Board books

I just spent a week­end with Hen­ri­et­ta, my two-years plus three months grand­daugh­ter. Etta, as she calls her­self, is very ver­bal, and while I don’t under­stand every­thing she says or feels, it is clear she has two pas­sions: trains and board books.

Liv­ing as she does in rur­al Mon­tana, she can see trains at some dis­tance, as well as at the depot in the near town. Every sight­ing pro­duces great excite­ment. Fun to share in that.

But it’s her engage­ment with board books that I found most endear­ing. The phys­i­cal nature of these books enables her to flip through pages with her small fin­gers with­out rip­ping thin paper. That empow­ers her to go to her shelf of books, select one (two or three) work through them intense­ly, drop them on the floor, and go back for more. At the end of the day, there is quite a pile on the floor.

Most inter­est­ing to me is how she responds to the unfold­ing thick pages. No mat­ter how often she has gone through a par­tic­u­lar book, she is excit­ed to see the pass­ing images again. It is as if she can expe­ri­ence the images for the first time, every time, many times.

Also, when a pic­ture of a cat appears—the word CAT—is bold­ly there, and she will cry out, “Cat” and squeal with delight. She is not read­ing the word but see­ing the image and the word as a com­pos­ite image. Because when she “reads” the book with her par­ents or some­one like me, we inevitably say “Cat.” She will respond by say­ing “Cat!” It’s not so much learn­ing to read, as she is expe­ri­enc­ing CAT. Every turned page is a renew­able discovery.

Wish folks could read my books like that.

What’s also impor­tant to note is that it’s clear she is also react­ing to the cir­cum­stance of the read­ing: sit­ting on a lap, being cozy with arms snug­ly about, hear­ing a famil­iar sooth­ing voice. 

It seems to me that it would be wise, and pro­duc­tive, to try and repli­cate as much as pos­si­ble of Etta’s book expe­ri­ence with old­er kids. (And why not with adults, as well?) That is, I some­thing think we spend insuf­fi­cient atten­tion to the phys­i­cal aspect of book reading:

An enfold­ing read­ing chair. Embrac­ing arms, real or stuffed. The right light. The feel of a book in hands. The tac­tile sensation—if it’s there—of good paper. An illus­trat­ed book. (Howard Pyle, we need you again!) An intense focus on the book—with no dis­trac­tions. The sen­sa­tion of being in the book. And yes, a famil­iar voice read­ing the book out loud, read­ing well.

I’ve always felt that one of the best things a parent/teacher/librarian can do is take voice lessons. Not a big deal. Learn how to pace your­self. How to pitch your voice. To artic­u­late. Build the dra­ma. Learn how to choose the best books to read out loud. (Not all books lend them­selves to that.)

When I write I’m very focused on how the book reads out loud. I want to hear the book as I write. I want rhythm. Allit­er­a­tion. Grip­ping images. Estab­lish­ment of a nar­ra­tive flow. Ten­sion one can feel.

Then every­one can have a read­ing expe­ri­ence like Etta enjoys when she opens a board book. 

Watch­ing Etta “read” board books is a great reminder that the last thing one wants is for the young read­er to be bored.