A Muddy Day in March

I stole a post yesterday.  My friend won’t mind.  He is a most genial and generous writing friend, and the post was not one that he had written, but rather one he was sharing because it moved him.  My little virtual circle of writing friends (note I’m not calling them a circle of virtual writing friends . . . big difference) is good like that.  We share our stuff, and other stuff, and the stuff that moves us or scares us or makes us crazy mad. 

The post began, “Date a girl who reads” and went on to extol the virtues of women who love books, and what it means to be in a relationship with them.  It was beautifully written and touched and moved me.  So I stole it and reposted it and dedicated it to my girls and the men who love them.  Then I thought about who my girls are.  There are a ton of them out there – my friends and neighbors who love the magic of books, and their daughters who I love like daughters.  Then there are my own daughters. 

I only have two of them, genetically, but this cool concept called marriage has enabled me to snag a couple of bonus daughters who I completely adore.  I love that these four beautiful women get along so well together; that they have inside jokes and manage to gang up on the guys in the family just a little.  Today belongs to one of these amazing women.  Today is Marie’s birthday.  Marie is the one who introduced me to what it means to know – to really know – a girl who reads.

Marie came to us in a challenging time.  I was pretty sure I was pregnant when Johnny was diagnosed with leukemia.  It was a strange and emotional time.  I remember calling an OB/GYN and essentially demanding an immediate appointment.  I explained what was going on in our family’s life and let them know that for my mental health, I needed to see a doctor ASAP.  They got me right in.  The day of my appointment, I got a letter from my brother who was stationed in Germany at the time.  He had just learned about Johnny’s cancer through a phone call from our parents.  I read his letter while I sat in the examination room, waiting.  When the doctor came in the room and we met for the first time, I had tears running down my face.  My brother’s words of encouragement and faith had been almost the exact words I had written to him in the letter that had crossed his in the mail.  I wasn’t sad, or even scared.  I was happy and grateful for my brother’s love.

That pregnancy was strange and wonderful.  When Marie arrived, she came all full of surprises – the doctor had been positive she was a boy and the surprise was clear in his voice when he announced, “It’s a  . . . girl!”  Then he cracked, “I should have known – she came out hand first, reaching for my wallet.”  I wasn’t too surprised about the hand first thing – she had apparently acquired the habit of thumb sucking in the womb, and her little fingers were frequently poking my bladder for the last several weeks of the pregnancy.  Not that y’all needed to know that . . . just sayin’.

The three days I spent in the hospital after her birth were magical.  Johnny had been in remission for six months.  He hadn’t been back to the hospital for three months, and everything was looking bright.  John had passed his comprehensive exams for his PhD.  Life was good as I sat in that hospital room and held my little girl.  A girl.  After two rambunctious boys, I was so grateful to have a beautiful, perfect little girl.  She had a crooked smile; her mouth curled up on one side when she smiled.  She had a tiny little dot in the middle of one pupil which reminded me of my sister who also has a congenital cataract.  Marie had two cowlicks in the front of her hair – two swirls in opposite directions that called irresistibly to be traced with a mother’s finger over and over again.  She was perfect.  The sun sparkled over us as she lay in my arms in that hospital room and I was, for the first time since Johnny’s diagnosis, blissfully content.

My friends were thrilled that I finally had a girl – a sweet, gentle, feminine child.  Eighteen months later, watching Marie romp and wrestle with her brothers and climb and fall and skin her knee with hardly a grimace, my friends asked me, “What happened?”  All I could say was that I only knew one way to raise kids, and apparently it played out the same for boys and girls.  Marie ended up being voted Most Valuable Defensive Player by the guys she played with on her high school soccer team.  There was no girls' team, so she played with the boys.  They called her Mudd.

Marie did love to wear dresses, though.  Every morning as I lifted her from her crib, her arms reached out lovingly . . . towards the closet where her little frocks hung.  She loved wearing dresses until she was about four and developed a love for pants.  She also loved to sleep.

When she was two or so, and old enough to not always nap in her crib, she would grab one of her favorite blankets and go find a quiet spot and take her nap any time of the day.  We found her sleeping on the stairs, under the tables, behind the couch.  And wherever she drifted off, there would be a little pile of books.  Getting her to bed at night was no trouble at all.  All I had to do was offer her a book, and she would climb into bed willingly.  The problem was that she was never happy with just one book.  By the time she was old enough to put herself to bed at night, she was taking stacks of books to bed with her every night.  In the morning, thirty books or more would be scattered on the floor next to her bed.  I would scold and beg her to just choose one book at night, but it was useless.  “What if I want a different book after I get in bed?” she would ask.

Just ask the man who dated her and won her heart - - nothing has changed.  The book stack by the bed is just higher now because her books are bigger.  He shakes his head, but knows it’s part of the deal.

When she started school, Marie had a fresh source to feed her book habit.  She would bring home new stacks of books from the school library.  That’s when she started teaching her little brother to read.  She would sit on the bed with Steven, and eventually with Amber as well, and read to them.  When she had read every book within reach, it didn’t stop her.  She would read the blanket to them, or their stuffed animals – pointing to the object and making up stories as she moved her finger along as if there were real words there to be read.

Steven would bring her reading books to me during the day while she was away at school and try to repeat the stories to me, pointing to the words and reciting what he remembered.  I would point to the words and read them again to him.  He learned to read completely by rote.  It wasn’t until third grade or so that phonics made any sense to him at all.  He just looked at the words and memorized what they were.

It was always easy to buy gifts for Marie – just include a book and you were in.  Her grandmother was an easy hit for new reading material.  Often the books that grandma sent were supplied by Marie’s great-aunt Barbara, who was a professional book-broker and major supplier to all reading junkies within her reach.   Marie finally got to meet her great-aunt just about two weeks before Barbara died in a tragic accident.  They talked about their favorite books and Barbara gave Marie and me two of her favorites to read.  You never went to visit Barbara without leaving with a new book in hand.  It was her calling - getting books into the hands of readers, and creating readers out of non-readers.

Marie completed her degree in secondary Spanish and ESL, and her first job was to set up a literacy center for Spanish-speaking families in the valley where she lives.  It was a huge responsibility, but she took to it like a duck to water.  She bought dozens of books in Spanish and English for these families to read together.  She set up classes for teaching English to parents, homework sessions for elementary students, and activity nights for the families to get them playing together and practicing their English skills. 

Of course, she’s still reading.  Mostly, she’s inspiring me.  She encourages me . . . well maybe nags is a better word . . . to keep writing on my blog.  She has begun to write, herself, seeing the self-discovery and joy that writing brings.  Several of the books on my nightstand were recommended or given to me by her.  She’s found a local book club that she loves.  If you want to get her talking, ask her what she’s read lately. 

One of these days, if she gets her wish, she’ll be reading to her own little swirly-haired babe with a crooked smile.  I can only imagine the stack of books at their side, but I know full well that all Marie will need is a baby and a blanket.  The stories will tell themselves.