My Mom
The memories of my mom reading to me start when I was five or six, but I guarantee she held me in her lap and read the words and pointed out details in the pictures when I was more interested in bottles and sleeping. The evidence comes from her love of reading, from copyright dates of some of my first books, and from seeing her read to all six grandkids from the time they were infants.
When I think of my mom reading to us, I remember Curious George, Pantaloon, Happy Birthday to Me, On Beyond Zebra, Yertle the Turtle, and The Big Ball of String. The latter still makes me groan. My brother insisted she read it every night. While I’m sure I rolled my eyes and moved around impatient for her to get to the end so she could read my choice, she never complained. She read the book with as much enthusiasm as she did the first time.
Starting at about age 11 or 12, I would occasionally crawl into bed next to her on a Saturday afternoon. With a movie playing in the background - we loved Charlie Chan for the mystery, tolerating the political incorrectness - I’d watch her work crossword puzzles, occasionally knowing an answer before she did.
She enjoyed her crosswords until the past couple months when the lung cancer metastasized to her brain, making it harder for her to concentrate and write. She still loved all the mystery-type shows on PBS and the old movies on cable. She even turned one on the night before she passed away last Thursday.
When I started writing for kids, my mom told me she’d always had an idea for a picture book. “You should write it,” I said. She never did, but she told me the story. It was a good one. Maybe someday, I’ll write it for her.