My mother read her first fiction novel (as an adult) when she was 69 years old. Seriously. I threw in the parenthetical "as an adult" because I hope she at least read common fiction as a young girl in the 1940s and '50s. Nancy Drew, or Catcher in the Rye, or even Twilight Lust. Well, something, anyway. Whether she did back then or not, for as far back as I can remember her reading material has been limited to non-fiction. Both as a genealogist and an oh-so-proud native Texan, my momma had plenty of factual, historical reference reading to do. Family histories, cemetery archives, census records, birth, death, and marriage certificates, and compendia of roadside markers were the minutiae of my mother’s genealogical pursuits. As for Texas history, well, the Alamo is simply the tip of the cow patty, ya'll.
In the meantime, I devoured books. Both of my parents encouraged my brothers and me to read, and thankfully Daddy recognized that fiction was not a waste of time. He read everything from J. R. R. Tolkien to Clive Barker to Agatha Christie to Louis L'Amour. He often recommended books to me and we still share preferred authors to this day. And although she did not read the same books I did, my mother always obliged when I asked to go to the library and we'd spend hours there together. Well, not together. I'd be perusing the fiction stacks and she'd be looking at microfiche of newspapers from the 1840s. She also always seemed genuinely pleased when I would share observations, opinions, or even excerpts from whatever I was reading. Maybe she showed more interest in the exploits of Frank and Joe Hardy than the adventures involving elves, dwarves, and dragons, but she did show interest. Her interest just never extended to actually reading any of the fiction herself.
So imagine my surprise when, roughly two years ago, my mother told me she was reading and enjoying The Da Vinci Code. Then she joined a reading group (wtf?) and now compliantly reads the book of the month or whatever it's called. Now 71, my mother must have at least a dozen fiction books under her belt. She acknowledges enjoying them. I wonder if she regrets not exploring fiction for a good 50 years or so. I know I regret that she'll never appreciate a good dragon-slaying like my dad and I do. Still, she's finally reading fiction.
Now it's me looking pleased when she shares observations, opinions, and even excerpts of whatever she's reading.
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6 comments:
I dunno, EB. I'll have to ask her.
And Harry Potter is a GREAT example of what I'm talking about. Momma will NEVER read the Harry Potter series.
The list of new things my mother has discovered in the last, say, five years is astounding. Both of my parents really, really changed when my dad finally retired. Hell, I have to wait until 10pm or so (Texas time) to call just to be able to catch them at home. It's amazing. And good to see. They seem younger than many 60-year-olds I know.
That is just fantastic. I remember when we were young my mom used to read those Reader's Digest condensed novels. I haven't seen her read a novel since her late 20's.
Now she reads bibles, bible study guides, medical journals and various government newsletters and of course a newspaper. She doesn't do any reading for *fun* anymore.
But there is still hope, maybe, she's only 66.
T O D - does her newspaper-reading start with carefully perusing the Obits???
Wen, doesn't every old person peruse the obits before any other part of the paper? I think it is a requirement once one reaches a certain age.
I think we should work on your mom about reading Harry Potter. I'll bet I can talk her into it!
As a matter of fact, she doesn't read the obits unless someone *alerts* her to a particular item. She's generally trying to glean details not reported on the local news -- regarding whatever crimes have occured. :(
My parents, too, changed quite a bit post-retirement, though their reading habits remain as they always have: My mother reads only letters, e-mail, and alarmist newspaper articles regarding local rapes and murders that make her afraid to go to the mall at night—a thick varnish of fear she continues to try to impress upon me. My father reads voraciously with his last good eye.
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