File That One Under Books To Read To One's Self

Yesterday was our first day of school in 2012.  We have big goals this year, let me tell you.  I was eager to start the new year out right with a really good book.  I chose Mark Twain's, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.  Fail-proof classic, right?

First paragraph in, I remember Aunt Polly.  I remember how she spoke.  I remember reading it, ages ago, effortlessly, in my mind, silently, unspoken, unlike an audition for a part as Aunt Polly in a community theater.

Me, page 7: "... Spare the rod and spile the child, as the good book says.  I'm a-laying up sin and suffering for us both, I know.  He's full of the old scratch, but laws-a-me!  he's my own dead sister's boy, poor thing, and I ain't got the heart  to lash him somehow.  Every time I let him off my conscience does hurt me so; and every time I hit him my old heart almost breaks.  Well-a-well, man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble, as the Scripture says, and I reckon it's so...".  Oh dear.

Neve: "Excuse me, Mom.  What are you saying?"

I thumb through the next few pages and there's a whole lot more dialog awaiting us.  I explain what I can and ask them to be patient, to wait and see if they enjoy it more as the book progresses.  (Or hope that Mommy's voice acting improves.)

Me, page 15 (the memorable whitewashed fence scene): "... 'Say Jim; I'll fetch the water if you'll whitewash some.'  Jim shook his head and said: 'Can't, Mar's Tom.  Ole missus she tole me I got to go an' git dis water an' stop foolin' 'roun' wid anybody.  She say she spec' Ma'rs Tom gwyne to ax me to whitewash, an' so she tole me go 'long an' 'tend to my own business- she 'lowed she'd 'tend to de whitewashin'.'"

I am sweating.  I'm completely uncomfortable talking like this, and the girls can tell.  It's too early in the morning to start a conversation about Jim, a character who can only be understood completely with a basic understanding of history and it's injustices.  I'm beginning to doubt my own endurance.  I need to make coffee; yes, coffee will help.

Fiona: "Mom?  Do you like this book?"


Me: "Yes!  It's a beautiful story about a little boy, not unlike you or you, Neve.  He likes to have fun and go on adventures but sometimes gets himself into trouble.  And see?  He hates doing chores too!  It's only that this book was written by a man who lived long ago, when people spoke differently than us... and it's hard for me to read it aloud the same way he probably wanted us to.  I think I'm making it sound weird."

Fiona: "No, you're not.  Keep going."

Okay.

I continue on, and we all enjoy the part where Tom tricks the other children who are passing by to help him whitewash the fence.  I'm feeling good.  Yes, this will be fine.  I can do it.  And then Tom brilliantly manages to get the children to pay him, with random bits of treasure, for the opportunity to paint the very fence he had dreaded doing himself.

Me, page 19: "...Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but with alacrity in his heart.  And while the late steamer Big Missouri worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents.  There was no lack of material; boys happened along every little while; they came to jeer, but they remained to whitewash.  By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with; and so on, and so on, hour after hour.  And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning Tom was literally rolling in wealth.  He had, besides the things I have mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jew's harp, a piece of a blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool-cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog-collar - but no dog - the handle of a knife, four pieces of an orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window-sash..."

At this, both children were hysterically laughing, strangely, almost too hard.

Fiona, through hysterics:  "That's my favorite part!  He wanted a dead rat to swing and a kitten with only one eye!  Isn't that so funny, Mom?"

Neve: "Yeah, when Dad read us that part, we laughed so hard!"

Me: "What do you mean 'when Dad read it'?!  You've already read Tom Sawyer?!  When!?"

Them, nodding in unison: "Yep.  Bedtime story.  A long time ago."

Me: "Why didn't you tell me!?  I just read 4 chapters for nothing?!"

Fiona: "We just wanted to hear that part again.  It's so funny.  Mom, a one-eyed kitten!"

Who knows how Terry got through that book, voices and all.  Had I heard, I would've surely teased him for his community theater delivery.  Perhaps that's the very reason he kept it from me.  At any rate, better him to answer the age-old question, "And what is a jew's harp anyway?" than me.

Good grief, am I glad that's over.