It will be the summer of reading. Last summer it was bicycles, riding
for hours on end for the first time without the aid of additional
wheels (quiet, they are city children, it took a bit longer), and the
summer before that, the summer of France, on their first trip to one of
my favorite countries. But this year, in what could have been the summer
of soccer (although, now wrapped, their enchantment with the World Cup
was too fleeting to define an entire summer), it is the summer of
reading. It's nothing new, they have always been fond of books and
stories but this year their lazy selves are lolling in bed some days
until 11:00, waking and reading for hours before dragging themselves
downstairs in search of food. They are building forts and finding nooks
to house their afternoon habit; dirt and sand covered children crawling
into the corners of our home, books in hand, to pick up where they left
off that morning.
We have no complaints.
When
they were born my cousin gave me a book, a big thick book, called "How
to Raise Readers" or something like that. I thought this was genius and
planned on reading it cover to cover as soon as I found time. I suspect
it is still in the exact place on the shelf where I put it almost ten
years ago, having never found the time to read about reading, choosing
rather to actually just read. This lackadaisical approach seems to have
worked.
We read together every night, the three of us. Last night we finished the first in The Penderwicks
series, a book we all loved so much so that the next two books have
just been ordered from my favorite used book seller. The girls, on their
own, just finished Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, as did I, and we will all write reviews next week for From Left to Write, celebrating the 50th anniversary of this really terrific book. And now they will have their own space, NorthSideFour: Kate and Mary Read,
because all this reading begets writing, and I'm most curious as to
what they have to say. Nose buried in books, I haven't talked to them in
days.
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