Come with me now as we tour the wee cottages dotting my mindscape with their walls papered with the endless rolls of Read-A-Loud stories.
Like all Irishman, my father was a marvelous storyteller. There was a lilt to the words that left his tongue, always a hearty laugh, and a twinkle that lifted you into the realm of sprites and spirits not of this world. For him, language was balm for the weary spirit and so he committed to memory sonnets and soliloquies, nursery rhymes as well as the sprung rhythm of Gerard Manley Hopkins. We would prune the lilacs together and he would recite “Come down to Kew in lilac time, it isn’t far from London.” The first time I landed in England, I begged my husband to take me to Kew Gardens. Those words had filled my soul.
In the late sixties my husband and I moved from the Boston area to Bozeman, Montana. I brought all my books and my love for reading aloud to each of my high school classes. I began with The Scarlet Letter. That great work certainly captured their attention. Eyes big, they listened intently. Storytelling was not widely practiced in their classrooms. After a few days of reading Hawthorne to these teens, two boys shyly approached me and told me most sincerely “that I was the funniest talken’ teacher they had ever heard.” One aspect of storytelling needed a quick adjustment – my Boston accent.
Every class I have taught, from pre-school through high school has listened to countless stories. Read-A-Louds always provide the meat and potatoes for our classroom meals.
A very special room in my mind full of little cottages is reserved for Kay Goines, a mentor extraordinaire to me and to so many others. Kay visited schools and groups of teachers all over the world. Kay and her dear husband, Larry, came to every group with boxes and boxes of books. By the time they departed, Kay had read to us in her wonderful lilting voice every read-a-loud she came with. We listened in awe to Miss Rumphius, Crow Boy, Caps for Sale, Mem Fox, Cynthia Rylant, Eric Carl and hundreds more. I hear her voice today and know her comments about why children love these stories and these illustrations to this day – 25 years later.
My own six children loved read-a-louds well into their teens. I smile when I think of my youngest son sitting on my lap, gangly legs hanging out of his P.J.s while I read the amazing historical fiction from our country;s beginnings that the Collier brothers had crafted so beautifully. My kids loved The Shrinking of Treehorn, Anne of Green Gables, and so many more. Now my grandchildren have libraries filled with well-loved books of every persuasion. Reading Captain Underpants to the 6 year olds is a cure for whatever ails you.
My husband spent 9 weeks in the hospital before he died in April. Everyday I read aloud to him. As an Englishman, he was fascinated with the west and its many independent and gutsy characters. The stories C.J. Box has conjured up about life on the Wyoming frontier captured his imagination and mine. Everyday, I read to him. Often he fell asleep, but always with a smile and remembering every word I read.
Just recently I was having breakfast on a friend’s lovely deck, overlooking the foothills of the Rockies. She brought out a book Broken – A Love Story by Lisa Jones and proceeded to read a passage that spoke so beautifully to my life right now. It wasn’t just the words, it was Carol’s voice, her inflection and her pauses, her infusion of kindness and understanding, and her patience as I took in these words that resonated so well with me. She had chosen this passage and read it to me as a gift.
That’s what reading aloud to someone you love is – a gift.
