Warm Tears

29 February 2020

Sometimes, it must seem my Facebook posts are totally random. Really, they are not. Most of my postings result from conversations I have with myself arising from stimuli in my home environment, or from the news I read on internet-based sites.

For example, having retired together with my wife, we are engaging in offloading a great many possessions that we no longer need.  One of the real battlegrounds between us is what to do with the books.  I am a pack rat and it is very, very hard for me to let go of a single volume. 

This is true of even the most dog eared and ragged book, perhaps something I picked up in the basement library of Pedricktown Grammar School during a Scholastic Book Fair.  Emptying out one box of paperbacks I came upon a book called Across Five Aprils. Across Five Aprils was one of the first books I ever bought with my own money. I purchased it probably in 1965 or 1966.  The book is for a preteen audience and is a Civil War narrative, but this particular work introduced me to the power of the novel. How do I get rid of that?

And then there are the Boyton baby books.  The Barnyard Dance and the Going to Bed books stand out.  For the first couple of years of my children lives I would read the books to them at bedtime.  As anyone who has ever raised a child knows “reading” really doesn’t capture the experience.  For my kids the night time tuck me in tale was more theatre than not.

When reading the Barnyard Dance there were hand motions and changes in voice tone required at different points in the store.  The motions had to mimic the story, to and fro, left and right, etc. For the Going to Bedbook, a stuffed animal would be used to show the trek up the stairs and down the stairs set out in the book.

Pulling those books out of a box and seeing them made my eyes tear up.  How quickly that period of childhood flies by.  Sacred are those moments when you were snuggled into bed with a two or a three-year-old and they were asking you the endless “what is” and “why” questions. Such moments are only memories now, fond memories. Back then it was easier in some ways because you could make those statements, true or not, that you would always be with them.  In your heart you had hope that you could fix the problems they would face. Such hope fades as the years wear on.

Immersed in those memories I recorded the Moo, Baa, Fa La La book and posted it to Facebook.  Personally, I didn’t really care if single person sussed out why I had read the book, or read it in the way I did. Maybe, just maybe, after I am gone my kids will do a search of electronic media and find that bit.  Maybe, and this is really a maybe, they will remember that moment in the year 2002 when we read that book and others, like Jessie’s Journey, Chugga Chugga Choo Choo and the one that ends with I love you to the moon and back. Perhaps they will smile.  Perhaps they will remember the unconditional love they had from both their father and their mother.

The Baby Jay books were another story. Around here there is the informal network of friends and acquaintances who engage in the hand me down rituals. Trousers, winter clothing, toys and books, if their kid has outgrown it your kid gets it offered to them. I know who gave me Baby Jay, she is one of my dearest friends. Seeing the book, (and I put the glasses on baby Jay), reminded me of the good in the world that we can have if we believe in people and share our lives with them. Although the donor lives miles and miles away now, I know she is good people I can rely on if need be.  Baby Jay stands for everything our world does not stand for now.  It stands for the open hand and heart and for congeniality and hospitality. Baby Jay in its gifting stands for love and friendship

I don’t miss dealing with foul diapers, runaway children in malls and trying to calm a child who repeatedly had night terrors.  But I do miss the overarching feeling of love and community that you have in those early years.