12:24 AM, December 25th. Good morning and Merry Christmas.
It’s my dad’s first Christmas at home in about five years, and the first Christmas that my little nephew has ever experienced. True to form, I procrastinated on my Christmas shopping (though not as much I usually do) and spent much of yesterday thinking about what a suitable gift for a baby’s first Christmas is.
I’ve known ever since I really started thinking about it that a book is the way to go. The right book is welcome before they can read, and is loved for a lifetime to follow. And so I thought, what book should I get for Nephew?
Nowadays, if you ask me what my favorite book is, I’ll tell you it’s The King of Attolia by Megan Whalen Turner. The whole series is fantastic, but that one in particular (the third in the series) stands out to me as a well-thought-out, tightly plotted novel with incredible character development.
And I would tell you The Scorpio Races. There’s so much texture and character on every page, understated and warm, and, again, containing such beautiful character development.
These are my top two. They are books that I have read many times, and will never grow tired of. And they would be terrible Christmas gifts for Nephew.
Nephew doesn’t know the first thing about character development. He couldn’t even tell me the role of conflict in a story. Nephew is just starting to learn to hold his head up on his own.
But these weren’t always my favorite books. I worked my way up to them, as all readers must.
And so, when I was young, what were my favorite books?
I took a look at my shelves, and I found some that I loved as a child. Books that I read over and over again, starting from when I was rather young (six or so), that I still smile thinking of.
Before The King of Attolia, I loved the All the Wrong Questions series by Lemony Snicket. I still think that Daniel Handler has a very distinctive voice, and such a unique grasp on word-choice. It’s a matter of preference for me, and I’m about to give you a spoiler. I don’t like sad endings. End spoiler.
Pride and Prejudice has always been well-loved by me. I’m not sure when I first read it, but it’s always been able to grip my attention; I’ve found that every time I read it, I find more that I’ve never noticed before.
While I wouldn’t say these have ever been my favorites, I’ve always loved the Gregor the Overlander series by Suzanne Collins; and if that name sounds familiar it’s because she wrote The Hunger Games, which I happen to think is an inferior product next to Gregor.
Redwall was my favorite series for a very long matter of time; several years, in fact. Probably from seven to about twelve years old.
This next paragraph I wrote a bit later; I figured if I didn’t turn out the lights and go to sleep lying down, I’d end up doing it sitting up, and then I’d spend Christmas trying to work the crick out of my neck. So now it’s 5:04 PM. The sun is setting and the gifts that we opened this morning are scattered around the house.
But as for Redwall, I devoured it. I read every single book, and today most of them sit on my shelf. Martin the Warrior was my hero, weasels my enemies, and Redwall Abbey my home. I explored that world, the woods and high seas. It was the energy and the adventure that drew me in. There was so much possibilty to explore in the world of Redwall. I haven’t read a Redwall book in probably four years, and I think that’s a shame. I wish I had more time these days to devote to rereading the books that first fed my love of reading.
But while Redwall might have been my greatest obsession as a young reader, it was not my first. That status belongs to the Hardy Boys books. I vividly remember pulling The Twisted Claw off of the shelf that sat behind our sofa, and looking at its cover curiously before opening it up.
I went on to read and reread all of the Hardy Boys books that we owned. I discovered Nancy Drew in my sister’s room and enjoyed them, which isn’t surprising given the similarity in form and content. But there was something about the Hardy Boys that was always more attractive to me. The writing was lighter and funnier; more outrageous in some ways, but less dramatic. It was boyish.
There are other books that stand out to me; standalones that weren’t able to take over my life to quite the same degree, but have settled solidly into place on my favorites list.
Years ago, on one of our long family roadtrips, perhaps to my aunt’s wedding in TX, we listened to the first audiobook that I ever remember listening to. I remember hearing of a woman eavesdropping on the same men who were looking for her, as she hid upstairs in an inn. I remember her realizing that the dirty Jewish peddler is actually her husband. Years later, I borrowed that book from the library. It was, of course, The Scarlet Pimpernel, and it’s one that I return to from time to time to discover with Marguerite the man she really married beneath the facade he hides behind.
The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle was where my addiction to independence met my love of reading. There are few books that have showcased to me so clearly the struggle to be free and the consequences of succeeding. Or the way that the fight to survive can change a person into someone completely different. In so many books, the hero doesn’t understand the choice they’ve made until afterwards. Confessions is stark and thrilling in its simplicity. The setting and the short cast list give plenty of space to see clearly the choices set before her, and the consequences of them. But there would be no enjoyment in the fight, of course, if we couldn’t see what she was fighting for. I didn’t know until Charlotte stood on the top spar of the mainmast, with the wind in her hair and nothing but ocean for miles around, how good freedom tasted.
And so, on this Christmas of 2019, my love affair with books continues. This year I got Stephen King’s On Writing and Greek Philosophical Terms: A Historical Lexicon by F.E. Peters. Neither of these are fiction, but I recently raided a bookstore, so fear not. There are so many stories out there to read, and so many characters to get to know.
But a good book is a good book at any age. Good writing somehow goes beyond the age and the context of the reader to get to something deeper. I learned more about myself from the books I read in my youth than I did from what my friends said about me. I learned what it feels like to open up whole new sections of the world, all at once. And believe me, after writing this post, I have some rereads planned. I’d like to remember that feeling again.
Yet after all this, none of these books were right for Nephew. It’s hard to find a good book for a baby.
When I looked on my shelf last night, I pulled out a book that I used to read often, as evidenced by how beat up its paperback cover is. I wondered how old it was, so I looked inside.
The first surprise was that the book itself was printed either in 1988 or 1992 - probably the latter. I had always thought it was given to me new. I found the second surprise when I opened the book.
Christmas 2005
To Anna - This looked fun!
We love you,
G’pa Tony + Marnie
Not only had I not known who gave this book to me, I hadn’t realized that it was given to me when I was only four years old.
I don’t know how many times I’ve read Mr. Popper’s Penguins. It’s been in my life as long as I can remember. It’s strange and funny and delightfully old-fashioned. And I think it would make the perfect gift for my nephew.
