And then Laura died

Firing imagination and wit, being read to and reading are among the great pleasures of childhood.

- BY CHARLOTTE GRIMSHAW

When I was a child, our parents used to go out and leave my older brother in charge of me and our younger sister, Margaret. One of his tasks was reading to Margaret. Oliver mostly did his duty, but occasionally he would grow restless. I would register a slight shift in tone as rebellion crept in. In the middle of Little House on the Prairie he would pause, clear his throat and announce in a sonorous voice, “And then Laura died.”

As I fell about laughing and little Margaret screamed, he would continue: “The funeral was a sad affair. Ma and Pa arrived at the church in their covered wagon. Soon, they, too, would be dead.” It always took a while for the uproar to subside. Oliver would resume, Margaret would gradually stop screaming, and we would settle down to focus. It never occurred to us to stop before the chapter was finished.

We had a large collection of children's books, and we went frequently to the public library, too. My memory of books as a child is the degree to which they enlarged the world. I lived in Tohunga Crescent, in Auckland's Parnell, and at the same time, intensely, in all the parallel universes created by fiction. Those places and their iconography were shared by the family and enriched our common understanding.

Books added layers of possibility, a view into other lives, a dazzling variety of characters, vivid and exotic landscapes. To be read to as a child, and later to read to yourself, is to be introduced to the power of your own mind. It’s a driving lesson for the imagination, and the imagination fortifies, arms the spirit with resilience, fuels resourcefulness, generates happiness.