November was a time of sorrow and remembrance, as Mom left this life. Something tells me, though, that there are a lot of books in heaven. That’s a comforting thought. Mom’s legacy includes a love of reading passed on to her children, grandchildren, and beyond.

I asked my brothers to help with this blog post and send some thoughts about how mom influenced their love of books.

Here are their stories (presented in alphabetical order by the sibling’s name):

Bill, the youngest among us

One of the greatest gifts Mom gave us was the gift of literacy. Every holiday, I could expect a handpicked book complete with date, holiday, my age, and “Love, Mom and Dad,” even though I knew Dad had little or nothing to do with it! Many of these books we read to little Lucy and, when she was old enough, she read them to herself during summer break. I always felt a quiet sense of satisfaction knowing how pleased Mom would be that another generation was enjoying “her” books. Although the last few years I have primarily been reading on my kindle, I don’t think Mom would mind—as long as I continue reading. Much love, Mom, and thanks for your legacy. – Bill

Dave, the middle son

Sometime in the late 2000s, after a conversation with Mom and Dad about recent travels I’d undertaken and how much I enjoy getting to know new cities, Mom sent me a reading list on urban planning and city life. The authors included Jane Jacobs and Lewis Mumford, and she also suggested a novella-sized memoir by Alfred Kazin called A Walker in the City. Marie-Susanne and I like to read aloud at bedtime, and we let Kazin’s story unfold slowly over the course of a couple of months: his early-20th-century childhood in a poor, close-knit Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn, and the long trips he took on foot into Manhattan as an adolescent that transformed him, opening him up to the wide world. The book is a treasured volume in my library. Mom’s recommendations show another side of her extensive acquaintance with books of all kinds. – Dave

Harry, the first born

While browsing through Mom and Dad’s bookshelves a couple of visits ago, I came across one with the inscription: “Happy Birthday to Harry, 12 years old on May 29, 1967, love from Dad & Mom.” It was The Return of the King, the third volume of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. A little more investigation showed that Dave received Volume I on his birthday that year. There was no inscription in Volume II, but Mom made sure we had the complete trilogy.

Back in the sixties, Public Radio had a program called “Reading Aloud.” One night when I was about 11, Mom called us to listen to an episode she thought we’d like. That’s how I got hooked on Tolkien. Even at junior-high age, I was in awe of Tolkien’s gift as a storyteller and sensed his genius in making us believe that he’s showing us a mere glimpse of a deep and rich universe. And yes, I did read the whole trilogy that summer of 1967 (well, maybe it was ’68), and five or six times again over the years.

Just after Mom passed away I turned to the trilogy once more for a little comfort reading. I found much more, of course. Tolkien’s delight in playing with the English language and his ability to plumb deep into our souls with a few well-chosen words were much like Mom’s poetic gifts. Thanks once again, Mom, for introducing me to Frodo, Gandalf, Sam Gamgee, Treebeard, and one of the most beloved books I’ve ever read.  – Harry

Paula, the only girl

The most treasured gift from my 12th birthday was a copy of Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl.

The Holocaust was just 25 years in the past. My introduction to it was through Anne, who started writing “Dear Kitty” in the diary she received for her birthday. It was her 13th birthday, on June 12, 1942.

This was the first book that gripped me in a way that made me want to read every page in one sitting. At the same time, I didn’t want it to end. I just knew there was not a happy ending for dear Anne and her family. So I paced myself.

To this day, my favorite books are memoirs and biographies. Although I long ago abandoned my little red diary, I’ve blogged since 2005, first at work and now here. Mom and I recommended many books to each other over the decades. (Michael Caine’s What’s It All About comes to mind as a particularly fun one.) We enjoyed discussing them afterwards. I’ll miss those chats more than I can express. – Paula

Of course, bedtime stories started early, with Mom first reading to us. Before long, we took off and read to ourselves, with books piled on bedside tables. And sometimes, with a flashlight under the covers.

Trips to the library were frequent; we always loaded up with the maximum allowed.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I remember reading to Mom after school, while she ironed. We enjoyed The Borrowers and many other volumes of what are now called “chapter books” together. I thanked her years later when my journalism days leaned toward radio news. Reading fresh copy live on the air wasn’t a problem.

Mom carried a book with her always. While we took piano lessons, she read a few chapters. Waiting to pick us up following after-school activities? She read a few more. Local book-store owners and librarians knew her by name.

I have a feeling we’ll all stay up reading past our bedtimes tonight, in memory of our well-read Mom.

Would you like to receive an email notice when there’s a new Too Much Brudders post? Sign up here: