? Or can a reader be raised, a desire for the written word cultivated like a hothouse tomato? Being a true moderate, I suspect the answer lies somewhere betwixt the two extremes. As my family proved, a love for reading should be acknowledged and nurtured. But perhaps my lifetime of bookishness developed into a specific genetic trait that my son inherited and will pass along to future generations.
 
I was speaking with him the other night, discussing his upcoming trip to Thailand to visit his wife’s family. It’s a 23-hour plane ride requiring every form of portable entertainment the traveler can muster, so he'll be taking his laptop, his iPod, and noise-cancelling headphones.
 
“But you know what's really the best thing for me to do on a plane?” he asked.
 
“What?” I asked.
 
“Read," he replied. “I’ve just bought a ton of new books to take along.”
 
Be still my heart. I guess I raised him right.
 
 
Rebecca Rowan has been reading ravenously for the past half century. When her nose isn’t stuck in a book, it’s in front of a keyboard—either the piano as she’s accompanying one of several choral groups, or the computer where she’s working as a medical technical writer or writing one of her blogs, Bookstack or Becca's Byline.