My Reading Origins

At the top of the stairs and down the hall, was the front bedroom of my grandparent’s house. I can still close my eyes and see every corner of the room, from its castle like turret of windows to the mahogany sleigh bed. When I was four, I visited this room every single day, because this is where my grandmother spent her time. Propped up on pillows in this huge sleigh bed, because bone cancer had made it impossible for her to walk more than a few steps, she beckoned me to join her atop this magnificent bed to hear the story of Peter Rabbit. She knew Peter intimately, as she was in his original audience, the generation of children for whom the stories were written.

Oh, how she could tell this story. She could tell me all of Beatrix Potter’s stories, but she had long ago stopped trying to interest me in Benjamin Bunny or Jemima Puddle Duck because she knew what I really wanted to hear was Peter’s adventure in Mr. MacGregor’s garden. I had to hear every last detail, from that bunny mother who went off to shop and left all her children on their own, to Peter, who while enjoying the buffet of veggies in MacGregor’s garden was discovered by the angry farmer who chased him with a hoe. Along the way, Peter lost his very handsome bunny suit, ending up in the pail of water, chilled and frightened. I loved Peter and his exploits. To me, Peter was a risk taker, a daring, charming, young rabbit, who did things on impulse and didn’t always listen to his mother. Being the very good girl, who always listened to her mother, I revered vicariously, his mischievous deeds. I cheered as he ran lickety split across the garden and squirmed under the gate with the help of his bird friends. I’d let out a little cry when his mother would put him to bed without supper.

We’d talk and giggle about Peter and his antics and then my grandma Jenny would shuffle a few feet to the card table set up in front of the biggest window. There we’d enjoy tea, cucumber and watercress sandwiches, served by my Aunt May in her crisply starched white apron, and imagine that Ms. Potter had come to tea to talk about naughty Peter and her other characters. Those days were glorious and emblazoned in my memory banks.

In the months leading to her death in July of 1955, my grandmother sent my aunt on a quest, to find me my own copy of this book so I could forever remember the story and our days of sharing it. Those magical days made me a reader. They led to days of independent reading through the shelves of my neighborhood library. Those wonderful, happy days of childhood, when my dear grandmother took the time to introduce me to stories and books, produced a librarian and teacher who loves introducing children to books.