Reflections on Reading

When one looks back on childhood and on one’s relationship with one’s parents, there are always things which stand out. Good memories, even in difficult relationships. In my mind certain memories are warm, softly-focused and idyllic, stripped of the every-dayness with which they were lived. It is in the looking back that the value of the time and effort invested is realized. Memories are a confirmation of something shared, something treasured, something honoured, long after the persons involved in the making of them are gone.My mother loved to read and encouraged me to do the same. Not necessarily only 'good' literature. Everything and anything. I learnt to read by the age of five - on Noddy! I used to get one book for my birthday and another for Christmas. I remember the crisp feel of the hard-back under the wrapping, and the anticipation: Which one would it be this time? The colours and the illustrations and my favourite Bumpy Dog and Big Ears and Mr Plod… I eventually ended up with most of the set. Enid Blyton was my hero in those days! It goes without saying that I also read all the Famous Five books, and the 'Folk of the Faraway Tree' and 'The Wishing Chair Adventures'.

I also had some of those lovely stories with read-along books. They were on LP’s back then. I remember Moby Dick and Robin Hood in particular.And then there was a marvellous ten volume set of Bible Stories, large pages, with blue covers and wonderful illustrations inside – I spent hours and hours poring over them. Wondering at mysteries that I did not fully understand, but that captured my heart and mind and soul and have never ever let them go again.

By this time I had learnt a most wonderful thing – that books are great and that one can escape into a completely different world with them. As an only child for nine years, and then as a shy and reclusive teenager, this was a very good thing to know. I will always be grateful to my mother for aiding and abetting me in the discovery of this knowledge! In a world where people increasingly do not enjoy reading; where parents and teachers are continuously trying to find ways to get children to read more; where the pleasures of TV and computers compete unashamedly with reading time, I look back, and reflect upon how she, successfully raised a reader, no, more than that – someone who truly loves books.

So what did she do then, that made the reading of books a treasure, a lifelong passion? 

The funny thing is, I don’t think she ever really tried. I mean, I don’t think she set it as an objective. She didn’t have a ten-point plan on ‘how to raise a reader’. She just lived her life and impacted mine. To start with, she loved books herself. She didn’t try to make me like books as though, like vitamins, they were very good for you although not majorly appetizing. Rather, books were like bread; staple diet stuff. Books were always available in our home; they were always ‘around’. Reading was as natural and as obvious a thing to do as eating. It never entered my mind that it was difficult or that it was particularly amazing that I could do it with such ease. Quite probably, such notions never entered her mind either!

One of the loveliest pleasures in which my mom and I used to indulge was scrounging through sale offerings of second-hand books. School and church fetes, flea-markets, second-hand bookshops of any sort were gilt-edged invitations that were never refused. Oh, the joy of finding a bargain! A particularly beautiful book. One that we had wanted for some time. One about horses or some other deep and abiding interest. Or, a special delight, one of Mother’s old ‘friends’, purchased now for me to read, or to add to her collection. The pleasure of coming home again, pile of books under one arm, and the rude eagerness to be alone—to read! And the challenge of deciding with which of the new acquisitions to begin.

My mother was the family breadwinner, and there wasn't money for a whole lot of treats, but funnily, there was always money for books!!! In a very hands-off way, mostly by example, and by buying books for me, she encouraged me to read my interests - horses, and animals. For Christmas one year she gave me Borden Deal’s ‘Bluegrass’, a book about the breeding of racehorses. It is still a treasured favourite; one which I have read and reread more times than I can remember. Another year the gift she gave me was ‘Green Grass of Wyoming’ by Mary O’Hara, and over the next while she and I eagerly hunted for the rest of the series (‘My Friend Flicka’ and ‘Thunderhead’). If I enjoyed one book by a particular author, she would buy me other books by that author. She also had favourite authors, and she would systematically collect everything they wrote. In this way she encouraged me to read everything by an author I liked too. I have read all of Gerald Durrell and James Herriot and Marguerite Henry and a host of others. She would give me books to read that she had liked - often adult level, eg Anya Seton, Georgette Heyer, P.G. Woodhouse (I remember the happy sound of her shrieking with laughter over this author’s books in the privacy of her bedroom), Jean Plaidy, Catherine Cookson, even Agatha Christie.. On one occasion she bought me some of the Classics in comic form. This served to whet the appetite and curiosity. I read ‘Silas Marner’ and ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ and ‘The Count of Monte Christo’ and “The Invisible man’ and ‘The Man in the Iron Mask’, and later, read each of these in the original. She was always eager to share her favourites with me. And yet there was no pressure to read anything. Books were offered around like chocolates – you chose which one you wanted and that was the end of it.

She herself always had a pile of books on her bedside table. There was a bookshelf filled with books in each bedroom. And in the lounge.. And books were piled on the floor next to the shelves where there was no more space!

I don’t ever remember her being much concerned about age levels and suitability and things like that. And she wasn’t terribly interested in the dry discussion and analysis of a book. Maybe a comment or two. But for the rest, you were left to think your own thoughts and draw your own conclusions. She was a very private person. The advantage of this for me was that I was left to communicate directly with the author. I really do think that all the literary and grammatical analysis and comprehension testing and quizzing done in schools inhibits a love for reading. I used to read my school set-works immediately, on the day that I received them. And I remember specifically that I did this so that the pleasure of them would not be spoilt by the dreary sessions in class!

My mother enjoyed poetry, and would sometimes read or quote poems out loud. She had her favourites, and early on I learnt to love the sounds and rhythm and tempo. There were some really funny ones from her childhood in Yorkshire, complete with accent, that I would get her to recite to me over and over and over again. I particularly remember ‘The Selfish Goblin’, about a goblin who refused to share his umbrella and learnt a sharp lesson about the consequences of selfishness. And another one about “Old Mary’s New Bonnet’ that had “flowers on top of it, and a ribbon going round the back….” Typing this I can again hear her voice and see her face and her large blue eyes twinkling with fun. If I stop and try I think I can even smell her perfume. What a thing a memory is...

After I turned nine, I went to boarding school. There I was often lonely, and I found the comfort of reading helpful. In my high school library, I started at at A and systematically read through every book on every shelf, English and Afrikaans, realising my goal of reaching Z just before I matriculated. I remember my teachers being concerned because I read so much! I had a wonderful hostel headmistress - Miss Cameron. She took a real interest in my life and encouraged me to read 'good' literature. It was because of her that I read and loved 'Watership Down' and 'Ducton Wood' and ‘Shardik’. At about the same time my English teacher introduced me to Arthur Millar's 'The Crucible', and also to Shakespeare, and I have enjoyed drama ever since, although I much prefer watching a play to reading it.

I am mindful of Charlotte Mason's emphasis on reading 'good' literature. In my case however, I read everything I could get my hands on. If one doesn't read a lot, then I guess one should read only the best. But I feel, looking back, that my wide diversity of reading has helped me enormously in gauging what is worth reading; I have a standard as a result upon which to base my choices. I have never enjoyed ‘shallow’ literature. I did read one or two of 'Mills & Boone' as a teen and very quickly became bored with them - they were all the same! In the same stage of life I also unwisely read a couple of horror stories; when I couldn't sleep afterwards, I learnt that this was not a good idea and have never touched one again.

 

Many, many books have impacted my life and have become special treasures. Different ones at different times. Horse books of course, because I have always loved horses so much. The Mary ‘O Hara series mentioned earlier (Green Grass of Wyoming, My friend Flicka, Thunderhead) are still favourites, as are Marguerite Henry's books, and ‘The Horse and his Boy’ from the Narnia Chronicles. 

The characters and ideas that have had the most long-term impact on me are found in historical literature. I thoroughly enjoy reading about people who really lived, and have drawn extensively from heroism, chivalry, courage, loyalty and qualities like that in books. I am often inspired and encouraged to be a better person by what I read. People’s lives illustrate principles and can therefore teach such a lot. Foolish choices and their consequences become evident, as do wise ones. Favourites among historical novels are 'Tale of Two Cities' (Charles Dickens), 'Katherine' and 'Devil Water' (Anya Seton), and anything and everything by Rosemary Sutcliff. And more recently, Sharon Penman, especially her wonderful trilogy about Wales. I have also particularly enjoyed the wonderful novels of Elizabeth Goudge. Her characters are so real and her stories are so full of hope. People have to make difficult choices, and she shows how, in the choosing of the right thing, joy comes even though the choice may be very hard at the time. The theme of restoration is a common thread giving one insight that, no matter how bad things may be today, there is always a new tomorrow.

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Books are truly forever friends. I have always thought so; I remember going to bed as a child with a treasured book to hug against my chest rather than a cuddly toy, and for years I slept with my Bible under my pillow where I could reach out and touch it in my sleep. Even now I catch myself enveloping a precious book in my arms rather than just holding it. I like to touch books, and page through them. Especially my favourites. I see the cover and think about what is inside of it. The thoughts and ideas of a person that I have come to know and appreciate. There are books where I know chunks of the narrative by heart, and where I experience that delicious sense of anticipation as I come to a well-remembered passage. The lilt and cadence of beautiful words. The talent some people have for making a person or place or emotion so real that I might as well have experienced it myself. When I have read many books by an author, that person becomes like a well-known friend. A forever friend, reaching out across distance and time. I recognize their writing style and expect it in their books. And there are so many that, God-willing, I will one day embrace warmly and say: "Thank you for sharing your life with mine. Your thoughts and ideas have impacted and enriched my living in more ways than I can explain. You made my road easier to travel because you took the time and the effort to write down your discoveries on the journey..."

I don’t think I will ever fully measure the depth and value of the gift my mother gave to me. It was special seed that over the years has become a delightful tree, under whose shade I can contemplate and integrate experiences and analyses of the mysteries of life. The best I can do for my children is to follow her example. And this is really not at all hard to do. It just requires of me something that I already have – a love of books, and a willingness to share it... 

So I am now in the process of introducing my ‘old friends’ to my children. Some of them are my mother’s old friends. There is a wonderful sense of continuity; of handing on a tradition; a history; something that makes my family my family. Something we have shared; something else to make up a fabric of family identity and uniqueness and history.I love reading. And I am so grateful to Charlotte Mason for helping me understand why I do. I really hope to pass on that love to my children. I think it is one of the most important things I have to offer them.