Newbery Books

Adri's Newbery books 

 

As I’ve previously discussed, books and reading, both fiction and non-fiction, has always been a big part of my life and it was for Adrianna as well. One of the things I would collect for her were Newbery Medal books.

This award has been given annually by the Association for Library Service to Children to the author of “the most distinguished contribution to American literature for children” since 1922. The other big award for children’s literature is the Caldecott Medal which is awarded annually for the most distinguished picture book, and together these are the most prestigious awards for children’s books in the US.

Ever since she was born, I’d hunt through the stacks of children’s books at Half Price Books across the country, at first in Austin but later in Dallas, San Antonio, Madison, Wisconsin… anywhere where there were books, I’d be searching with my printed-out list of Newbery books and cross them off as I found them for her. It was a never-ending treasure hunt as those who scour used book stores in a similar manner can surely relate.

Later, when I actually worked at HPB it was almost like cheating, because I’d get to see all the books even before they were sorted, priced, and shelved as they came through the buy area. Plus, I got a 50% discount. It sort of took the fun out of the hunt… but only sort of.

The thrill of the hunt was a secondary to actually sharing them with Adri, of course. Before she could read, I’d read them to her, and later she’d devour them herself. There were other great books that were not Newberys, obviously, such as the entire oeuvres of Judy Blume, Louise Fitzhugh, and countless others, and we enjoyed those books as well, but you could never go wrong with blindly buying a Newbery. The ALSC knew what they were doing.

Once Adri was about 13 or 14, however, I started to slow down. In the end I’d found 56 Newberys for her, which was over 70% of all Newbery books extant at that time.

I had built her a desk/hutch/bookcase when she was about eight which had three adjustable shelves as well as a fold-down door that served as writing surface. She loved it and always wanted to bring it over to her apartment for the boys, but there was never room. I put all the Newbery books on those shelves for her, as well as some of the other special books and of course “Where the Wild Things Are” front and center.

When we purchased our house almost twenty years ago, we made one of the bedrooms hers, and the bookcase/desk lived in a corner. Years later when we converted her room to a guest room, the bookcase remained, waiting for a time when Adrianna would have room for it in her own house. That of course never happened, but now that room has many remembrances of Adri, the collection of Newberys on her desk as well as an entire wall of photos of her with her boys.

I took this picture today of the Newberys, a gloomy overcast rainy morning that is brightened up just a bit by all the spines of the volumes on the shelves and memories of our time together reading them. Books that were the pinnacle of children’s literature the year they were released. Books that brought joy to my daughter as well as myself. Books that live on for others even though she does not… yet another melancholy happy-sad reminder of my daughter.

Six Months

Today is six months without her, which is crushing but also just the start. Soon it will be a year, then five years, 20 years, then a lifetime. I can’t… I just can’t get myself to accept that or come to peace with it.

In some respects, though, we may have received a bonus year of Adrianna. As I’ve discussed before, she had a heart event in February of 2024 that required a week in ICU when it was touch and go as to whether she’d survive. But, against many odds she somehow did survive, and we all breathed a small sigh of (temporary) relief.

In many ways, however, Adri never fully recovered. During the ensuing 15 months prior to the finality of May 22 of this year she told me many times that she felt different. I asked for clarification, but she had a hard time putting it into words:

“I don’t know, dad, I just feel weird. Like out of synch with life. I feel like I shouldn’t be here right now… I think I was supposed to die last February. Sometimes I feel like I did die, and this isn’t real.”

I still didn’t fully understand, but that was the best she could do to explain what she meant. I did know that this was concerning, this overly fatalistic and deterministic view of her existence.

Other times, many times, when she’d see an old picture or video of herself from 15 or 20 years ago, she’d say something like,

“I miss that person. I miss myself. I don’t know what happened to her. I wish I could get her back.”

I tried to be there for her, but was aware that sometimes it’s not easy (or helpful or healthy or productive) to talk to a family member about such things, especially one as empathetic as Adri who didn’t want to worry anyone.

She had Medicare and sometimes Medicaid (depending on the age of her boys at a given time,) but as we all know these programs, especially the ones dependent on the given state providing most of the help, are woefully insufficient in their support of mental health care. Let’s just say that Texas especially isn’t really concerned with such things.

Still, she’d somehow find a therapist who’d accept her insurance after a lot of work and effort with web searches, phone calls, visits, and emails. But it was limited care, at best once a month for an hour, and then she had to get there. Occasionally she’d find teletherapy and be able to do it from home, which was easier, if perhaps a bit less effective.

However, without exaggeration, at least half the time the therapist would cancel a day or two before, and she’d miss that entire month… and they’d never be able to reschedule before her next month.

And worse, about once a year the therapist would opt to leave the Medicare system entirely and she’d have to start the hunt all over again.

At one point last year after seeing this happen again and again and again, I told her that we’d pay for therapy, without relying on insurance. We’d pay for a monthly session and she could still do what she could with Medicare/caid. She was worried about having to make us spend money, so I told her we could use some of the school money we still had waiting for her if it made her feel better, and that we could replace that later.

I told her she wouldn’t be able to finish school, anyway, until she got herself healthy. It was the same theme that I always tried to make clear to her, that she had to make herself healthy in the present before she could help others, and that included her future self.  The old “Parents, put your oxygen mask on first before doing so for your child” idea that you hear prior to every takeoff in an airplane.

But it never happened.

“I feel funny, dad, like I already died and shouldn’t be here.”

She said that the last time just a month before it became true.

Did we really get a bonus year… did reality somehow break in February of 2024 and Adri sneaked in an extra 15 months?

All I know is that I’d have used any cheat code to make sure she was still here, and I’d have given anything if she could have felt in synch with her world and found her place in it, living happily ever after.

 

Out to Lunch

Adri loved food… she loved trying new and interesting items and ethnic cuisines, enjoyed trying out new recipes, exploring new flavors and sharing all of this with her family, even when she was little.

She was an adventurous eater from a young age, willing to try almost anything, even things that many if not most children would frown at:  anchovies, blue cheese, olives, escargot, lamb, rabbit, weird hybrid fruit occasionally found at Central Market, and even chicken feet once when she was out with her nonna and a client at an Asian restaurant.

She’d be anxious to prepare meals as well, and in those days when I had not much money I’d teach her how to frugally stretch a dollar at the grocery store and to be creative with what you found in your pantry.

One day when she was about seven, she insisted on making dinner for the two of us. She used a box of mac n’ cheese, some to-go hot sauce packets from Taco Bell, a can of diced tomatoes and garlic and onion powder to prepare it. Other than starting the stove for her, she did it all, and though I may have questioned some of her ingredient choices silently, I let her do it all.

She was one who would definitely believe that one of the great joys of life and made it worth living was the food.

However, her eating disorder as well as meager income level as an adult made it difficult for her to actually enjoy food personally anymore. She couldn’t afford to buy proper ingredients on a regular basis, but still would scrounge and save to buy and prepare her family duck one thanksgiving, for example. She still got enjoyment by the planning and prep, but the actual eating: not so much.

Still, as is usually the case with people like her, food and meals were always on her mind. At least 80% of her Facebook and Instagram feeds would consist of food related topics: recipes, new restaurant openings, grocery store ads for some special, food memes, etc.

She’d often tag me and say stuff like “You need to try this!!”, or “This place sounds really good, you should go there!!”, or “remember when you made this for me?”, or “I really, really want to make this for the boys”, etc.

She’d live a great deal of her culinary adventures now vicariously through me, but I wished and hoped that she’d be able to enjoy some of this herself. I’d buy her cookbooks, usually of the type that showed you how to cook healthy meals on an extreme budget, but also sometimes just cookbooks with beautiful photographs, since at that point she enjoyed looking more than partaking. I’d bring over special ingredients that I occasionally bought specifically for her, but also extras I had at home. She’d be excited to receive them, and text me asking for recipe ideas in general or specific info on the item.

She would save money for the occasional treat, of course, such as kababs at a small hole-in-the-wall spot (that we later used to cater her memorial service) or some sushi plate for Wes and herself, or a hibachi dinner out for the boys’ birthday… but I know it was always less than she wished she could do.

Cindy and I subscribe to Blue Apron, a home meal prep service, and we get one box a week with three meals in it, mainly because we both got tired of trying to think of new things to prepare each week. The meals are proportioned correctly as well, and also makes more financial sense at times. We don’t have to buy a $15 jar of romesco sauce for just one tablespoon, for example. The meal kit has one tablespoon in a packet for you.

Once Blue Apron accidently sent an extra meal, so I brought it over to Adri. She was thrilled and loved everything about it. She and Wesley had a great time preparing it for dinner that night, but of course she didn’t allow herself to be constrained by some dogmatic recipe instruction card that came with the meal: no, she said she made changes on the fly and said everyone loved the results. She told me that maybe one day if she was “rich” she would love to do that more often.

One of the more common things she shared in her feeds was for a particular type of seafood restaurant that has become popular as of late, at least in the DFW area. These places put everything in a large plastic bag and steam it. There will be potatoes and corn on the cob in there, and you choose the shellfish (clams, crawfish, different variety of crab, shrimp, etc.) as well as sauce and spice level.

The photos always look fantastic and delicious, but of course they’re expensive, usually starting around $25 and going up. There was no way Adri could try any of them, especially since the rest of her family probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it and she wasn’t about to spend that much  money on just herself.

Looking at and posting the photos on Facebook would have to do.

I saw these in her feed, and one day decided I was going to take her to one as a surprise. I asked Stephen first if he could watch the boys for a couple of hours, and then went to pick up Adrianna. All I told her I was taking her to lunch, but not where.

She was hesitant; she didn’t want to leave the boys or Stephen, but we all finally convinced her and off we went, just she and I, just like the old days.

As we made the 15-minute drive (because nothing is close in Dallas) I could tell she was excited. I looked at her next to me in the passenger seat and remembered all the road trips we’d taken, all the time in the car driving from one class to the next in the summers, or to the library, or Six Flags and the Discovery Zone, and the trips to the airport. Drives that were filled with laughter and music and heart-to-heart talks about boys and life and dreams and the future.

I was a bit overcome in the moment, realizing for the thousandth time how quickly time passes, and how that little girl all those years ago so excited to be going somewhere was now an adult with a family of her own, and that such moments together were getting rarer and rarer. Like most parents, I suppose, part of me wished I could have held on to that little girl forever, but another part was excited to see what her future would bring as she created and maintained a life with her own family.

I was just glad to be able to share such moments with her as rarer as they had become, realizing that it was the best of both worlds. Looking at her that day next to me in the car I knew she thought the same.

When we got there and she saw what it was her excitement overflowed. She of course kibitzed and fretted about how expensive it was (this is what I get for teaching and modeling frugality to her all those years), but that was all forgotten when she broke into the bag of seafood and the steam and associated aromas escaped into the dining area. She smiled and started in.

It was a good day, and as it turned out our last shared happy moment that was just the two of us.

I wish she could have enjoyed food guilt-free, with enough financial security to share wonderful food and meals and experiences more often with her family, but I know she did the best she could. I know the times she was able to do this for herself and her family were some of the highlights of her life. Considering how much the boys talk about the meals she made and the food adventures she shared with them, I know they thought the same.

The Walk and Talk

A couple of times a year Cindy has a busy season for two to three weeks, and she’s in the middle of the busiest right now, requiring her to go to the office seven days a week for 16-to-18-hour days. No one is happy about it, but I try to make lemons out of lemonade (or whatever) by cooking stuff for dinner she doesn’t like (lamb, scallops, etc.), listening to music she doesn’t care for really loudly, and now, my lunchtime walk around the neighborhood alone where I “converse” with Adrianna.

It's a walk and talk in typical Aaron Sorkin fashion, though there’s just one of us. I actually talk out loud, not in my head, and I don’t have to worry about looking like a lunatic: the iniquitousness of people conversing on their cellphones in public wearing earphones has brought one good result, I guess. No one gives me a second glance.

I walk as quickly as I can, trying to maintain a mile pace of under 16 minutes, just enough so it’s a bit labored to carry on my conversation. I do stop if I near a lawn service doing someone’s yard, a dog walker, or someone checking their mail, however.

I talk to Adri, pretending she can hear me, but knowing she can’t. I sometimes will try to call out some omnipotent being as well, asking Him or Her for some answers, also knowing that there is no Him or Her regardless of the capitalization of their pronoun. But I let myself pretend for the twenty minutes or so it takes to circumnavigate my route, anyway. I allow myself for a bit to imagine or hope that just maybe there is something else, somewhere else, even if it’s outside of our own time or space, where consciousnesses of our loved ones still exist. Still are. Still be.

Of course, I spend most of the time apologizing to her. I apologize for her having to grow up as a child of divorce, spending the better part of her life in two different places. I let her know how important she was to me, and how almost every single life decision I’ve made since she was a part of it was about her, and that this is exactly how I wanted it to be.

I apologize for not being able to either ease her life more or better prepare her for it herself. I tell her that I know she knows I tried, but I’m sorry none the less. I tell her I’m sorry if I did too much or too little, and that I was constantly trying to get that balancing act correct.

I apologize to her for not trying to force the issue more these last four years or so, and for making her work for everything and not making it easier for her sometimes when I could have. Instead, I’d keep the safety net I’d always provide in case of emergency unstated, unmentioned…  hoping that she’d figure stuff out for herself. Trying to make her 100% self-sufficient so she’d feel proud of her life and accomplishments and not feel so helpless or dependent on others.

I apologize to her that if instead this simply added more stress or made her feel like I didn’t care and that she was alone.

I remind her how I always used to tell her, “I saw you being born!” and how sorry I am that I couldn’t be with her when she died, holding her hand and trying to bring her some peace, letting her know she wasn’t alone.

I also tell her that I was always proud of her, for trying so hard and overcoming so many obstacles and never giving up when yet another roadblock or disaster came her way. I tell her that I hope she is at peace now, outside time and space, and let her know that she was and is loved, and that we will all make sure her boys thrive.

This is usually when I have my aside with who I’ll think of as “God.” I’ve let myself to have a conversation with my daughter who is no longer here, so why not that? I’ll allow myself that once a day or so, to buy into the whole Judeo-Christian concept of God. What’s it going to hurt?

So I tell this God to please take care of her, to please bathe her in light, please surround her with love.

And then I chastise this Being for taking out any sins of the father on the daughter, that no matter what I’ve done or haven’t done, I’ve tried to do what’s right even if I’ve failed sometimes, and that if they punished my daughter in order to punish me how dare they. Take any beefs that have with me out on me, not my daughter and her family.

Then I shake my head at my folly here for talking to some imaginary being, and then go back to talking to my daughter, like that’s different somehow.

I apologize again for not being able to offer up enough to ensure that she survived the challenges of her life, and tell her how much I miss her.

And that I love her.

And that I’m so, so, so, very sorry. 

 

Life Worth Living

For most of my life I loved life, loved being here, loved the highs and even tolerated the lows, knowing that these troughs were still evidence that you were living, and whose contrast with the crests would make me appreciate the latter even more.  

I was not a morning person but loved the mornings, especially during the winter when you’d wake up to the first snow fall. I loved dusk and with its accompanying Golden Hour of light, even though I didn’t know that was a thing then. I loved the twilight, when the sun had just set and some stars would start to make their appearance while the western lower skyline would be ablaze with brilliant oranges and reds. I loved the night, especially when my young eyes could still make out the Milky Way and I’d marvel at the infinite expanse of dots of starlight.

I loved spring with its rebirth. I loved summer and the lazy days it afforded playing outside until dusk and spending the late evenings in my room with the windows open hoping to catch a breeze, the room bathed just in the flickering light provided from the small black and white TV that had on a Cubs’ road game. I loved the fall and the wonderful colors associated with the changing leaves, and listening to the gentle sound of the leaves falling and swirling in the wind. I loved winter, walking in the stillness hearing the soft crunch of my boots walking on the snow and becoming entranced with my visible breath with each exhalation. 

I loved my friends and loved my family. I loved the Saturday night CBS TV lineup. I loved books, their content and their form. I loved my dogs, and cats, and occasional pig. I loved a surprise dinner of breakfast cereal from a box, and I loved spaghetti. I loved The Cubs and The Blackhawks and The Bears. I loved going to school in order to get to see whoever my current crush was, and lived for whoever that was smiling at me. I loved music, I loved magic. 

But mostly I just loved life, and I wanted to live forever. Not because I was afraid of what happened after; that undiscovered country did not worry me one whit. When I was younger and extremely religious, I knew what came after was glorious, and when I gradually moved away from traditional religion and I did wonder what if anything came next and of course wanted to hold on and appreciate all of this now, in the moment.

My daughter was the same, it seemed to me, when she was younger, if not more so. Where I loved life internally, I was a bit withdrawn and would not often go on and on about it. Adri, on the other hand, was extroverted and made no bones about her love of life. I’ve written about her at the roller-skating rink already that illustrates this, but she was always openly in love with life, and it became the biggest thing I loved about my life, seeing her life and how much she appreciated it.

However, I sensed a change when she was at the latter end of high school, and though she’d still have moments, many moments of unabashed love of life, there was still a sadness evident in her, and over the years this grew larger, and life, I feel, began to throw more than her fair share of curveballs her way. She endured, but it was a struggle, and as close as we were, I still feel there was perhaps a depth to this sadness that even I couldn’t tease out of her. 

The last years since covid were the worst, and this accelerated. She had many issues thrown at her, some her doing but many if not most out of her control. I tried to be her constant, someone she could turn to and lean on, but it got harder and harder for both of us. 

She said this to me more than once:

“This is hell, dad. I’m living in hell. I mean that literally, I think this is hell.”

She’d always follow that with something that tore me up and destroyed me every time, and still does:

“God thinks I’m a joke. I’m just God’s big joke.”

I would try to remind her about our shared love of life, and tell her that she wasn’t alone, and that she couldn’t be anyone’s joke, else what would that make her boys? But I could tell nothing I said or did would really make a difference at that point. But I kept trying. I kept trying to remind her of how glorious life could be, especially if we got out of its way.

I’ve not talked about her cause of death, but reading between the lines one can probably get a good idea what happened. However, I realize that some of the things I’ve said, and especially what I just disclosed about how she thought of herself, might lead people to the incorrect conclusion. I want to stress, therefor, that she did not commit suicide. Life in general still held some promise for her, and she was still planning and trying to reach goals she had set for herself. And her boys, especially her boys, were important to her and she’d never do that to them. And she didn’t.

Still, I wonder about life, and wonder the reasons it's worth living, if the joys and crests of a lifetime are worth the sorrow and troughs that accompany it. So, I want to ask those who are still reading at this point (almost 1000 words in) if they could tell me:

What makes life worth living to you?

Gram and Adri in deep conversation, 2003 at Talahi

A little over eight years ago, on the Ides of March, 2017, my grandmother died. She was 96, yet it still was unexpected as she was healthy and her normal self, but at least she’d had a full and happy life. We were very close, each understanding and really knowing the other. I can count on less than one hand the number of people in my life who truly knew me and understood me, and she was one of them. My daughter was another, and maybe because of this it wasn’t surprising that my daughter and my grandmother, her great grandmother, were extremely close as well.

Adri often referred to my grandmother as her best friend. They’d talk often, little private confabs in person or the phone. She and her boys would go visit gram more often than I did towards the end. I was happy that two of my favorite people had such a strong connection.

So when my sister called that March 15 to tell me the bad news, I knew I had to go to Adri and tell her in person. I could not do it over the phone.

She opened the door and immediately knew something was wrong (maybe it’s not a surprise that I’m not great at hiding my emotions, for better or worse.) We were in the boys’ room and I struggled mightily to say the words that had to be said.
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“Grandma…,” I began, “Grandma….,” and then broke down.

She immediately hugged me and asked for verification, “Did grandma die?,” and I nodded and we both cried as we tried to escape the moment in our strong mutual embrace.

Suddenly she stopped. She ran out of the boys’ room and I heard her furtively going through something in the other room. She returned with a large baggy, and inside was a tangerine-colored crocheted blanket. She shoved it into my hands.

“Gram made this for me, and it smells like her, so I put it in this bag so the scent would never go away. Open it and smell it, you’ll see.”

My sense of smell is easily the weakest of my senses, and I never noticed or associated a scent with my grandmother, but I did as she suggested, opened the bag and smelled and was greeted immediately with my grandmother’s scent, something I hadn't even noticed my entire life consciously.

But Adrianna had, and she’d kept something so she could be near her great-grandmother whenever she wanted, whenever she needed her.

“Take it, dad, you keep it. You can smell her and be reminded whenever you want.”

“No, Adri, this is yours,” I replied. “It represents your special bond with her.”

But she wouldn’t have it. She insisted I take it home with me, so I did.

I still have the blanket, of course, but I don’t have anything that smells like Adrianna that can evoke thoughts and memories of her via scent. Each time I open the bag the scent seems to be weaker and weaker, but now each time I not only am reminded of my dear gram but also of my wonderfully empathetic daughter who was willing to give away this special remembrance of her great grandmother and friend to her grieving dad.

I love her so.

Mother's Day Balloon

Photo in background of Adri and Bryce by Emily Gianadda

My last Mother's Day gift to her was a box of Tiff's Treats with a hackneyed balloon that in retrospect I'm so glad I elected to include. She put it here on her fireplace mantel, where it still sits. At least she was able to see it for about 10 days.

The Sledge Hammer

I've had a bad couple of nights, when it's around 2 am or so when the realization hits me yet again that this is how it really is, and that no amount of wishing or hoping or begging will ever change that. In the darkness and stillness of that hour I wish and hope and beg into the void, anyway, in an effort to dispel the hopeless, helpless, powerless despair over never seeing her face or hearing her voice again.

This "sudden" realization has occurred thousands of times since the end of May, and yet each time it hits like a fresh wound, inexplicably arriving as a "new" revelation slamming into my body and soul like a sledge hammer, something that at this point I should expect be prepared for.

But I don't, and I am not.

 

The Coming of Autumn

5 months.

I'm a bit afraid of how I'll feel when the days fully turn to gloomy and dark autumn, a season that used to be my favorite growing up. Now, however, I'm fearful of how the symbolic nature of this time of year, with its death and endings, will affect me.

I had a preview a couple of days ago, when I awoke to mid-50 temperatures and a dark and blustery sky. Let's just say that this beta version, this dress rehearsal, did not bode well.

Then, when spring finally arrives with its rebirth and new beginnings, I know I'll think that's a fraud and also not be happy, because I'm contrary that way.

Oh well, what are you going to do.

Bedtime Reading

Books always were a major part of my life, the importance of reading always stressed when I was growing up not by lecturing but by modeling. Books were everywhere, shelves full of volumes that provided an escape to other worlds and cultures before the easy access to the internet we all have now.

My grandmother was an elementary school librarian, and she spend hours reading to me when I was young, favorites being the Curious George oeuvre.

We all had our own library card, and as soon as I was able I’d ride my bike to one of the local public library branches in my village after school and spend hours in the stacks before riding home again in the quickly approaching dark.

I’d unpack the books in my room and sit in my comfy chair for hours reading while listening to music, so much so that I wore out the carpet where my feet touched in front of the rocker that was my cockpit to other worlds.

When Adrianna was born, naturally reading was an important activity for her, and one that we shared together from the moment she could hold her head up on her own. When she was an infant and toddler, we’d read board books to her while she sat in our lap, her eyes bright with curiosity, taking in all the images from the page and listening intently to the words as we read them aloud to her.

Often, especially after repeated readings she’d reach out to the page to turn in to one that pleased her more, and we’d make a game of looking for otherwise unnoticed images and scenes in the background. I’d ask her questions about what we were looking at: colors, animal names, counting, whatever. She’d smile and laugh and want to immediately start from the beginning the moment the final page was turned.

When she was a bit older, four five six or seven, we’d read together as I attempted to lay her down for bed to transition to an activity she never wanted: the end of the day and bedtime. Here I’d have her sound out a word or two, and we’d talk in a bit more complexity about the plot with lots of “why” questions initiated by both of us.  These would be the larger picture books, so often with wonderful and amazing Caldecott Award winning illustrations.

During this time I’d often find her reading some of these books to Simba, her cat, or one of her dolls, or a meeting of several Barbies hanging out on her bed.

Later, when she was ten eleven or twelve the bedtime ritual would end with reading a chapter book, covering a chapter (and occasionally two) each night before finally turning out the light. Often during this era we’d take turns reading, depending on how tired she was, or how tired she was willing to admit she was. We’d save longer books for the summer, and we’d portion the pages out so the book would span her entire time with me.

Besides the bedtime reading of this era, she’d also plow through dozens of others that she had checked out using her Dallas library card. We’d go to the library at least twice a week a turnover of usually a have dozen or so books each time. Sometimes she’d be partaking in some summer reading program and receive stamp after stamp for each book read and we’d feast on the small personal pan pizza and Pizza Hut that was the most common reward, but usually she’d just read to read.

We read hundreds and hundreds of books together in this manner, but three stand out, one from each “era.”

1. Board book from infant/toddler era:

I am a Bunny, illustrated by Richard Scarry, written by Ole Risom

This was one of if not the first we’d read to her, a short little tale about Nicolas the Bunny with wonderful whimsical illustrations by Scarry. We read it so often the words were and are still seared into my brain. It began:

“I am a bunny. My name is Nicolas. I live in a hollow tree.”

Every page would have colorful illustrations, many depicting the different seasons, full of images to look at and marvel at. One of her favorite pages showed dozens and dozens of butterflies, and Adri would always linger here at all the beautiful colors.

Each page would have Nicolas somewhere, so the ritual would become me asking Adri after the page had been read, “Where’s the bunny?”, and then I’d wait for her to locate Nicolas and point to him.

The story concluded in winter:

“When winter comes, I watch the snow falling from the sky. Then I curl up in my hollow tree and dream about spring,” and she’d point to Nicolas as he drifted into dreamland.

2. Picture books, 4 – 7 years

Where the Wild Things Are, written and illustrated by Maurice Sendak

This book probably needs no introduction. It was a favorite of mine when I was that age, and it quickly became a favorite of Adri’s as well. We’d read it at bedtime, close the back cover, and then read it again. Often, we’d read it three times.

We loved Max. We loved his wolf suit. We loved the wild things and how they "roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws," and we loved how Sendak’s illustrations were full of whimsy and character. Even during all their "terrible" behavior, the beasts would appear smiling and unthreatening.

In the middle of the book there are three facing pages with no text, just great illustrations of the “wild rumpus” that Max and the beasts partake in. Adri loved the word “rumpus” here, and over the course of those pages we’d sing a song, nonsense syllables to the tune of “Tequila” (for some reason.) At one point we’d point out the bare human feet on one of the beasts and instead of shouting “Tequila!” we’d say, “I’ve got smelly feet!”

“Ba DUM ba da DUM da DUM dum… Ba DUM da da DUM da DUM… I’ve got smelly feet!”

I guess you had to be there.

And when Max finally returned home and found his supper waiting for him, we’d both say in unison,

“…and it was still hot.”

We couldn’t get enough of Sendak’s works and images. I still can’t.

A few years ago while working at Half Price Books I came across a beat-up copy of Where the Wild Things Are in the trash in the buy area, and I rescued it out of nostalgia for Adri's childhood as well as my own, and upon inspection discovered that it was inscribed by Sendak on the title page. I had it priced appropriately and immediately purchased it for Adri, planning on giving it to her when she was older with her own kids. I first wanted to get a dust jacket for it, but never did, and I never did give it to her. Time just slipped by when I wasn’t noticing. It’s a big regret.

3. Chapter books, 7 -10

Harriet the Spy, written and illustrated by Louise Fitzhugh

We read this wonderful book about eleven-year-old Harriet, a writer-in-training who keeps copious notebooks of observations of the neighborhood around her. The notebook eventually gets stolen, and Harriet uses various spy gadgets and techniques to get back at the kids who took her notebook.

Harriet is an outsider who has some close friends, who loves to write and is a keen observer of human behavior. Harriet as well as those of us reading this book learn the power of words, which can both hurt and heal.

We spent the entire summer reading this one when she was eight. She was happy to learn that keeping notebooks and such was not such an odd thing peculiar to just her, and she loved all the gadgets Harriet used, or “utensils” as Adri called them.

After we finished, we learned that a movie staring Michelle Trachtenberg was about to be released, and we of course had to go see it. As is often the case, the film did not capture or create the same kind of magic that reading the book together had over the course of that summer.

During the subsequent summer we read two follow ups, “Sport” and “The Long Secret,” but nothing could match the magic of the original.

...

I got other books for Adri that I’d give to her as Christmas and birthday presents, always trying to seek out the current and former Newbery Award winners which were almost always uniformly terrific. These included From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, It’s Like This, Cat, The View from Saturday, Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Summer of the Swans, and countless others.

Most of these she’d read on her own, and she loved them almost as much as I loved that she loved them, but the three I mention here will always represent and remind me of a special part of my daughter and her memory, of her life and our moments together, when the day had ended and the sun had set as we quietly bonded over words before falling asleep with hopeful dreams of another tomorrow to follow.