memory

Guest Post: A House of Books

| Melinda Johnson

Guest poster Melissa Naasko invites us to a family ritual and the powerful reason she reads to her children. 

In a corner of my house is a round oak table that was the kitchen table my husband sat at as a child. It is where the teenaged children do their school work. Next to it is a set of bookshelves that house their books and my husband’s; these are the books that are expensive or fragile and ready for when they are needed, and the little children are not allowed to play with these books or really even look at them too hard.

On the shelf with the Theology books sits an incredibly battered book, its cardboard cover fraying badly at the corners and its binding taped back together in many places and only occasionally with any real skill. It’s a cheap book club edition of a children’s book with minimal investment in its printing costs, which explains the oddly orange hue to every page. It is worn and damaged and looks ready for the bin, but it is a prized book among my children. It is carefully placed on a high shelf near the canon law book and those of the history of the Russian Church. It is there precisely because it is fragile and valuable and ready for when it is needed.

The Calm

I have heaps of children, just heaps of them. There are eleven of them all in all, six girls and five boys. You learn a lot of things by having more children than you can count on both hands, and one of those is a sense of purpose in calm. I am not the kind of mother who seeks to make every moment of childhood this memorable, Pinterest-driven event “for the ‘gram’” because no one has that much emotional currency for that many kids. I think no one has that for any number of kids; it would be exhausting. I am not the woman who turns every event into a holiday. I am not a curmudgeon about things, but I do quietly sip tea as other mothers panic about their leprechaun and April fools brunches and think, “Uh, no.” Just no.

That said, there is one notable exception, and that is the first snow. Many years ago, now more than twenty, my oldest child came into the world on the first snow. It was the middle of September, because Colorado. I woke up one cold morning to find that while I slept my water had broken and with it came a rush of knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again. It was the beginning of a complicated and messy and beautiful story that is still unfolding to this day.

The Snow

While he was still tiny, while perusing and sifting through the books at a thrift store, I found one about a first snow. There is something about that first snow that begs us to hunker down and wall ourselves off from the outside. We want to be drenched in cocoa and thick socks and fluffy blankets. Thinking about how my first-born drove my insatiable need for domesticity, it seemed a perfect element that he was born on the first snow. It all comes together. I bought the book for a quarter. I only know it was a quarter because the price is still on it, and I cannot remember anything else I may or may not have bought that day because only this is lasting.

The Ritual

In this book, a mother rabbit and her wee little rabbit are looking for a winter home because the approaching winter is slowly taking their summer one – the leaves are falling off the bush that sheltered them. They look and look, but every inn is full and they are turned away at every knock, and so ultimately they have to make their own home. I won’t deprive you of the joy of reading this charming little book to learn how this happens, and I fully expect you to find it and read it. Let it suffice to say that when the snow finally comes, they can view it from inside their own cozy little home.

Since the very first time I read this book, I felt like the mother rabbit and her wee little rabbit and made their home in my heart. The very next first snow, I read this little book to my oldest child and I made tea and even cake. It has continued this way every first snow since. The ritual is not elaborate. We make something to eat and drink, and what we have changes and who does the baking does as well. There are years when one or another child has claimed this privilege. The only added complexities were the increasing number of children who sat around the table and listened to the book as they sipped tea or cocoa and snuggled down into their blankets.

The Reason

Now come the years when fewer children sit around the table than the year before. There are children who are grown and away at college or work and are not there to listen to the story. The ebb and flow of the conversation have changed because there are no more babies to quiet and no toddlers to wrangle. Someday we will come to the first snow when the youngest one of these children is too old to sit and listen to her mother read the book. Perhaps I will read it to myself? While a part of me grieves for this moment, this slow approaching shift in the plot line of my life, I know that the house I have built is sturdy and strong, and what is more is that they will know it, too.

The book is called Rabbit’s Search for a Little House, and it was published way back in 1988. It was written by Mary DeBall Kwitz and illustrated by Lorinda Cauley. I bought a copy for my oldest son’s twenty-first birthday to remind him of the stories of the day that he was born, when fallen branches had knocked out the power to the doctor’s office and the streetlights were out. I want him to remember the safe harbor that is my love and the love of his father and siblings and the home he can always return to when it becomes cold outside. This is why we read to children. We read to them to give them a place to come back to, one that can outlast us, one that they can then give to their children. We read to build a wee little, warm little, snug little house for ourselves and our little rabbits.

Melissa_Naasko_280

Melissa Naasko is the wife of an Orthodox deacon, the mother of eleven hungry children, and author of Fasting as a Family from Ancient Faith Publishing. She cooks, knits, and writes from the Upper Peninsula.

Our Tree Named Steve, by Alan Zweibel

| Melinda Johnson

Dear Kids, A long time ago, when you were little, Mom and I took you to where we wanted to build a house. . . . I remember there was one tree, however, that the three of you couldn’t stop staring at. . . .

After the family spares him from the builders, Steve the tree quickly works his way into their lives. He holds their underwear when the dryer breaks down, he’s there when Adam and Lindsay get their first crushes, and he’s the centerpiece at their outdoor family parties. With a surprising lack of anthropomorphizing, this is a uniquely poignant celebration of fatherhood, families, love, and change.

Our Tree Named Steve has to be a true story. It feels like one. I read the whole thing, standing up, in the public library where I saw it (it was standing up, too) on top of a book case in the children’s section. It almost made me cry. In the library.

The Art of Memory

David Catrow’s wonderful illustrations are as good as the text and embrace the sound and sense of it completely. I especially loved the children’s faces. Something about them reminds me of the way we looked, my siblings and I, in childhood. The illustrations are as fanciful as they are realistic, but it’s a familiar, friendly-dog-chicken-casserole kind of fanciful, not surreal or exotic. It’s the reality of memory – loving, a little goofy, depicting the feeling associated with an event more than its historical fact. This is what makes the characters and places recognizable, although we’ve never met them.

For the Parent

Our Tree Named Steve is written as a letter from a father to his children, and as it progresses, you realize the children are grown up, or nearly so. It’s what makes the story tug on your heart-strings as an adult reader. You recognize both perspectives in yourself – the father helping his children confront a loss and the children saying goodbye to a part of their childhood. I’d question whether the book is more for adults than children, except that children will easily relate to the humorous, comfortable voice of it and the everyday events it recounts. Some of the best children’s books reach the parent over the child’s head. It’s a children’s book with an adult book hidden inside it.

Resurrection

Our Tree Named Steve is a perspective on grieving and on finding resurrection in the midst of loss. Without spoiling the book, which builds to a surprising climax and resolution, I can say it’s unusual for the grief book genre. It’s one degree removed from the usual plot and character roles, and this could be helpful. One part of me never wants a children’s story to be sad. We all want childhood to be happy, and we instinctively resist confronting our children with sorrow. But life happens, tears happen, and I think this book would be effective for some children simply because it is not about a pet or grandparent. If your dog has just crossed the rainbow bridge, you may not want to read a story explicitly about a dog crossing the rainbow bridge. Some children need a story that matches their own. Some children need creative indirection to process serious grief.

Piggy Parallels

This book reminded me obliquely of my own upcoming board book, Piggy in Heaven. Both books center as much on the experience of the “person” we’ve lost as they do on the mourners. And both explore the comforting fact that although it changes form or place, life goes on.

Our Tree Named Steve is available on Amazon in paperback and library binding editions.

First picture book you remember?

| Melinda Johnson

I love to hear quirky, detailed, real-life stories from people I know. I’ll ask a question about some little thing that doesn’t come up in an ordinary day. The answers are endlessly interesting – a person’s memories, and the ways they recount them, are full of clues about how they see the world and themselves. It’s a chance to stand in their shoes for a moment, catching a glimpse of what you’d see looking out on the world from their eyes.

The Question

Today, I asked, “What is the first picture book you remember, either reading yourself or having read to you, and what do you remember about it?” Here’s what my friends said!

The Answers

This survey was conducted on Facebook. Responses are copied exactly, with the exception of some minor typo fixes.

Todd: “Corduroy.”

Selena: “The Rabbits’ Wedding by Garth Williams.”

Ashley: “Pat the Bunny….I remember patting Daddy’s beard in the book and then feeling my own father’s face. I loved how the world in the book matched my own little world at home.”

Richard: “A Ghost Named Fred by Nathaniel Benchley. George playing astronaut.” (Thanks, Richard, for the photo of George playing astronaut. That looks like the original copy of the book – a little battered, but still read!)

Nitsa: “A Greek book about Popi and Eleni and a dog. No idea what it was called. I remember the simple drawings of the girls in their dresses and of the dog. Nothing fancy. I also remember that Greek dogs say ‘yav yav’, not ‘woof woof’!”

Katherine: “The Little House by Virginia Lee Burton. I was a city kid who longed for the country, and I so identified with that little house.”

Kelleylynn: “I wasn’t read to as a small child, not by my parents (please don’t feel sorry for me) but in second grade, I vividly remember my reading teacher, Mrs. Lattner (yes, the mother to pro basketball player) would read a daily poem from Shell Silverstein; most especially The Giving Tree. So I gave (back) like the Tree to my children.
I’ve grown a grand love for good children’s literature and read daily to our children, especially instilling the love for the zany and quirky authors such as Roald Dahl and Charles Dickens; fantasy and poetry.”

Marie: “This was not long after WW2. It was a Danish book a friend had sent to thank my mother for all the material help she had sent – mostly food and clothing – to her and her neighbors in the immediate post-war period. It was about a little boy named “Peter” and I looked at the pictures while my mother read the little story from a handwritten translation into English.”

Barnabas: “Learning to read using the Dick and Jane books.”

Joanne: “Ditto, this (Dick and Jane) is what I remember, too.”

Joanna: “Not the first, but one that stuck with me was Little Bear’s Trousers. The illustrations were incredibly detailed and I would read it over and over just to have an excuse to look at the pictures and admire all the different textures. There was a cake at the end that I always wanted to eat because it looked so delicious. I lost my copy as a kid and was always sad to have it gone. After telling my husband about it when we were first married, it showed up in the mail one day as a surprise. I got to read it again to my step kids and now to Ruth.”

Tanya: “Go Dog Go. I remember the dogs.”

Tammie: “Cappy. Its about a dog who gets in trouble. 😂 Not the first book but definitely a memorable one because it was the first one I had planned to buy with money earned from working for my dad. It was a ‘first purchase alone w/o parents’ kind of thing. I walked home from the bookstore a happy kid!”

Kathleen: “This will come as no surprise to you, Melinda: a joke book with pictures!”

Audra: “I remember my mom reading me a book about a snowshoe hare afraid to change colors with the seasons.”

Elizabeth: “Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter, which is curious, because I also remember not liking anthropomorphic animal stories in general. I also remember The Little Engine that Could. I was so happy for the Little Engine that he made it. I actually remember a lot of stories. We had books upon books in my house. Being read to and learning to read are among my cherished childhood memories.”

Michelle: “I learned to read with Go Dog Go.”

Bonnie: “Caps for Sale was one. Where the Wild Things Are, and The Monster at the End of the Book (Sesame Street, my mom did a great Grover voice!). And for remembering – for Caps, it was hilarious the amount of hats, for the Wild Things the illustrations, and for The Monster at the End of the Book, it was interactive and of course my mom’s Grover voice. I have the book and do the voice now with my kids.”

Christine: “Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel.” [Here’s my post about Mike!]

Svetlana: “I remember reading the Cajun Alphabet book. A is for Alligator and B is for Baton Rouge. I was four. The other book I remember from when I was really young was The Little Mermaid. It was not a childish fairy tale. The pictures were really beautiful watercolors. When she walked it was like stepping on knives. When she danced, she forgot about the knives. When the Prince too another woman to be his wife, her sisters gave her a knife from the Sea Witch to kill him. They had all sold her there hair for the knife. His death would allow the Little Mermaid to return to the sea. Instead she walked out in to the sun and became sea spray. That one was also before kindergarten. I have no idea who wrote it, but I’ve never seen a Little Mermaid like it since.”

Andrea: “I Know a Farm. The memorable thing about that was it came in the mail, as a book club selection. I seriously doubt this was the first book read to me, but it is the first I remember receiving.”

Edith: “The Cat in the Hat.”

Tawni: “I know Poky Little Puppy, Saggy Baggy Elephant, and Tawny Scrawny Lion were among my first favorites. And now I read them to my kids!”

Peggy: “A Fish Out of Water, a Dr. Seuss book, I remember being so worried about that fish as the little boy gave him too much food and Otto grew bigger and bigger.”

Elissa: “I remember the Little Golden Books, especially Hop on Pop and Take Me To The Zoo.”

Jonathan: “The Poky Little Puppy.”

Elina: “The Serendipity books. I remember the fanciful illustrations and the characters – how they made me feel – like there was a beautiful world out there that I knew nothing about. I loved them, and stumbled across the collection a few years back and am so happy my kids are reading them now!”

How about you?

What is the first picture book you remember? What do you remember about it? Why did it matter to you?

It’s fascinating to consider how many books have touched us at one time or another. Some were good, some we hated. They all leave a mark, don’t they?