I remember kneeling before my shelf at age four, running my hand across the spines of my picture books, letting my fingers rise and fall as they travelled from story to story like boats upon the surf. With five of my favorites cradled in my arms, I scampered down the hallway to find my mother, bangs in my eyes, feet pattering against the wood floor, each step augmenting my excitement, widening my smile a little further. A rocking chair, bathed in silver light. As I settled down beside her, nestled into her arm, my mother opened one of the covers. The gentle rustle of pages, the musty presence of words—favorite winter coats to snuggle into once again. Silence: brief and sweet like a drop of honey. And she began to read, her voice, the words, embracing me.
This page from Richard Scarry’s Mr. FRUMBLE’S BEDTIME STORIES always made me laugh. Too funny, right?
I loved exploring this room when we would arrive on this page in Miss Rumphius by Barbara Cooney. I especially liked the calico cat.
This was my favorite library book. We repeatedly checked it out. When the library was clearing shelf space for new books, the children’s librarian remembered how much I liked it and gave it to me. It’s still on my bookshelf!
