The years pass; the son becomes the father, and the father becomes the grandfather.
Mine is a June family. My brother would have turned 80 this month; my birthday was less than a week later; my son celebrated his over the weekend, a day ahead of my sister; and later this month, my mother would have turned 99, while my father would have reached 101 years of age at the end of the month. Then there were (are) a couple of aunts with June birthdays.
In years past, we would hold a family birthday party — usually at my brother’s house — but it is harder to get everyone together at one time these days, and the weather certainly was not cooperating this year. That meant spreading out the celebrations over a couple of weeks, with smaller gatherings — and more cakes.
That’s okay. It is the getting together that counts.
Growing up these days is so different from the days of my childhood. Back then, living two miles south of downtown Bristol meant that our days were mostly spent at home and our play consisted of running through the pine grove on the hill behind our house, venturing down to the banks of the Smith River, or drawing, coloring, and writing on whatever paper we came across inside on bad-weather days. Getting to town was rare, so we socialized with the neighbors, who were half a mile or more distant and mostly were people of my parents’ age or older.
There were no smartphones to stream movies, or electronic toys playing tunes and calling out “all aboard” — or trips to play centers with trampolines, mazes, and slides. We would make annual trips to Storyland or Benson’s Wild Animal Park.
There always would be books, and later we would read to our children, and now our children are reading to theirs. The wonders of reading about trees and animals, or mythical creatures, or far-away adventures are as compelling today as they were for us in the days when the only television was black-and-white with two or three channels. There is no limit to what one can find in books.
I remember the first time we went to the Minot-Sleeper Library, finding its silence — broken only by the ticking of the large grandfather clock behind the librarian’s desk — to be imposing but fascinating. The librarian was Myla Doran, with the whitest hair I had ever seen, and in hushed tones, she would point us in the right direction for whatever book or resource we were seeking. The library was not large, but it appeared huge with its tall bookshelves and long tables.
Then there was the collection of stuffed birds for us to view — a highlight for any child.
Today the library has been expanded to accommodate computers and public presentations, no longer providing the hushed atmosphere of our youth; and the birds, which had deteriorated somewhat over the years, have been placed in the care of Plymouth State University. The large bound volumes of the Bristol Enterprise, which used to be kept in the basement, have been digitized for easy access from anywhere with an internet connection.
Rather than being imposing, today’s library is more welcoming, with a children’s section and plenty of activities, but it no less magical for those going through its doors.
Whether reading physical books or those available online, and whether the reading takes place at the library or at home, and whether reading on one’s own or having someone else read aloud, there is a tradition that can continue from generation to generation — as long as society allows it.
Author Elizabeth Gilbert withdrew her new novel, The Snow Forest, before it was even published, after people on social media complained about it being set in Russia. Because of Russia’s “special military operation” in Ukraine, more than 500 people posted negative reviews of the novel they had not even read, objecting to its setting and ignoring that it was about a family living in Siberia in the mid-20th century and resisting the Soviet regime. That didn’t matter — it was “disrespecting” the Ukranians who have died in the current conflict.
Books are about ideas, and ideas are not bound by the politics of the left or the right. Ideas need freedom to fly, where they can be considered on their own merits. That was true back when Fahrenheit 451 was published, and it remains true today.
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