Our Memoirs of a New Dad columnist reflects on his childhood relationship with books
Riley Hunt loves to read about a certain iconic overweight cat. Photo Courtesy Chris Hunt
I’ve been infatuated with the written word for as long as I can remember.
Growing up, every second Friday was pizza day at the Hunt household. I had a routine come these pizza days. I couldn’t eat unless I had a book to read.
While waiting for dinner to arrive I would scour my bookshelf for a literary adventure to dive into. I couldn’t eat until I found the perfect book. The criteria changed based on my mood of the day, but it had to be a book I hadn’t started yet. I couldn’t pick up where I left off and chew at the same time. It was a bit ritualistic but you’re allowed to be weird as a kid. I mean, I also used to watch Star Trek: The Next Generation while eating bowls of shredded cheese, so take from that what you will.
I didn’t read only kids’ books, either. I was weaned on The Berenstain Bears and The Hardy Boys, but I quickly graduated to Dick Tracy novels and then Stephen King books I snuck from my brother’s literary stash.
I remember being in Grade 6 and having my teacher sternly come up to my desk and pull the Reader’s Digest book from hands. She’d been lecturing about math, but the world of fiction was far more engaging than fractions.
She flipped through it and asked what title I was on. When I told her The Invisible Man she nodded and said, “You are what you read.”
She said it more to herself than to me. I thought she was commenting on how I was usually quiet in class, but it’s possible she meant that books nourish the brain like food nourishes the body. I presume she was pleased with my choice as she let me keep the book.
My son loves to read. He isn’t as voracious as I was, nor is his literary palette as refined as mine was at his age, but he reads everyday. It wasn’t something his mother and I had to instill into him. He came by it naturally.
Riley Hunt. Photo Courtesy Chris Hunt
In fact, the biggest punishment we can met out to him is to send him to bed with no book time. It’s something we hate doing, but it’s the only consequence that really bothers him.
His mother has a concern though. She is worried the books he is reading aren’t advanced enough for him. She has a point as he pretty much exclusively reads Garfield.
If you are what you read, Garfield would be the literary equivalent of a Big Mac. Familiar, comforting and hits the spot every time, but almost completely devoid of substance.
I didn’t have a concern. At first. Reading is reading right? And what’s the worst that could happen? He develops a snarky sense of humour?
That was my thought until he and I were doing yard work together. I was gathering leaves when he decided to hip check me. Hard.
I harshly asked him why he smashed into me and with all of the sleepy aplomb of a fat cat he replied: “I didn’t smash into you. I got sucked in by your gravitational pull.” And then he patted my belly and walked away without looking back.
On second thought, perhaps it’s time to introduce him to other literary works, like Crime and Punishment.
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