Friday, February 24, 2017

Warmth

Anna finished a thick Young Adult book series in a week and a half; when she turned the last page, she burst into tears and hasn't read a book since.

The author killed the heroine.

Maia read the Box Car Children at least twenty times when she was in the fourth grade.

Elijah was only five years old, when every night at bedtime, his father read him The Hobbit.

 Shoya heard a Japanese storyteller in his native country. Her English flowed, and he decided to come to America as an exchange student to improve his own English.

"When was the first time you were really sucked into a story?" I had asked the class. Or when did the emotions of a story overwhelm you?"

For me, it was sitting in Miss Nielson's third grade class listening to her read Where the Red Fern Grows. I remember the moment of impact~~the collision of comet with earth. Yet I can't remember what caused the collision: which dog died? Was it Ann or Dan?

I google: Which dog died in Where the Red Fern Grows?

When I read the answer, that Ann dies from grief over the grave of Dan~~bam! I'm back in third grade feeling a merciless lump in my throat and tears in my eyes.

 And so it is, on this cold day, when the seniors seemed appropriately grumpy for a Friday afternoon close to the end of the term, I only long for the comfort of a fluffy blanket and a warm book.