Growing up I was fortunate because I was surrounded with books….books my father collected, and children’s books he often brought home at the end of the day. I remember with great affection my mother sitting in her chair at the breakfast room table reading to me. If only I had noted the day I suddenly became too big and slipped off her lap that last time, taking my books with me. What were we reading? One of the classics, Peter Pan perhaps?
To this day, I read, and it began with wonderful children’s books that lined my bedroom book shelves. Giving my collection of children’s books away last year when we moved, even to grandchildren, was a wrenching experience. The famous modern day illustrators like Michael Hague, Jan Britt, and others like them, tethered me to the years of taking my allowance and buying a book, of dusting and rearranging my bookshelves, to my mother’s voice. We endow our books with our own invisible ephemera that makes them priceless, even if carelessly tossed aside by the next generation. Thank goodness, nothing takes away the memory of one of our favorite things, the books we loved while growing up.