Books are a wonder. Unknowing and not counting the passing of minutes and hours, reading books can ensnare us, tangle us in other places, times, worlds and imaginings. They can take us on emotional journeys. They can make us laugh, cry, get so angry we have to put the book down only to pick it up again moments later. They can get us so excited our eyes leap from sentence to sentence, racing to see where the action leads. They are a way to experience, a key to knowledge, a challenge to our preconceptions, a teacher of wisdom and language and expression.
Some of my fondest memories from my youth are of me rolled up in my blankets reading Tolkien, Eddings, Feist, Asimov and others, while the silent and dark Earth rolled through the night. I don't read as much as I used to, and it is something I want to get back into the habit of, but I have an undying love of it still, and will, I think, always.
I am lucky enough to have three wonderful children I get to read to, although our evening routine is sometimes just a chaotic and exhausting struggle to make sure they are fed, bathed and in bed. I also have a day job that lets me express my love of learning and reading the (unlucky) kids in my class.
Reading aloud is always something I have enjoyed. Putting expression and emphasis into description, using voices and whispering and thundering the dialog where required appeals to my overwrought sense of drama.
Teaching, as I do, 8-9 year olds, allows for a certain amount of class time dedicated to a class book. I have my favourite books to read, and every year the children in my class will no doubt get to hear of the bravery of Mrs Frisby, the daring of Harry Potter, and the exploits of Mr Fox. Every year I also try and find some new book or three they might also enjoy. The last few years have introduced the kids and myself to Artemis Fowl, A Wrinkle in Time, Alex Rider and many others, and no doubt a few of these will become regulars in years to come.
Every year it's interesting to see the responses of the kids. A few years ago I had a class that would applaud after every reading (unprompted I assure you), this year my class will borrow as many copies of the same book as they can find and sit in little huddles following on as we read.
At the moment we are reading Little House in the Big Wood, by Laura Ingalls Wilder, and I, in a terrible Southern American accent (wrong accent no doubt, but recognisably American at least), and finding myself drawn through the window into a beautifully sketched world remarkably different to our own. The kids have been horrified at a deer being butchered, disgusted by the making of cheese, fascinated by the making of bullets or of little Laura playing with her corn husk doll. In short, it is a fascinating book, remarkably approachable given the span of time, and one I am enjoying a lot. I cannot think of any book I have read that has given the kids more insight into the past than this one, nor one where they have had so many questions. I thoroughly recommend it, though it is obviously also a product of its time (itself a point for discussion).
Reading is a wonderful thing, and I hope that some of the kids that walk away from my class do so having lost the conception that 'reading is not for them'. To my mind, it is just a matter of finding the right book...
(I should note - all the pictures I put on my white board are usually my poorly executed facsimiles of an image I liked from the web)
