We were eating Yorkshire puddings the other night, which was enough to make me turn to Silence and Violence and ask, “Have either of you read All Creatures Great and Small? James Herriot?”
Of course they hadn’t, because (a) that collection came out in 1972 and (b) they have a never-ending supply of middle-grade and young-adult books at their fingertips, either in print or through the virtual magic of Overdrive.
All of this made me think about the differences between their readings habits and mine as a kid. I was constantly running out of books, scavenging through the house for anything better than a cereal box to read. This meant I reread books endlessly, I picked up my grandpa’s Louis L’Amours, I read romance novels, obsolete school textbooks, and the encyclopedia.
The library wasn’t virtual, and it wasn’t particularly close to our house. It also wasn’t stocked with as many books for young readers as libraries are these days. So when I did get there, I read the entire rack of children-dying-from-rare-diseases-but-leaving-their-families-with-hope books from the adult section, all of Mary MacCracken’s memoirs, and everything ever written about astral projection.
My children are better read than I was (or am). But at their age, I was much more widely read.
So which is better? I have no answer for this question, it’s simply something I ponder over Yorkshire pudding and memories of animal stories. Which, now that I think of it, I should probably reread…