This week, as I reviewed the list of books she’s had read to her, or has looked at, over and over again, I thought about the many social, emotional, creative, and intellectual gifts she’s received as a result.

I picture her at a book party, holding a bunch of brightly-colored balloons decorated with each of the reasons why parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, older brothers and sisters, friends, teachers, and librarians—why, everybody!—should read stories aloud to young children.

1. I learn to listen.

2. I grow my vocabulary

3. I develop empathy.

4. I have fun.

5. I laugh out loud.

6. I learn a second language.

7. I find out about the world and all its diversity.

8. I realize that I can be and do many things.

9. I observe amazing art.

10. I feel the rhythm of language.

11. I encounter all the information that can be found in books.

12. I spark my imagination.

13. I see myself and others different from myself.

14. I feel loved.

15. I feel safe.

And now, for a moment I remember how, before I began reading on my own, my mother’s voice brought my favorite stories to life. How these stories created in me a sense of hope and well-being, assuring me that the world was full of possibilities; that I could do and be many things, a heroine of my own adventure.

2018 Children’s Book Week poster, designed by Jillian Tamaki

Eileen in front of the Emily Carr House

Settee, Emily Carr House

Parlour, Emily Carr House

Jan Ross was generous with her knowledge and time. I’d known that Emily Carr was a published author, but not that she’d first gained widespread fame and recognition for her vivid and beautifully written books. Carr’s “word sketches” (her name for the kind of writing she did) reached millions of listeners when read aloud on CBC public radio, subsequently spurring great interest in her paintings.

Emily, who kept journals and created sketchpads throughout her life, starting writing when she could no longer paint due to chronic and significant health problems primarily related to her heart. In fact, all of her great writing was done from her sick bed. She was 70 years old when her first book Klee Wyck was published. An evocative work that describes in arresting detail her experiences amount First Nations people and cultures on British Columbia’s west coast, the book won the prestigious Governor General’s Literary Award for non-fiction in 1941.

Books written by Emily Carr, or collections based on archival material

The Book of Small, published in 1942 by Oxford University Press, is a collection of thirty-six word sketches in which she relates anecdotes about her life and times as a girl growing up in what was then the frontier town of Victoria. The last book published during her lifetime is titled The House of All Sorts: heartfelt, heartbreaking, and humorous stories about the trials of being a landlady in a small apartment house she built as a source of income to support herself as she pursued her creative calling. Right around the corner from the Emily Carr House, the building still stands to this day.

The House of All Sorts

As my husband and I toured the Emily Carr House and Gardens, Emily Carr’s presence was felt in reproductions of her paintings, passages from her books, furnishings from the time period, artifacts that once belonged to the Carr family, and sepia tone photographs of Emily, her parents and her four sisters.

The Breakfast Room

In February 1945, with no specific complaint except weariness, Emily checked into the newly opened St. Mary’s Priory nursing home in Victoria. Biographer Paula Blanchard writes, “Although she had another show in mind and unpublished manuscripts next to her bed, all her major work was done. “I used to wonder,” she once wrote to her closest friend Ira Dilworth, “what people who were facing death thought about it. They seldom mentioned it and I often wished they would. (We are rather cowardly about that thing.) Now I look at it very much as I used to look … on going out into the woods in the van in the old days, busying myself in the preparation of leaving things as straight as I can, and leaving the new camp to be itself when I get there.” On 2 March 1945, in the middle of the afternoon, she got there.

Indian Church, Emily Carr, 1929

Final note: Inscribed on her simple tombstone in Ross Bay Cemetery in Victoria:

EMILY CARTER, 1871 – 1945
ARTIST AND AUTHOR
LOVER OF NATURE

Tango, my beloved dog who passed on last year, the model for one of the main characters in Tango: The Tale of an Island Dog, was a Yorkshire Terrier.

Do you know much about this breed?

Do you realize that it has been a popular pet since Victorian times, first being recognized by the American Kennel Club in 1885?

Here’s much more intriguing information about Yorkies.

[Photo credit: Sergio Schnitzler | Dreamstime.com]

Fox on Prince Edward Island [credit: Dennis Jarvis]

This would make a wonderful story. Write a story about your wish with a beginning, a middle, and an end. When it’s done, read it over a couple of times, imagining you are a friend of yours reading this story. Do you see places where it could use revising?

When you’re done, share the story with your family and your teacher.

Have fun writing!

You’ll find good dialogue to work with and it’s a tense scene, both imperative for creating good theater. Remember to identify each character so the actors know when to speak. And offset the stage directions so people don’t accidently read them out loud!

Are there other chapters in the book that will work well for a short play?

If your school performs your play, I hope you’ll send me a video.

Under the Stairs
Janet Graber (who grew up in Great Britain during World War II)

Whenever the air-raid siren sounded in the middle of the night Mama and I hid ‘under the stairs. It was dark and scary. Even with the light on. It worked by pulling a long piece of string hanging from the ceiling. Cobwebs stuck in my hair. Once a little mouse ran over my toes. And the bombs went boom-boom, boom-boom-boom. The first time I cried, Mama opened up a trunk that was stored ‘under the stairs’ and took out a very big, very heavy, brown book with a soft leather cover.

“Mama, it smells like frogs and snails, and puppy dog tails,” I said, turning the pages slowly.

“Clever, girl, Gina,” said Mama. “That’s because this old book belonged to your great- grandfather when he was a little boy!”

Although I didn’t yet know how to read, I knew it was a book of fairy tales because a black and white drawing illustrated each story. My most favorite of all was the Tale of Little Red Riding Hood. The wolf had a long pointy nose and lay in bed with Granny’s mop cap between his ears.

And so every boom-boom night my Mama read to me ‘under the stairs’. Very loudly. Using lots of different voices. Making me scream and giggle with delight. We read all the way through the book from beginning to end before the war was over. And we didn’t have to go ‘under the stairs’ anymore.

A Reflection about Harold and the Purple Crayon
Mary Losure

I know my parents read to me, but I have no memory of it. I do remember the day I picked a magazine off the coffee table, opened it, and was surprised to find that unlike my parents, I could not read.

We lived in a house full of books. I remember picture books like Harold and the Purple Crayon vividly because I read them to my little brother, who is five years younger than I am. I have no memory of learning to read, or of the two of us together bent over a book. But in my mind’s eye, I can still see the little bald-headed kid who was Harold drawing a world for himself, and having adventures in it.

I think of Harold and the Purple Crayon as one of the formative experiences of my childhood!

Sleepovers
Maggie Moris

As children, my cousin Molly and I would beg our mothers for the chance to get together for a sleepover.

“Why bother?” they would ask. “You two never do anything except read.”

It was true. Nothing made us happier than to plop down side-by-side on a soft-quilted bed or to sprawl on a nubby-rugged floor with our books, an empty plate and a fresh bag of sunflower seeds between us.

In settled silence we would lose ourselves in story with only the tick-tock of a guardian clock to mark the hours. As time passed and wild fantastical worlds flourished in our minds, our lips grew numb from split seeds and tongued salt as soggy husks built a spit-mortared pyramid.

Did we read aloud to one another? Perhaps. There may have been times when we dared interrupt one another’s travels. Mostly though, we left each other well enough alone.

Were we truly doing nothing?

Far from it.

We explored fearsome, fantastical places. And even if we flew abroad on separate magic carpets above different landscapes towards unrelated dragons … we did so side-by-side, a page turn apart, heart-bound by our fierce love of reading and our deep understanding of one another.

The Only Story He Ever Read Aloud
Eileen Beha

My father was known as “Artie the Oilman” in the rural Wisconsin community where I grew up. As an independent contractor for Mobil Oil Corporation, he delivered fuel oil and gasoline to hundreds of homes, farms, gas stations and small businesses across Waukesha County for more than 40 years. He drove a bright red truck with the mythical Pegasus painted on the side of its tank. He wore Oshkosh B’gosh bib overalls, flannel shirts, and black rubber buckle boots with two pairs of thick wool socks. His hands were gnarled, fingernails black, and palms stained. He perpetually smelled like gasoline.

But on Christmas Eve, he took his weekly bath; put on a dark blue suit, white shirt, and red and gray striped tie; slapped some Old Spice on his neck, and drove our family to the annual children’s program at a German Lutheran church nearby. When the time came that my brothers and I were too old to attend Sunday School, and no longer believed in Santa Claus, my mother insisted that our father read Luke 2: 1 – 20, The Birth of Jesus, aloud from her Bible before we could open our presents on Christmas Eve.

It was the only story my father ever read to me. And yet, to this day, I can hear the sound of his deep gravelly voice and remember the profound mystery of the words he spoke.

“When asked, I’m partial to my own story of course, Tango: The Tale of an Island Dog, in which I impart a good deal of wisdom to that young pup, Tango. But there are many fine books in which my fellow foxes have starring roles. Here are 15 of them I can recommend for your reading pleasure:

“If you find your favorite book about a fox to be missing from this list, please add the title in the comments. I would love to add to my To Be Read pile.”

Aesop’s Fables, such as “The Fox and the Grapes” written by Aesop Aesop wrote many fables about foxes but this one is probably the most well-known: a very cunning fox indeed but always wanting something he can’t have.

Biography of a Silver Fox written by Ernest Thompson Seton Well-known as a writer of stories about wild animals, this is one of his best, I believe. (My second favorite might be Biography of an Arctic Fox.) You can read this book online. The book was first published in 1909.

The Christmas Fox written and illustrated by Anik McGrory When invited to the Nativity, this young fox is reminded to bring a gift. He’s so busy playing in the snow and the beautiful winter surroundings, he forgets. But his playfulness is a gift in itself and a good reminder to all.

Fantastic Mr. Fox written by Roald Dahl illustrated by Quentin Blake Three mean farmers gang together to get rid of Mr. Fox, who has been “taking” things from them to keep his family hale and hearty. They think the three of them can outwit Mr. Fox but … they don’t know foxes.

Fox in Socks written and illustrated by Theodor Geisel, Dr. Seuss As the good doctor himself wrote, “This is a book you read aloud to find out just how smart your tongue is. The first time you read it, don’t go fast! This Fox is a tricky fox. He’ll try to get your tongue in trouble.”

Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night  written and illustrated by Peter Spier The fox went out on a chilly night, he prayed to the Moon to give him light, for he’d many a mile to go that night before he reached the town-o, town-o, town-o … This book illustrates the familiar folk song about a wily fox who sets out on a chilly night to feed his family. Artist Peter Spier was given a Caldecott Honor for his imaginative depiction of the fox’s journey to a nearby farm and back again.

The Little Prince written and illustrated by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry When a pilot crashes in the Sahara desert, he is visited by a little prince who relates his stories of visiting planet after planet, on which only one adult lives. In this way, the Little Prince reveals the differences between childhood and adulthood. It’s a gentle tale which many believe is a modern fairy tale. In Chapter 21, the Little Prince meets a fox who teaches him a very important lesson about life.

Maybe a Fox written by Kathi Appelt and Alison McGhee When a young girl loses her mother, and then her sister, she sees a fox in the forest who leads her into a cave where she encounters a life-changing mystery.

One Fine Day written and illustrated by Nonny Hogrogian As this fox travels through the forest he becomes quite thirsty. Taking some sips of the farm wife’s milk, she rewards him by chopping off his tale. Using his wits, he bargains with her to get his tail back. It’s a funny story that was awarded the Caldecott Medal in 1971.

Pax written by Sara Pennypacker A young boy, Peter, is separated from his pet fox, Pax, when his father purposefully leaves the fox in the woods when he takes his son to live with his grandfather so he can go off to fight in the war. The boy is distraught and runs away from his grandfather, searching for Pax. The fox realizes he must wait for Peter, whom he is quite positive will come for him. As these two struggle to be reunited, they go through a number of adventures and discoveries.

Stone Fox written by John Reynolds Gardiner Little Willy lives with his grandfather in Wyoming. When Grandfather falls ill, he is no longer able to work the farm, which is in danger of foreclosure. Little Willy is determined to win the National Dogsled Race—the prize money would save the farm and his grandfather. But he isn’t the only one who desperately wants to win. Willy and his brave dog Searchlight must face off against experienced racers, including a Native American man named Stone Fox, who has never lost a race.

Tale of Mr. Tod written and illustrated by Beatrix Potter The underhanded badger Tommy Brock kidnaps Benjamin and Flopsy Bunny’s children. He intends to eat them. He hides them in Mr. Tod’s house, where Benjamin Bunny and Peter Rabbit go to rescue them. Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod get into a fight, which gives Benjamin and Peter their opportunity to save the children. Mr. Tod is a villainous character—there are villains even among foxes.

Tomten and the Fox written and illustrated by Astrid Lindgren A fox gets hungry, especially in the winter. I know this feeling well. When Reynard the fox creeps silently from his den to the farm searching for food, it is the Tomten (similar to an elf) who keeps the farm animals safe and even manages to find something to feed a hungry fox.

What Does the Fox Say? Bård Ylvisåker, Vegard Ylvisåker, Svein Nyhus, and Christian Løchstøer Dog goes woof. Cat goes meow. Bird goes tweet. Mouse goes squeak… But what does the fox say? Based on the very popular music video, this is a fun book to read out loud.

Winter Bees written by Joyce Sidman illustrated by Rick Allen The poet and the illustrator explore how foxes and other animals stay alive during the winter, what their lives are like underneath the snow and ice. The poems are scientific and wondrous. The words Joyce Sidman uses are beautiful. Rick Allen’s linoleum prints are breathtaking—rarely has a fox been captured with such grace.

Six months earlier, on the way home from a party near dawn, I’d totaled a white Volkswagen Beetle. Somersaulting through the convertible’s rag-top roof, twenty-three years of life flashed before my eyes; and I didn’t like what I saw. Too late, I thought. When my body stops rolling, I’ll be dead.

Twenty-two days after the accident, with every inch of my skin blotted with greenish-yellow bruises, I married a man whom I’d met at that party.

Later, when he asked me where I wanted to go on our honeymoon, I answered, “Prince Edward Island—because I want to see the island where Anne of Green Gables took place.”

The book’s protagonist was my childhood heroine. Anne Shirley was spunky and made mistakes. I envied her untamed imagination and indomitable spirit. Growing up in a small, red brick house where talking about feelings was forbidden, Anne was my true kindred spirit.

We honeymooners headed north from Wisconsin in a brown Ford van to Sault Ste. Marie, camped near Sudbury, showered in Quebec, and at Cape Tormentine boarded the car ferry to cross the Northumberland Strait.

L. M. Montgomery’s descriptions did not disappoint. The gables were green, the soil was red, the gulf waters cobalt beneath a periwinkle sky. We boiled lobsters in a pot over a campfire near the windswept dunes, and I believed with Anne Shirley’s fervor that our rash marriage would last forever.

As early as 1897, a journalist with Prince Edward Island Illustrated wrote: “This is the place for weary men and women to come to build up worn-out tissue, to rest the mind, to banish weariness.” So ten years later, divorced, with two young daughters in tow, I returned to the Island, worn out and weary. We flew from Halifax into Charlottetown by prop plane during a thunderstorm. I can still see the fear in my children’s eyes and the pink and lavender packs strapped to their backs.

I returned to PEI almost every summer after that. Seventeen grueling years as a public school administrator had taken its toll on my health and spirit. Ultimately, Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction (CFS) and companion depression trapped me in its insidious net.

One cloudless morning in the summer of 1999, I was sitting on a barn red, double-sided, wooden bench on the porch of a run-down cottage that my second husband and I had purchased on Argyle Shore. I could see the coast of Nova Scotia and a peppermint-striped lighthouse guarding its shore. A pair of seals, as black and shiny as a fisherman’s slicker, swam in unison through the gentle surf and shallow waters.

It was the time between tides.

I waited for my nearest neighbor—a red fox—to steal past for his morning drink from a fresh water stream that slices the bank on its way to the sea, and I thought about the musty-smelling sixth-grade autobiography that I’d recently found buried in a box labeled “Eileen’s Things” in my mother’s basement.

My brother had sketched my face on the cover, complete with pointy black plastic glasses. Below my penciled likeness, I’d written, “You are a Portrait in the Picture of Life.” On the back page, my teacher Mrs. Ross had penned in red ink: “This is excellent from beginning to end. I hope you will always keep your zest for living and learning.”

Re-reading my eager, honest, child-like words I remembered how my mother had hovered during the biography’s creation—reminding me to check my grammar, correct my punctuation. “Use your best penmanship,” she admonished. “If you make a mistake, don’t cross it out, start over.”

Calmed by the sea, I could hear her voice. I could feel her pride. By this time Alzheimer’s disease had destroyed her mind, silenced her voice. I wondered, “Do I still have time?”

On Prince Edward Island red clay soil brings forth lavender lupines that line ditches along dusty country roads. Rose-red fireweed creeps between prolific rows of new potatoes. “The lowest ebb,” writes Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “is the turn of the tide.”

Within the next year I would enroll in the MFA Program in Creative Writing at St. Paul’s Hamline University. Almost 30 years after my first visit to PEI, I was assigned to write 20 pages of creative prose that thematically reflected Canadian literature. I knew my story would take place on Prince Edward Island.

I asked myself, “What if a Yorkshire terrier from Manhattan washed up on the south shore of PEI, tangled in a lobster trap, and met that red fox? What themes could I capture in that story?”

My first published novel for young readers, Tango: The Tale of an Island Dog, was my response.

The next three hours, which I spent with Sneha Saxena, Development Officer, and Lisa Miller, Senior Development Officer, of the HCMC Hennepin Health Foundation; and Lynne Burke, Department of Pediatrics Children’s Literacy Liaison, proved to be one of the most personally gratifying experiences of the past year—a year in which I’ve been plagued by multiple health issues related to Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome. After struggling with the hidden symptoms of this “invisible” disease for more than 20 years, trust me when I say, “Sometimes reading is the best medicine.” (Creative writing helps as well.)

(from l to r) Chanon Ridore, Nurse Practitioner, author Eileen Beha, and Lynne Burke, HCMC Children’s Literature Liaison

Sneha, Lisa and Lynne, along with members of HCMC’s pediatric staff, gave generously of their time and talents as they shared with me the mission and values of the Children’s Literacy Programs and Projects. Simply stated, the programs connect children with books because literacy experiences are critical to a child’s healthy development. While the primary focus is on their patients and child visitors, members of their team also work in the community to bring kids and books together.

During my visit, I learned that 30,000 books are given away at HCMC and its clinics every year. The total number of books distributed to children since the program’s inception (2002) is 200,000!

The three major program components are:

~ Books for Babies in the nursery

~ Reach Out and Read in early childhood

~ Book Buddies for all ages.

Many of the books are multi-lingual: English, Spanish, Somali, Hmong, Oromo, French, and Russian. HCMC’s Children’s Literacy Program seems to be a perfect example of why we need diverse books, why every story matters, and how stories connect us.

How did I find out about the program? Through a friend named Jean who coordinates a “knitting ministry” for HCMC patients. Among the items her church group donates are baby hats for newborns and oversized mittens for the bandaged hands of burn victims. When I told Jean that I’d always hoped to put my books into the hands of children in need of healing, Jean gave me Sneha Saxena’s email address. Within an hour of receiving my email, Sneha responded with a personal phone call to my home. Our connection was made.

I share this experience on-line because I know that there are so many people—children’s and young adult book authors, booksellers, librarians, teachers, parents, grandparents, book lovers of all kinds—who know from first-hand experience that children who read lead healthier lives.

If you, or someone you know, might be interested in becoming involved with the HCMC Children’s Literacy Program, learn more at: www.hcmc.org/read. And, if you would like to help the program meet its goal of giving away their 250,000th book sometime in 2015, contact Sneha Saxena: sneha.saxena@hcmed.org or Lynne Burke: lynne.burke@hcmed.org.

Or, if you live in the Twin Cities area and would like to add some of your favorite, new, non-religious children’s and young adult books to those that I’ll be donating on April 17th, send me an email: eileenbeha@tango.com. I’ll make arrangements to either pick up the books or I’ll give you my home address in south Minneapolis, where you can drop your books in a covered plastic bin that I’ll leave next to my front door. (If you want a tax donation receipt, it’s best to make your book or financial donation directly.)

These days, as I read my way through a stack of high-quality books for young readers, I like to visualize a particular book in the hands of a hospitalized or chronically ill child. Then I add the title to my list of books I plan to donate in the future, feeling just a little bit more like my younger and healthier self.

“The right book at the right time impacts many lives.”

~ Lynne Burke, HCMC Children’s Literature Liaison