December 10, 2014 Advent with SusieJ

Reading

My parents loved to read, and loved to read to me. My mother read A.A. Milne's "The King's Breakfast" to me so many times and so well that I can still hear her voice when I read it (not as well) to my son. My son loves A.A. Milne as much as I, although he prefers "The Old Sailor," the poem of the shipwrecked seaman who was so paralyzed by conflicting priorities that he never did anything.

When I was eight, I became officially known in the family as a reader: unaware of my surroundings, head bent down, hair hanging "in my face," squinting at the words (it wasn't for another year that the ophthalmologist finally agreed I should have glasses, even though it had been years since I could see clearly) at every chance. Reading in cars made me sick, but I overcame it by reading just until I felt sick, and resuming when I felt better. My mother and grandparents were frustrated that I "ignored" them while reading; in reality, blocking out what was going on around me was necessary to concentrate on the plot. How would Nancy get away from her captors this time?

Eight and onward were a hard years for Mom and myself: the divorce, a larger school, a full-time job for her and babysitters for me, then a smaller apartment and new district. Dad saw me Tuesdays and every third weekend. Mom and I had Friday nights together (surely she dated, but when? those third weekends?). We took pottery classes together, walked around the mall, and went to the library every other week, where I would take out a stack of books (seven!) on my own library card with embossed number. I read Agatha Christie, Pern, Madelene L'Engle, C.S. Lewis, Roal Dahl, The Great Brain, Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, Little House. It was an uncertain time, alleviated by beloved authors and unambiguous endings.

Mom loved that I read, less that I read in school. She was happy to keep me supplied in books. Before our first Christmas in the new apartment, a delightfully heavy box was left on our front stairs for Mom. This was well before the time of e-commerce, so I quickly opened the box: a leather-bound set of Little House in the Big Woods, A Wrinkle in Time, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Mary Poppins, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. For Mom, I had ruined her Christmas surprise. She never got to see my first joy at opening the box, but that thrilling memory will never leave me.

Nor will the memory of Mom picking me up early from school in sixth grade. She'd brought a surprise. On the front seat of the car was the newest L'Engle: A Swiftly Tilting Planet, fresh from the library. Had she had it on the waiting list? She knew how much I loved the series. She'd noticed the newest volume being publish. She'd made a special detour coming home to pick it up for me.

As adults we shared books: Jan Karon's Mitford series, and Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series. We loved Stephanie Plum so much we saw the movie One for the Money together. That one was a little odd because there was sex in those books, but we didn't talk about that.

[Copyright Susan J. Talbutt, all rights reserved.]

The recipe: Forgotten cookies

My favorite as a child, and my son's favorite now. Gluten free! Dairy free if you use vegan chips! Low fat if you use 70% chocolate bits!

The craft: Thumbprint Santa, sleigh and reindeer.

So messy! But so cute.