LULLABY

What fond memories I have of my childhood. This story describes certain books that I read then and treasure now. 04/22/2016

LULLABY

I have always treasured my books, and for that reason have yet to toss out my college texts. I do not have an extensive library; on the contrary, my book collection is minimal. Few, if any, of the books I own are more treasured than the six-volume set I received when a toddler. Its name is “The Bookhouse," edited by Olive Beaupre Miller and published by The Bookhouse for Children, Chicago and Toronto. Of these six volumes, none is more revered than the first one entitled, "In the Nursery."  It is in dire condition, ripped and torn.

What memories that book evokes!  My mother often read me to sleep from this first volume. She had a marvelous voice, quiet and soothing, with an Irish lilt. I learned to read at an early age, influenced by her bedtime story reading.

I had forgotten about these books until I discovered them one year at my sister's home in White Plains, New York. She let me take them with me on my return to California. There, I read them to my own children. What joy this brought me.

It has been just as delightful to continue to read stories from this treasure trove to many of my nine grandchildren. Jillian is the only one who has yet to master the art of reading, but she is only months away from gaining the freedom that comes with literacy.

Time has flown, and now Jillian is on the verge of starting college. The good news is that I have three great grandchildren waiting for me to start reading to them. My life long love affair with My Bookhouse continues.

Who knows? This may be the year that I have all six volumes rebound. It may cost a fortune, more than purchasing a used set from some online web site, but they provide what no other set can match: My imprimatur. I drew cartoons on various pages, checked off the index listing to indicate I had read that story, and left other signs and marks to indicate that my fingers had turned these pages, and that each one had made a lasting impression. In this manner I gave these books my personal stamp of approval.

As I skim once more through the tattered pages and look at my childhood scribbling, I recognized my affinity for words and my ineptitude for drawing. My parents had no idea that I mutilated the pages of what must have been a fairly expensive set of books. They knew only that these books kept me occupied and happy for many years. If I wind up on the proverbial deserted island, I pray these books accompany me. I would read them each day, hearing my mother’s voice lulling me to blissful sleep.

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