Essays

Raising readers

The concern lately over which books we can read and where those books will be made available is disquieting, but I felt hope blossom on a recent visit to my local library.

I parked in the overly full lot and joined a steady stream of folks, most under 3 years old, entering the library. Ah, I realized, it’s Thursday, the day for Toddler Storytime. The morning was cold, the children bundled in hooded jackets and colorful knitted hats. One little girl wore pink rubber boots and clopped happily across the linoleum like a frisky Clydesdale. Mothers pushed strollers and folks in my age bracket, clearly grandparents, held the hands of tiny, pig-tailed, rosy-cheeked cherubs. All were delighted to be surrounded by stories.

The anticipation level was high. The preschoolers fidgeted, dashed through clumps of parents, and one by one, began to cry. The cacophony of wails and the shushing of parents filled the normally quiet space and I had to laugh. Thirty-five years ago, I was one of those mothers, stripping jackets from my sweaty toddlers, sitting “crisscross applesauce” on an alphabet rug, awaiting magical tales of friendly dragons or naughty rabbits, or bears who refused to go to sleep.

Relief washed over me as I realized that people do still love books. And they are raising readers, spreading the joy of words from one generation to the next.

JOCELYN CHABOT

Charleston