I DON’T recall anyone reading bedtime stories to me when I was a kid. That’s not to say they never did. Not at all. There’s a lot I don’t recall mostly due to self-inflicted brain cell carnage and the fact my “I think I can, I think I can” little brain hit maximum capacity some time back. But I do remember Dr Suess and his foul green eggs, I remember the otherworldliness of Magic Faraway Tree but, absolutely, I remember Roald Dahl and feeling somewhere deep inside that I was adopted and he was actually my Dad and I was his forgotten bastard child.
But let’s put the past behind us for a moment. Actually, let’s not. Because those books rescued me from a life mayhem as a child. Even under oppressive and disempowering conditions that rancid-looking ham gave me a glint in my eye and Dahl’s George’s Marvelous Medicine gave me belly laughs in place of tears.
James and the Giant Peach made me want to skip childhood and write my own stories for the rest of time. Which I’ve now done in one way or another for the past two decades. The first story I ever wrote was as an 11-year-old and I took on the role of being John McEnroe’s well-beaten and abused tennis ball. I then delivered it at a public speaking event for school parents. The writing of it was electrifying, the telling of it was horrifying, but utterly worthwhile.
I’d be grateful if you’d take a moment to read this short passage from James and the Giant Peach.
“We may see a Creature with forty-nine heads
Who lives in the desolate snow,
And whenever he catches a cold (which he dreads)
He has forty-nine noses to blow.
‘We may see the venomous Pink-Spotted Scrunch
Who can chew up a man with one bite.
It likes to eat five of them roasted for lunch
And eighteen for its supper at night.
‘We may see a Dragon, and nobody knows
That we won’t see a Unicorn there.
We may see a terrible Monster with toes
Growing out of the tufts of his hair.
‘We may see the sweet little Biddy-Bright Hen
So playful, so kind and well-bred;
And such beautiful eggs! You just boil them and then
They explode and they blow off your head.
‘A Gnu and a Gnocerous surely you’ll see
And that gnormous and gnorrible Gnat
Whose sting when it stings you goes in at the knee
And comes out through the top of your hat.
‘We may even get lost and be frozen by frost.
We may die in an earthquake or tremor.
Or nastier still, we may even be tossed
On the horns of a furious Dilemma.
‘But who cares! Let us go from this horrible hill!
Let us roll! Let us bowl! Let us plunge!
Let’s go rolling and bowling and spinning until
We’re away from old Spiker and Sponge!”
So, I say, give your kids books. It’s a gift. It’s the gift. It’s a gift that grows like a blooming bromeliad, but the flower never dies. Sure it will help them read and articulate and do well in school so they can go to uni or college or do-gooder heaven or corporate hell or wherever.
But most of all it will give them a quiet place to go inside their ravenous and all too pressured minds. To tap into their unique nature. To relish, rejuvenate and reconnect with their souls and the mighty minds who write books. For me that was Dahl and later it was Hemingway, F Scott Fitzgerald, Bukowski, Dostoevsky and, and, and. I owe all of these writers my life. That is not melodrama. That is not exaggeration.
I owe the same to my great brother, Jack Orr, who, in young adulthood, then connected me with the big people books, where individuality and authentic purpose is not just celebrated, it is what you do.
Read the full story and more at SuperDad SpeedBible
If my son chooses this path then that will be my cause for celebration. The monumental celebration. Because good books don’t set our boundaries, they tell us what’s possible and make matter-of-fact the impossible.
One day books could save your child’s life when you simply can’t no matter what you do or how close you are. When what they are coming to terms with is internal and relates to their deep character. Deepest character. Stories, like music, will reach inside their hearts and massage their spirit. They will cry, laugh, hate and hope.
Books will guide them through love, romance, pain, suffering, loss, life, death and desruction.
But the point is they will be part of that story. Because stories are nothing without the people who read and look at them. They’re just a material thing. Stories are never passive. They are always active and changing with the dynamism and truth of the reader. Each time a story is read, it is different. When the writer and the reader connect, stories are intimate in their very nature.
This was going to be one of those stories where I give you a list of all the practical reasons why you should read to your kids. But if you just read this story and you still can’t come up with a reason why you should make stories and books a primary role in your children’s lives, then I can’t help you. Having said that, it is never too late.
And I think I can save you too, just as my brother Jack saved me. Stories aren’t just for kids, they are for you too. If you don’t believe me, go fly up to Arnhem Land in northern Australia and check out some rock paintings and consider the importance storytelling has been given even since the beginning of human time 40-plus thousand years ago.
Until then, please read this excerpt from Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea.
So what is the one reason for all of us to read?
It will change your lives
The post Forget The Lists: The Only Reason You’ll Ever Need To Read To Kids appeared first on Aussie Daddy Bloggers.