Mental Travels

It seems that I really got used to writing this while on my summer travels, so I think I'll continue doing so. School is back in session and my students are writing poems that will introduce themselves to me and I am re-reading pieces that I will present to my seniors again. I just finished reviewing Eudora Welty's One Writer's Beginning. Her memories of learning to read touch me everytime I read them.

They also make me stop and think about where my love of reading came from. I remember reading when I started school - I know from my mother that my grandmother read to me when I was little and I am sure my mother and babysitters did too. But in school it was a bi-weekly event that we boarded busses that took us to the Ontario Library and checked out books. I'd sit in the aisles perusing the shelves. By the end of fourth grade, I was reading out of the young adult section. In 6th grade I had special permission that my parents signed for so I could check out adult books - and PT. 109 was the first of many that I enjoyed.

We don't do that with students today, and unfortunately neither do their parents. My students have Nintendos, WIIs, iPods, etc., but few have lots of books around the house anymore. I fear for them as they progress through their lives that they will never understand the sheer joy in settling in to read a fine book - the sensual feel of the book, the ability of it to set your mind free in new worlds, the grip of a good story on your consciousness. How sad for those who may never experience those sensations, much less come to enjoy and appreciate them.