I’d been out of the womb perhaps fifteen minutes, still focusing my eyes, wondering what school, I was going to, and wishing for a cup of coffee… when Mom decided to go into education. Not right AWAY, of course; there was a baby to take care of. She prepared for this by buying books on teaching… and teaching me to read.
I don’t remember any of this, of course. She would tell the stories later in my life. I don’t recall anything but the stories. But I also cannot remember a time when I could not read. In my memories, going waaaay back to four, five, six years old? I already knew how to read. I remember being surprised when I found out that other kids COULDN’T read. Mighod, what’s WRONG with you people?
And this led to the Christmas weekend with Aunt Lee, a tale that my mother loved to tell.
We were visiting my grandparents, and my elderly great aunt Lee was there, and of course, everyone had to dote on the baby for a while and then go off and make grownup talk while drinking strange smelly beverages that I did not like. That was okay. I’d brought along a stacka Dr. Seuss, and I was good, so I climbed up on the sofa, opened up the book, and began the familiar tale of Sam I Am, who preached the gospel of strangely colored breakfast foods. I am told I was a bit past three, at the time. The grownups were, if I remember the story correctly, playing bridge.
And Aunt Lee glanced at the couch, and was captivated. “Oh, that is precious,” she said. “Look at him. He’s pretending to read a book. Someone get a camera.”
“He’s not pretending,” said Mom. “That’s one of his favorite books.”
“Oh, pshaw,” said Lee. “He’s not old enough to read.”
“Honey, read the book to your Aunt Lee,” Mom said, to me.
“Well, on the first page,” I said, "Sam I Am doesn’t say anything, but he holds up a sign. It says ‘I am Sam.’ And then he turns it around and it says ‘Sam I Am.’ "
“Well, that doesn’t prove anything,” said Lee. “You’ve probably read him that book a thousand times. He knows it by heart. He’s not reading, he’s reciting.”
“So pick any book out of his stack,” said Mom. “You think he’s memorized them ALL? He’ll read aloud to you out of any of them.”
“Are you willing to put your money where your mouth is?” said Lee, laying down her cards.
“I know my son can read,” said Mom, laying down her own.
“Ten bucks says I can prove he can’t read.”
“You’re on.”
“And I pick the reading material.”
“Fine.”
Lee got up and walked over to a shelf where my grandfather kept several decades worth of old Reader’s Digest magazines. Mom balked a bit, “Now, Lee, he’s NOT a rocket scientist…”
“You don’t think he can read words in a row?”
“Dammit, I know he can read–”
“Then let him read. Ten bucks says he can’t.”
The two women haggled a bit before settling on a page of text without too many polysyllables on it, and the two of them approached me on the couch. “Honey,” said Mom, “Would you read this section aloud for your aunt?”
I took the little magazine and looked at it. Mom pointed at the top of the page.
“L… laaa… laaff-ter… is the best m… med… medicine,” I said. I knew what medicine was, but I’d never seen the word before. Laughter, though, THAT one I knew; that was the one with the GH in the middle that didn’t make any sense, but you read it like it was an F, because that was the rules.
Mom, in later years, would describe Lee’s face with great relish; to hear her tell it, the old woman’s eyes got very large, her smile vanished into the ozone, and her actual face got about three inches longer than it should have been. Obliviously, I kept reading.
“One day,” I said, “A p… pa… pat… pat-ee-ent…”
“Pay-shunt,” corrected my mother.
“Quiet,” commanded Aunt Lee.
“One day, a patient came into my off… office,” I read. “I had seen him a month ear… ear… earlier, and he had sur-jur-ree at the time and had come for a fol… follow-up visit…”
Mom would later describe (with no little glee) Lee’s face as stunned, open-mouthed, and faintly horrified; this was a thing that should not BE.
“What’s ‘surgery,’ Mommy?” I asked.
“Would you like him to keep going?” said my mother sweetly. “I’m sure he doesn’t know all the words, but I know damn well he can read them at you.”
Mom would later describe Lee’s eyes as “a bit bugged out, and they looked like burnt holes in a blanket.” Without another word, Lee went to her purse and pulled out a tenner and slapped it on the table. “I am convinced,” she said. “Did YOU teach him to do that?”
“Do you want me to keep going?” I asked.
Lee looked at me with faint suspicion. Mom smiled. “No, sweetie, you did fine.”
“I did the best I could,” I said. “There were no pictures.”
“I know, sweetie, you did just fine,” said Mom. “Now put your shoes on. Your aunt is taking us out for ice cream.”
My mother told that story for many years after it happened, both to me, to others, and to the students she would one day have when she became a teacher. And she always told it with the same glee as I’d heard in her voice the first time. Not sure if it was pride in her son’s reading ability, or winning a ten dollar bet back when ten bucks MEANT something, but she’d considered it a victory, either way.
As I grew older, I got rather chummy with my Aunt Lee, and I still remember the time SHE told me that story… with the same particulars, but from her own point of view.
“And I stood there, looking at a tiny baby, holding a book and reading at me out of it,” she said, “and for one cold, scary moment, I was sure I was lookin’ at a crimbil .”
“A what?” I said.
“A crimbil, dear.”
“What’s a crimbil?”
My aged Aunt Lee smiled at me. “You’re a smart boy, dear,” she said. “Go look it up.”
that’s awesome!