I believe that books are very important to children's upbringing; not simply to develop their reading skills, nor even because of the knowledge children can gain from reading books (there are so many other effective ways of obtaining information nowadays), but because of the family memories involved. I cannot imagine a childhood without books and all my childhood book memories are, in one way or another, family memories.
There is one book in particular that, to me, is synonymous with the word grandmother. Its a French children's novel entitled Sans Famille that my (French) grandmother gave me on my seventh or eight birthday. My grandmother wanted all of the children in her mixed family, including my brother, sister and myself, to become better acquainted with the French language. A lot of times we just don't realize how precious the time is that we can spend with someone we love. If we only knew what the future holds we would not be so selfish with our time.
She would sit in the garden, with a tall glass of cool lemonade on the table before her. I would stand behind her chair. The book, which was a coffee table size book with colored pictures and large print, would be open on her lap. I read aloud, while looking over her shoulder. Sans Famille was written in the late 1800s and is the story of a young orphan, Remi, who was sold to an old street musician and had to travel across France in the company of his master, a couple of performing dogs and a monkey. One can assume that the book did not cast a happy tone, such as the one in Charles Dickens' Oliver Twist.
Because my French wasn't very good, I would only understand about 30% of what I was reading aloud. My grandmother would correct my pronunciation, and ask if I understood. Yes, perfectly, Mamie was always my answer. After that, she'd point at a word and ask for the meaning. I would look desperately at the lovely colored picture on the page for inspiration. If I didn't guess the correct meaning of the word, we would have to read the whole chapter again, which happened more often than not. I was frustrated that we had not completed reading the book by the end of the summer and I no longer wanted to even look in its direction. Ah, but you know what? I did finish that book, secretly in bed, using a dictionary. I had to find out how the story ended. It had a happy ending by the way. In London, the orphan boy found his family and found out he was the heir to their large fortune.
My father would read to us about Sindbad, the sailor, in Arabic when it was bedtime. We were younger then. Back then, I was 5 years old. Though I have never had the chance to read those stories personally, I will take them with me in memory. My father was smart to make it less like work and turn it into a game. First he would read us the story, and then we would rush off to bed. All of us three lived in one room. On a few occasions, Sindbad would visit us in our rooms shortly after we had gone to sleep. It was my father of course, wearing a wide old cape and standing in the shadow of the doorway. At that time we had no idea who he was. He would ask each of us in turn how we were, and what could Sindbad do for us tonight?
One night, when Sindbad asked my brother what he could do for him ,my brother answered that he hated his father and wanted him to go away. Whatever had happened that made my brother say what he did, the problem was resolved the very next day.
Books for children can be used to bring family members closer. Making books part of your children lives is one most important things in my book. They will have fond memories of you with it.
There is one book in particular that, to me, is synonymous with the word grandmother. Its a French children's novel entitled Sans Famille that my (French) grandmother gave me on my seventh or eight birthday. My grandmother wanted all of the children in her mixed family, including my brother, sister and myself, to become better acquainted with the French language. A lot of times we just don't realize how precious the time is that we can spend with someone we love. If we only knew what the future holds we would not be so selfish with our time.
She would sit in the garden, with a tall glass of cool lemonade on the table before her. I would stand behind her chair. The book, which was a coffee table size book with colored pictures and large print, would be open on her lap. I read aloud, while looking over her shoulder. Sans Famille was written in the late 1800s and is the story of a young orphan, Remi, who was sold to an old street musician and had to travel across France in the company of his master, a couple of performing dogs and a monkey. One can assume that the book did not cast a happy tone, such as the one in Charles Dickens' Oliver Twist.
Because my French wasn't very good, I would only understand about 30% of what I was reading aloud. My grandmother would correct my pronunciation, and ask if I understood. Yes, perfectly, Mamie was always my answer. After that, she'd point at a word and ask for the meaning. I would look desperately at the lovely colored picture on the page for inspiration. If I didn't guess the correct meaning of the word, we would have to read the whole chapter again, which happened more often than not. I was frustrated that we had not completed reading the book by the end of the summer and I no longer wanted to even look in its direction. Ah, but you know what? I did finish that book, secretly in bed, using a dictionary. I had to find out how the story ended. It had a happy ending by the way. In London, the orphan boy found his family and found out he was the heir to their large fortune.
My father would read to us about Sindbad, the sailor, in Arabic when it was bedtime. We were younger then. Back then, I was 5 years old. Though I have never had the chance to read those stories personally, I will take them with me in memory. My father was smart to make it less like work and turn it into a game. First he would read us the story, and then we would rush off to bed. All of us three lived in one room. On a few occasions, Sindbad would visit us in our rooms shortly after we had gone to sleep. It was my father of course, wearing a wide old cape and standing in the shadow of the doorway. At that time we had no idea who he was. He would ask each of us in turn how we were, and what could Sindbad do for us tonight?
One night, when Sindbad asked my brother what he could do for him ,my brother answered that he hated his father and wanted him to go away. Whatever had happened that made my brother say what he did, the problem was resolved the very next day.
Books for children can be used to bring family members closer. Making books part of your children lives is one most important things in my book. They will have fond memories of you with it.
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