Saturday, November 29, 2014

The Jungle Books

As a child, I didn't devour books the way M does, desperate for new words and thirsty for information. But I was a bookworm, and I loved the library, with its row upon row of treasures, free for the borrowing.

We had shelves of books at home, too, of course.  Second hand, mostly: a mix of old favorites and 10 cent yard sale finds.  My parents let me read for hours and didn't fuss when I read Baby Sitters' Club a little (or a lot) longer than I probably should have.

One favorite was The Jungle Books.  We had an old, hard bound, green and gold two-volume set.  They were a favorite of my mom's, a love passed down from her own father to her, and on to me.

The language was intoxicating. When I was reading, jungle law somehow seemed truer than the world around me.  The seal lullabye brought a tear to my eye.  And Mowgli was like a friend.

Despite no neighborhood library, my boys have found that love.  I'm so thankful for their love of reading. And their school librarian, who makes sure they never go a day without four new books in their backpacks.  

And as for The Jungle Books?  M found it this morning.  It may not be that green and gold set of my childhood, but the magic is the same.





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