Reading Memories

Age two and a half: I sit on the floor watching my mother read a paperback novel. Her eyes move across, then down. Across again, and down again. Occasionally she turns a page. If I want to know what is in my little picture books, I have to ask someone to read to me. It makes me jealous that Mother is so absorbed in her book. Age three: I climb into my grandmother’s lap with my Little Golden Book “Kerry the Fire Engine Dog”’ in hand. “Read to me?” I plead. After a few pages, I point out that she skipped a page. “If you have the book memorized, there’s no point in me reading it to you,” she says, dumping me out of her lap. Age five: “I don’t like spinach,” I impertinently remind my mother. “Those are mustard greens. Eat them.” “No,” I argue, “this is spinach. I can tell.” She digs a can from the trash. “Look,” she says, “mustard greens.” I know I am defeated. “All right,” I agree sullenly, “I’ll eat this because I can’t prove it’s spinach. But next year I’m going to learn to read. Then I’ll know that can says ‘spinach’ on it. And after that, I won’t ever eat this stuff again.” I eventually learned to love spinach, but never recovered from that wonderful obsession with reading.