I make no attempt at hiding my true feelings about the Nook and the Kindle. They are filthy words in my mouth; I prefer to call them what they really are - Crook and Kindling, for they steal paper-and-binding books out of people's hands and their only use might be kindling for a bonfire (Farenheit 651). I loathe them, I detest them, I despise them. Like the octogenarians of today who shun email and cling to stationary and stamps, I will be the 85 year old woman who refuses to give up my beloved, true, actual books. I vow, here and now, that I will never, ever own a Crook, Kindling, or anything else that threatens the existence of my beloved books.
Aidan has recently taken another giant leap forward in his reading. At the beginning of the summer, he could not read Osborne's Magic Treehouse books without a lot of support. He loved the stories, though, so Jeff and I spent many lazy summer afternoons reading the books aloud to him. Gradually, he started rereading the ones we'd read, gaining confidence - and comprehension - each time he decoded and fluently recited the words on the page. Then, suddenly, he was reading them fluently, with accurate comprehension, and completely independently. I was stressing one afternoon over the homework assignment we'd somehow managed to lose - a collection of words he was supposed to sort and practice spelling. The words were review, and very easy for him - cot, hot, lot, mat, hat, bat. After listening to him read Magic Treehouse without so much as pausing before reading "Pennsylvania," I decided we could stop stressing about the words. He was reading circles around "cot" and "hat"!
He can be a voracious reader. After school one day, I asked him if he wanted to help make banana bread with me and Leo - something he positively loves to do. "Not right now," he said. "I'm reading, and I just don't want to stop!!" "Really?" I asked incredulously. "Yes, Mom, I need to find out where Annie and Jack are going next!" I paused, relishing in the moment, letting it sink in to my permanent memory. He has arrived, I thought to myself. He has arrived at the discovery of the magic and power and love and lure of books.
I love the smell of books, the sound they make the first time you open them. I love books from the library; I always look at the dates stamped on the check out card to see when else this book was checked out, how many people had read it. I think about who they might be, and I wonder if they loved (or hated) the book as much as I did.
There are few purchases that bring me more pleasure than buying a book - book buying even beats a great sale on a fabulous outfit. Buying books feels indulgent and decadent, yet it also feels like I'm doing something really good for myself, since books make you smarter and more interesting. Books are cheap. I can take risks - try books beyond my usual preferences - with no regrets except possibly not liking it. Books don't come in one size only; I don't have to try them on, and I can share them with all my friends. Books aren't exclusive to age; although I can no longer pull off a onesie or a miniskirt, I certainly can still get lost in a Leo Lionni book or the latest adolescent read. Books decorate a shelf, add interest and personality to a room, act as coasters on a coffee table, and can be used by home dwellers in self-defense against creepy crawlies from the outside. I ask you, Dear Reader: can the Crook do all that? The Kindling?
The revered Thomas Jefferson aptly stated, "I cannot live without books." I cannot live without books, either. But I certainly will live without Crooks and Kindling. The score? We, the reader of true, real, actual books: 1. Them, the Crooks and Kindling peddlers -seller of that hated "n" word - Nook - 0.
