THE POSTSCRIPT, Carrie Classon

“I had a mother who read to me

Sagas of pirates who scoured the sea,

Cutlasses clenched in their yellow teeth,

“Blackbirds” stowed in the hold beneath.”

I am “up north,” as people say, spending time with my parents at their cabin. My parents are spending more time in town, especially in the winter. But now it is spring, and to hear them tell it, being a nonagenarian is no reason to stay away from the place they love best.

I help out a little with things that are getting harder for them to do, but honestly, I don’t do much more than enjoy their company and fold into their life for a few days, talking and running errands and sharing thoughts about the news of the day and memories of the past.

And I listen to my mom reading.

My mom has always read aloud. Reading was a daily habit for my mother, and she made it clear from the time I was small that there was nothing unusual about reading aloud — a children’s story, an editorial, or the Bible. My mom read aloud to us nearly every day, as I recall.

The stories left an indelible mark. I remember the sweetness of Laura Ingalls Wilder describing Pa playing the fiddle by firelight in the middle of the Wisconsin woods, and I remember the horror of Hans Christian Andersen describing the house where the witch lived at the bottom of the sea, built with the bones of drowned sailors. My mom took me to all these places, my sister and I, and my father was listening, more often than not.

Perhaps for a while my mother read a little less. I honestly don’t know if she read aloud as much when they were busy building their cabin in the woods. But not long after, perhaps even before my father’s eyesight began to fade, my mother began reading aloud again every day.

My mother complains, “I read it, but your father remembers it!” And it’s true, my dad listens carefully and has an excellent memory.

She reads a daily devotional aloud. She reads an essay by a nature writer. She reads a chapter in a book they are working through. She reads a meme she thinks is funny. She reads an article from the local paper. She reads to my dad, and when I visit, I hear her read.

Yesterday, I went to my mother’s book club. There were nearly 20 women reading the poems of a local poet. And I realized that my beliefs about writing and the value I place on books come almost entirely from my mom.

She felt that books should be shared. She let me know that stories brought people together. She was honest if she didn’t understand what a writer was trying to say or if they used a word she didn’t know. There was no shame in that. Read the passage aloud. Talk about it. Look up the word. How else can you learn?

Years ago, I helped organize a reading for Mother’s Day. There were short stories about mothers and poems about a mother’s love. I honestly don’t remember what all we read. But one poem, “The Reading Mother,” by Strickland Gillilan, stayed with me. Even though the poem was old and a little sentimental, it stuck in my mind because it was still so deeply true for me.

“You may have tangible wealth untold;

Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.

Richer than I you can never be —

I had a Mother who read to me.”

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