On Mondays I have been going to my grandson's first grade class and reading library books to them. It is such fun to watch them get the humor in the stories and laugh, and the personal rewards for me have been huge. At the end of some of the stories, they have spontaneously broken into applause. That really makes me feel good! I read to them right after they have returned from lunch. A few weeks ago, I was sitting in the classroom, waiting for them to come in. As the kids began coming into the room, one little boy glanced to the side and saw me. He grinned great big, came and stood in front of me with his arms stretched wide for a hug. I hugged him and when the other kids realized that was okay, they began lining up for a hug.
Not all of them, of course, for many children are shy, including my grandson. I had to ask for a hug from him, and finally got it when I got up and walked to his table. The good part is, he did give me a hug, and since then, he hasn't been nearly so shy about hugging me around his friends, because he has seen them hug me, too. I see that as a great accomplishment for him and for me! Children become so self-conscious as they get older and want to make sure they are not embarrassed around their peers. Hugging parents and grandparents falls smack dab in that territory, so I am especially pleased that he feels like he can hug me in public. We'll see what next year brings.
Another great and unexpected reward for me was a card I received in the mail from the Staff and Students of his school, thanking me for my volunteer efforts. They were donating $500 to the media center for books to be purchased in my honor. I was thrilled! I hope these children will remember this year and me when they check out a book that has my name in it.
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My grandsons are now at the book reading phase of life. It brings great joy to gather them close and read a book.
Jack, the middle boy who feels neglected has been struggling in school and is getting called names because he is so sensitive. They make fun of him and he does what they want: yell and cry!
Jack has just gotten his reading together and now reads to me with great joy. He also tells the best ghost stories around the campfire we have on our little beach.
I love it when a child discovers the adventure of reading so he can now visit anywhere in the world or, like me, other worlds with science fiction.
Like you, I have found there is nothing more rewarding than sharing books and stories with children. My Grandaddy did such when I was small. He had the best old country home in upstate SC where we could sit on the porch in the evenings before TV, listen to the whipperwhills and cacidas in his oak trees. Below, I give you his best: Graveyard Hill.
Graveyard Hill
As a child of 5 with no TV, AC, and an old radio that hardly worked, this was the way to spend hot summer evenings at the best place on earth: Granddaddy's farm on Vinland School Road in Pickens County between Greenville and Easley not far from the Saluda River. The sound of boats on the reservoir and racing car engines at the Pickens County Speedway floated across the fresh night air. Radio towers flickered on the hillsides in the distance backed by the shadow outline of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
As Cicadas (we called them Katie Dids) cranked out their tunes in the oak tree, my brother and I could hardly wait to sit in the swing on either side of Granddaddy and beg him to tell us some stories.
The best were of buggy racing before there were cars, his touching dog story of Old Faithful, and the one you couldn't ignore--Graveyard Hill! As we sat on the porch you could see the tractor going round and round the hill poisoning cotton for bowl weevils. Sometimes it went to midnight with lights shining into the eerie darkness.
Then Granddaddy would begin his famous story of what happens in the old abandoned family graveyard for which the hill has its famous name. "Boys," he would say, "Do you know what happens over there on a full moon night?"
"What?" we would reply.
"If you walk around that hill 12 times on a full moon night, suddenly the graves will open, and out will come those dead bodies!" I am sure he could feel the swing jump a little as we sat up to pay more attention and take another look at that light from the tractor going another round of plowing.
After the appropriate pause for our minds to conjure the full picture and fears of walking dead to become more real (the Katie Dids always got louder during that pause as if a drum roll were coming from the symphony orchestra just before the cymbal crash).
"Boys," he would resume in his most mysterious voice, "Those spooks will get up from their graves and say, 'N-o-o-o-o-o-t-h-i-n-g at a-l-l-l-l-l-l-l, N-o-o-o-o-o-t-h-i-n-g at a-l-l-l-l-l-l-l, N-o-o-o-o-o-t-h-i-n-g at a-l-l-l-l-l-l-l' as each phrase grew a little louder and the voice trembled more.
With that Granddaddy would sit quietly while we watched the tractor lights and heard the drum roll of the Katie Dids, while sheet lightening would provide the Cymbal crash! Could my Granddaddy ever tell a good story on the front porch!
(cont.)
The best part of that story being told followed its telling in the Fall when the oak trees began to look like bony fingers as the leaves all fell to the ground. In this case it was told in front of the open fireplace which provided the only light in the room. Granddaddy’s house was two story and white framed with dark closets open to the upstairs attic. The 12 or 14 foot ceilings gave room for air to flow and made it look like a mansion to a child. There was no heat outside the fireplaces so you had to get warm in the sitting room and rush over cold floors upstairs with steps creaking.
After the rush with my little brother there was comfort under the weight and warming of a good quilt. The most important rule of brothers was not to touch and keep you own space. As I lay quietly with the cold sheets beginning to warm from body heat, I could hear the noise of popping (the tin roof was contracting in cold night air before I knew any such explanations). Alongside the popping came thoughts of those dark closets and attic spaces just across the room, but too dark to see. Now came the memories of the tractor and Graveyard Hill in the distance. Next can the real crescendo: white wooden walls, shadows of oak limbs looking like bony fingers moving, and the sound of tapping as a limb touched the house.
In the dark night, suddenly my brother didn't seem to be such a bothersome shadow to me. Even though you still had those older brother thoughts of competition and pestering, it brought a little comfort near Graveyard Hill to know a second pair of eyes and ears were looking out from under the covers. "Do you think there are really ghosts on Graveyard Hill?" my brother would ask. "Of course not!" I would summon up my best big brother voice.
But as I lay in the dark, as I saw the shadows on the wall, and as the sounds surrounded me, I kept saying to myself, "Maybe they won't get me if I just don't walk around that many times!!"
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