Sometimes I worry about silly things.
We were sitting at home last week, relaxing after a delicious meal of baked salmon and seared scallops. I curled up under a blanket (it's been unseasonably cold here in Atlanta lately) and opened Jane Eyre to lose myself in the story for a while. I love Charlotte Bronte to begin with, but I love this story in particular. It got me thinking about how I've always loved classic stories. Pride & Prejudice (I read it at least twice a year), Sense & Sensibility, Little Women, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Picture of Dorian Gray....I even still love some of my favorite books from elementary school, and sometimes when I'm feeling nostalgic/lazy, there's nothing I like better than grabbing my worn out copy of Anne of Green Gables or breezing through Nancy Drew and the Secret of the Wooden Lady, because apparently I never stopped being 9 years old.
Then I started to wonder what would happen if our future kids don't like to read the way I do. What if he/she/they are not shy like I was, and what if they don't get the same thrill out of the smell of old books as I do? What if they're the 'cool kids' at school? How will I relate to that?
I just love these stories, and can't imagine not being able to share them with my future progeny. Maybe we'll have a little girl of our own someday. If we do, I hope she comes to regard the Bennett sisters (particularly Jane and Elizabeth), Edmond Dantes, the March sisters (all of them...Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy), and Nancy (and Bess and George) as dear friends that she can visit whenever her heart desires.
No comments:
Post a Comment