A Child's Treasure

Like most writers, I love to read. My love of books started at an early age, although I can't tell you my first favorites. Pippi Longstocking is melded to my consciousness, but not because I remember the book. I was reading it the day my mother died; I remember handing in my test paper, returning to my seat, and staring at the cover before I opened it to begin reading. Just as I did so, the principal's secretary came over the intercom to tell Mrs. Bernstein to send me to the office. Torrie still sits in pride of place on my shelf, an out-of-print YA from 1946, about a girl and her family's trek across the Plains. Another book I remember fondly from childhood, or pre-adolescence, is Pinballs. The student teacher in my fifth grade class read it aloud to us.

Pinballs is the story of three kids stuck in the torturous cycle of foster care. Thomas J. was raised by elderly twin sisters who loved President Jefferson but couldn't care for him any longer. Harvey was removed from his home after his drunken father ran over him with the car; he spends the entire book in dual leg casts and a wheelchair. Carlie is the oldest, thirteen I think, and cynical as only a bounced around teen can be. They all end up at the same foster home. Carlie says foster kids are like pinballs, being banged around and around. A few years ago, I went searching for this pivotal book of my childhood. Imagine my shock when I read a book containing vulgarities; it wasn't a nice book at all. Certainly not one I would have read out loud to my students.

Well, it was 1987, I guess, when this young student teacher read it aloud. Maybe the rules were different. Or maybe she did what I did with Fever 1793 -- I read it out loud so that I could skip the "bad" parts. I didn't hand it to my students like I did with Johnny Tremain or Hatchet. I "fixed" it.

It doesn't really matter at this point. If she read the bad language out loud, it didn't do me any harm. And if she sanitized it as she read it, we never knew.

All I remember is the anticipation, all day, waiting for her to call us to the middle section between all the desks. I always loved school, but that was my favorite part of the day.

Now I am reading Little House on the Prairie out loud to my niece. There's nothing in Laura's books -- yes, we're on a first name basis, she and I --that needs to be sanitized. It doesn't matter, either, if this intelligent, active almost-eight-year-old remembers individual chapters of the books.

All I want her to remember is a sweet, beautiful time when she curled up on the couch with her aunt to read a story. I want her to value the memory, even if she doesn't love the story as much as I do.