Goodnight Moon, written by Margaret Wise Brown...was a favorite of mine.
The first time I read it, I don't think I actually read it. I'm positive that my mom read it aloud for me, taking her index finger over the tiny raised bumps on each page, showing me the corresponding pictures after each line, that even she couldn't see--but wanted me to, because she knew they were important somehow.
Only being three or four years of age, visual words were only given meaning from the mouth of my mother, who could no longer make sense of the letters with her eyes, but instead her fingers. I guess I learned to read a little late in life.
Previously, I understood the alphabet, the numbers, and the words to use when speaking or what to call things, but my first grade teacher taught me how language pulled together to make a story. In elementary school, my reading level was graded alphabetically, and as soon as I was taught the basics, I advanced to the highest level (for my age) a few months later.
Goodnight Moon was a fresh start.
Like an everything bagel with cream cheese on a sunday morning, after church, with few too many glasses of No-pulp-orange-juice to count.
Goodnight Moon inspired me, despite only having short of a hundred words in its entirety, to want to write...about everything.
1 comment:
wow this is so weird because goodnight moon is one of the few books I remember my mom reading aloud to me when I was little to, although I know for a fact I never paid attention to what the story actually said I just wanted to find the little mouse hiding on every page. I wish I was still like that with books now, looking for little things instead of stressing over the big issue.
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