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I was the youngest and most insistent of the three children in our family -- what they called a pest in those days. "Pleeeease can I have candy?" I would ask. "Pleeeease tell me another story. Pleeeease read to me."
My mother, along with my older sister, Shirley, usually gave in. Over and over, I would listen to the dangerous adventures of Little Red Riding Hood, Goldilocks, The Gingerbread Man and Cinderella. They came to life in my mind, along with the kindly Mother Goose, with her wire-rimmed eyeglasses. Even though I never understood why Humpty Dumpty was an egg, or why Jack Horner put his thumb in a pie, it never seemed to matter.
What I heard was the rhythmic music of it all, and the stories became easy to recite. I would carefully examine the color illustrations in the old falling-apart-at-the-seams book. Most of all, I would soak up all the attention I got during those reading times when closeness, imagination, curiosity and love of learning were forged.
Books cost money and money was scarce in those Depression days in the 1930s and '40s. The one small bookcase in the hallway of our home contained some worn copies of fairy tales, a few volumes of classic authors, like Charles Dickens and Oscar Wilde, and an encyclopedia. The single encyclopedia volume our family had went from A to B.
That first book in the set was sent to us free of charge, no obligation...If you weren't satisfied, you could still keep it. I know that my parents were satisfied, but we just couldn't afford to buy the rest of the alphabet. So if I needed to look up any word starting with a C or beyond, the library was the place to go.
That was not such a hardship. I loved the Bainbridge Library in our neighborhood, with its seemingly endless supply of stories. Besides which, the library was the place everyone I knew went to borrow, read and return. All for free. Free!
Like many immigrants then and now, my mother knew that education was key. Early on, she would encourage me by saying, "You can be anything that you want to be in life." That meant that I could have a career, even though not many mothers pushed their daughters in that direction in those days. My mother, however, was also practical. When I was ready for college she told me, "Get your teacher's license. You never know..." Four years later, I graduated from Hunter. I had taken her advice, kind of...
But first, I earned money by playing the clarinet, which was my passion. It was the thing I most wanted to do. Later on, when I changed careers, that same passion hung on. It transferred from music to photography and to writing children's books. I write my books for young children. Why young children, you might ask? Because I'm touched by their innocence. And I have this insistent need to pass on the values that I hold dear. The oldest of my grandchildren -- Emi, Scott, Jake, Izzy and Livvie -- have all asked me at one time or another why I don't write for older kids -- what they call chapter books.
My answer is, I guess I'm not yet finished saying, "Look, look. Isn't this amazing? Isn't that beautiful? Isn't this funny?"
And I know I'm not finished hearing "Pleeeease read me a story" in my own mind. I'm not finished being a young child myself. Maybe sometime later I'll change, but this is good for now.
When I go to bookstores these days, I get overwhelmed. There's so much competition for a kid's attention. I don't necessarily mean between authors and publishers. I worry that TV, DVDs, videos, CDs, cell phones and other machinery will replace the intimate quiet family activities that foster closeness and imagination.
Recently I went to visit my nine-year-old grandson Jake's class. I was there to read some new stories of mine. Jake smiled from ear to ear as he introduced me to everyone. "This is my grandma," he said. "She writes books for kids."
I was happy to see the eagerness on all the children's faces. I talked to them about the weather and about planting flowers and about looking around to see things that they might not have noticed before. I talked to them about stories and writing. And then I read to them.
The kids asked intelligent questions. They were bright and cheerful and full of ideas. They had even written stories of their own, illustrated with their own drawings. They loved the human contact, the interaction between us.
So did I. There was hope for the future, I thought.
I'm lucky. I have a wonderful husband, three terrific grown daughters, seven beautiful grandchildren, a job that I love and a life beyond my wildest dreams. Even if Rothschild had what I have -- like the old joke says -- I'd be richer than a Rothschild.
Why?
Because...I'd do a little teaching on the side.
Arlene Alda, wife of actor Alan Alda, is the author of "The Book of ZZZs," "Morning Glory Monday," and nine other books for children. Her new book, "Did You Say Pears?," is due out next year.
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