BY JOELLEN COLLINS
I have been speaking with some of my fellow elders about the reading issues I mentioned in my previous column and about our roles as bedtime story readers for our children and grandchildren. Somehow it didn’t occur to me to wonder whether the snuggles and reading at bedtime for children today has changed for this generation, with all the other avenues of communication available to busy parents.
I always looked forward to the time my two daughters finally settled into their twin beds, temporarily sharing one for storytime. As they got older, I would read from a book rather than tell a story. However, in recalling those sweet times I have realized that my storyteller personality was nourished and improved with the tales I imagined.
When my daughters were little, I started a story about a magic carpet that would never let them tumble out and could swoop them up and take them to some exotic place for an exciting adventure. At the end of their journey, of course, the carpet genie would remind them that now they would be able to go right to sleep in their own beds. That worked most of the time.
Both of my girls became avid readers, and I have many tender memories of their sweetness and affection almost every night.
As a grandmother, I was able to establish a special time whenever I visited to imagine two separate scenarios that continued until my grandson Arthur aged, preferring reading books himself. My granddaughter spent her storytime with her mother, my daughter, telling and reading stories together.
One night, before bed, Arthur peed in the bathtub. I used my mother’s word, “ishtah,” seeing the dirty water. Ishtah meant “yucky and gross” in our family. When he asked, “Who is that?” I imagined an old pile of garbage left in an abandoned dump, now that there was recycling. Because of all the things Ishtah had accumulated in his now fat, snowman-like image, he could magically see into the bathroom and note Artie’s tinkle. Over many sessions, Ishtah bemoaned being stuck behind a steel fence because he yearned to visit the life that he knew was outside. One of the skateboards left in the pile, or the wind, could release him to adventures. The only problem was his potent smell.
One time, even smelly, he followed a fire truck and helped be a buffer for a first-floor window jumper. His favorite holiday was Halloween because he could look like a costume and be near some of the children who had contributed toys and books that nurtured his odd soul.
My grandson aspired to be in the Secret Service, so my stories began about a young kid who had such an imagination that he could help find new ways to help President Obama in places he visited all over the world: Artie’s magic mind could even get him out of a tiny pyramid where evil people had carved out a tiny dungeon.
I have precious memories of those times and my children who have matured into adventuresome people. I now term even my current situation as being “another great adventure.” After all, isn’t that life?
