Words

When my granddaughter Heidi was little, the book she asked me to read over and over was not a story book. There weren’t even words in it, just tiny watercolor objects arranged in categories on each page. Things in the kitchen, things on the playground, things that go, things at school, things for building and fixing, things for the garden, things that grow.

She’d point to a thing; I’d say what it was. Firetruck, hedge clippers, pencil, hammer, scooter. On and on and on. If I missed one or sneakily turned two pages at once, she’d say, “Nommie,” like a disappointed teacher.

Every single time I finished the book, she said, “Again.”

My God. That book was mind-numbing. It wasn’t even reading, just reciting. Sometimes, I’d say, “You read it to me this time.” She wouldn’t hear of it.

One day, I asked, “Why do you like this book so much?”

“I yuv words,” she said, radiant.

What is happiness, if not small moments like this one, strung like beads on the strand of your life? Something you can run through your fingers, like a rosary but for the fact that each bead is unique, each blooms vividly upon touch into the moment of pure happiness that forged it.

I am so not a happy person by nature, which makes me all the more grateful for my necklace of happy moments that’s pretty darn long, considering.  Sometimes I have to remind myself to wear it, though. Remind myself that it is enough.

So, Thanksgiving.

I am grateful that lovely memory of my granddaughter. Grateful for words, themselves—just the sound and shape of them. The way they look on a page. How you can move them around to make meaning. How the more words you know, the better you can make them tell a story you desperately need to tell, real or imagined. How wrestling with words makes that happen

And, of course, how words grow into books, my own and the books of others that that bring insight to the world, myself.

I think, wouldn’t it be nice if we had an endless supply of books available and could give every person we care about a book we know would help them see something about themselves or the world that might open their hearts to moments of happiness.

But would they read it?

This is just a Thanksgiving fantasy, so—yeah, they would. And they’d say how much they loved it and how it changed them, and then they’d give you a book…

Just as we book-lovers do.

I am so grateful for what good books bring to the world.

And for the opportunity to share the books I love with you.

Thank you for reading Book Pilgrim.