I can’t really recall when I fell in love with books and reading, but I do remember when I feel in love with stories. My mother is a great storyteller. I don’t know that she really knows the impact she has had on my life because of her great skill in storytelling. I remember getting into bed with her in the early hours of the morning, when I was just a little girl, after my father left for work. My mother was a stay-at-home mom and she and I had lots of together time, as I was her only child. I remember nestling into her arms and holding my warm milk bottle in one hand while caressing the silk nightgown she wore with the other and closing my eyes and envisioning the stories that my mother would tell.
I will always cherish the many times I asked her to retell the story of Hansel and Gretel. She didn’t call them that in Italian, but later I discovered that the story she told me about the children in the forest was indeed that of Hansel and Gretel. My mother told stories with such conviction that it was never too difficult to create images in my mind of the people and the places she described. I could listen to her for hours. I loved the sound of her voice and the sparkle in her eyes as she recounted the stories of her childhood. She brought everything to life and I was so excited to be around her, because she was able to transport me to new and interesting places, without even leaving the safety and the warmth of her bed.
As I got older, my mother read stories to me from her books and articles from her magazines, at any opportunity she could. She, too, treasured the time we spend in storytelling. When I was in university and too busy to sit and listen to her read, she would lament the fact that she and I didn’t have quality time anymore. To her, quality time meant story time.
When my children were born, she became re-energized. Her talent for telling stories was revived and she grew excited at the prospect of babysitting, so that she could put on her storytelling hat and become the magician that took my children to wonderful places and allowed them to image beautiful unicorns and princes and princesses. Her stories continue today…at the young age of 86, she is the ultimate storyteller and her stories will live on years after she is gone, because she has had the wisdom and the gift to be able to turn simple words into awesome stories that my children and I will forever cherish.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Language Story 1
Language Stories
Reading has always been a passion for me. I loved the bookmobile…it was the only library I could get to. My mom didn’t drive and the closest library was still only accessible by taking public transit and that cost money and we didn’t have much, so I didn’t go. The book mobile on the other had arrived promptly at 4:00 every Thursday afternoon at the Steinburg Plaza…just a few blocks from my house. Oh, how I waited patiently for those Thursday afternoons!
I can still smell the lovely musty scent of the old books that lined the shelves on the big bus that sat in the middle of the plaza parking lot. I remember lining up outside the door and waiting for the driver to open the door so I could climb the four steps that brought me to my haven. I recall the first time, or at least the first time that I remember, that I entered a bookmobile and how in awe I was at the amount of books inside a bus!!! Who would have guessed that that light blue bus that came every Thursday could offer me so much joy?
As I ascended the steps that led to my oasis, I was met by the friendly driver-librarian, who made me feel so important. He, although, at some point I recall the driver-librarian to be a she, was the one who held the key that opened the door to endless possibilities of escaping into worlds that were so different than my own.
One very fond memory I have involves me selecting a book about a little girl my age (about 8 at the time) entitled Mischievous Meg and running all the way home so that I could begin my adventure with this little girl who was so unlike me in behaviour and who I secretly wanted to befriend. She dared to do all the things I didn’t. I envied her mischievous ways, in some odd sort of way. She lived the life that sometimes I wish I had the courage to experience. But, she afforded me the experience without getting into trouble and that was safe… and that was good for me.
The bookmobile was my escape…my haven…the place where fantasy became reality and I was free of the limitations that existed in the world in which I really lived.
Thanks Mr./Mrs. Driver-Librarian…thanks for doing your job and letting me experience a world that I may never have been able to enter if it weren’t for the bookmobile!
Reading has always been a passion for me. I loved the bookmobile…it was the only library I could get to. My mom didn’t drive and the closest library was still only accessible by taking public transit and that cost money and we didn’t have much, so I didn’t go. The book mobile on the other had arrived promptly at 4:00 every Thursday afternoon at the Steinburg Plaza…just a few blocks from my house. Oh, how I waited patiently for those Thursday afternoons!
I can still smell the lovely musty scent of the old books that lined the shelves on the big bus that sat in the middle of the plaza parking lot. I remember lining up outside the door and waiting for the driver to open the door so I could climb the four steps that brought me to my haven. I recall the first time, or at least the first time that I remember, that I entered a bookmobile and how in awe I was at the amount of books inside a bus!!! Who would have guessed that that light blue bus that came every Thursday could offer me so much joy?
As I ascended the steps that led to my oasis, I was met by the friendly driver-librarian, who made me feel so important. He, although, at some point I recall the driver-librarian to be a she, was the one who held the key that opened the door to endless possibilities of escaping into worlds that were so different than my own.
One very fond memory I have involves me selecting a book about a little girl my age (about 8 at the time) entitled Mischievous Meg and running all the way home so that I could begin my adventure with this little girl who was so unlike me in behaviour and who I secretly wanted to befriend. She dared to do all the things I didn’t. I envied her mischievous ways, in some odd sort of way. She lived the life that sometimes I wish I had the courage to experience. But, she afforded me the experience without getting into trouble and that was safe… and that was good for me.
The bookmobile was my escape…my haven…the place where fantasy became reality and I was free of the limitations that existed in the world in which I really lived.
Thanks Mr./Mrs. Driver-Librarian…thanks for doing your job and letting me experience a world that I may never have been able to enter if it weren’t for the bookmobile!
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