Beth

Both my girls are readers. Little One has well-established herself within the myriad of fourth-grade series novels, and Patch is aggressively growing her reading skills with Froggy, Henry and Mudge, and her own myriad of Disney Princess books. Which is fine. Exemplary, actually.

But I want them to cultivate curiosity. I want them to borrow non-fiction books, every weekend visit to the library. Don’t have to read them all cover-to-cover (I borrow maybe 150-200 non-fiction books annually and only completely read about ten percent of that). But I want them to skim through and read what interests them. Look at all the pictures, graphs, charts. Read a chapter or two here and there. Learn to utilize the table of contents and the index.

To fire this spark in them, I entice them with the concept of being an expert. Someone others in their class will go to for all the answers. To mediate the disputes. To be the go-to kid whenever the subject comes up at the lunch table.

Which brings me to Beth.

(Note: when I say Beth, I say it like Joe Pesci over-enunciating the word “youththththththththts” to get back at Judge Fred Gwynn in My Cousin Vinnie. Not “youts,” but “youththththththththths.”)

Anway, in second grade, I was the undisputed expert on ... DINOSAURS.

Yep. No one knew DINOSAURS better than me. I read every book on them in our tiny, one-room grammar school library. I memorized entries on them from our home collection of Colliers and Funk & Wagnalls Encyclopediae. When I was out sick with tonsillitis half-the-year, my uncle bought me two dinosaur books I analyzed, studied, and practically slept with to no end. Yes. I was the go-to kid in my class when it came to dinosaurs. I mediated the lunch table disputes. I was the undisputed expert on all things terrible lizard.

Until, one day, Beth showed up in our class.

Whether she was a new student or merely one from the other second grade class, I don’t know. What I do know is that I first met her one library period at the 567s, her hand slightly quicker than mine snatching away the dinosaur book I had my eager eye on.

How dare her!

I was willing to forgive the transgression provided she acknowledge, at least tacitly, my dinosaurian superiority.

She did no such thing.

In fact, she soon began blabbing nonstop at the lunch tables: dinosaur this and dinosaur that. This was the coolest dinosaur, that was the most dangerous, this would beat that in a fight. And on and on and on, while I turned first red with rage, then green with envy, and, finally pale with despair as I realized my authority had been blithely, quietly challenged and overthrown, and almost as an afterthought. You see, not only did she fail to acknowledge my former repository of dinosaur knowledge, she failed to acknowledge me.

Beth.

Beththththththththththth!

I had no choice but to become an expert in another field. So, shortly thereafter, I began reading every and any science fiction paperback I could get my hands on.

. . . . .

My girls laugh at the story. And it’s not exaggerated too too much. But it’s true. And if I can inspire them to be an expert in any one thing (or a whole bunch of ’em) at my expense, than I consider it water under the bridge.

But I bet, thirty-eight years later, I remember more about dinosaurs than Beth does!