“But I don’t want to do a story!”
Storytelling in the last thing Mathew, my 7-year-old grandson, and I do before lights out when he stays over.
“You’re good at starting off,” I say.
He squints. “Ok. I’ll do the starting, but you’ll do the finishing.”
I nod in agreement to this familiar clause in our contract: if he begins, [...]
On the first page of George’s Marvelous Medicine, author Roald Dahl introduces us to George’s Grandma, as loony an old lady as ever existed. She lectures George that he should be growing down, not up.
“Before it’s too late!” she rants. Her recipe? Eat insects, all manner of small crawly creatures.
I chose the book to read to my six-year-old grandson, Matthew. The title sounded interesting.[...]
Believing Begins with Books
Long ago in the war-plagued world of 1944, my family moved up and down the East coast according to my Dad’s assignments as a Navy Supply Officer for troops over seas. Ripped from my classroom in my hometown, I fumbled my way through the year; annoyed each new teacher who had to acclimate the new student, endured exile from the kids on the block, and teetered on the brink of academic failure in first grade.[...]
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In Support of the Sense of Wonder
I read Silent Spring, Rachel Carson’s book about the dangers of the uses of chemicals in 1962, the year it was published. Carson opened her narrative with an ominous fable. A village had gone quiet. The inhabitants, even young children, died from no discernible cause. The birds had stopped singing and vegetation withered. [...]
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When Family and Friends Become the “Others”
The five of us settled into a large cab for the 25-minute ride from the hotel to Aunt Gloria’s house. My son, my two grandchildren, and I were visiting relatives in Cali, Colombia with my daughter-in-law, a native of the city. With the success of security measures for city dwellers reported by our Cali in-laws, the summer of 2009 seemed right for the moment of reunion that had been on hold since my son and my Latina daughter-in-law married nine years ago. [...]
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The images of the helicopter departure of Michelle and Barack Obama from the White House on January 20 felt awkward, certainly theatrical, if not slightly surreal. Don’t get me wrong, everyone played his or her part and the exit went off without a hitch. What kept nagging at me was, where were the girls, Sasha and Malia? Or, perhaps more accurately, how can our first family of the last eight years depart—even symbolically—without the children and to me, as important, without their grandmother, Mrs. Robinson [...]