On a Niece's Birthday...A Gift to Her Uncle

My eldest niece had a birthday the other day. Amazingly, she’s now been a member of the human race for 17 years. Funny, I don’t look that old. Over the years, Morgan, like most kids, has gotten all kinds of presents from her parents, friends, and extended family. Starting with the basic baby clothes that are now being worn by newer members of the family, to the dolls and big wheels and bikes, on to the computers and iPods, you name it and this kid has gotten it. And that’s the way it should be. My brother and his wife plead with the rest of us not to spoil her (along with her younger sister and brother), and we say no problem and then ask each other should we get the Shetland pony!

But this year there was a tiny difference; a lane change, if you will. You see, my eldest niece is a lot like yours truly (much to the chagrin of her father!). But up until now that similarity was mostly defined by personality traits and certain ways of looking at life. Harmless, for the most part – and annoying or cute depending on how many times she rolled her eyes like the old uncle. And during these years of her growing up and seeing the few similarities, I confess to hoping that if I have any positive traits or habits or what you will, that Morgan will show signs of them and not just the dopey stuff.

Which brings me to her birthday and the strange irony of receiving a gift by giving one. My niece asked for and received Shakespeare’s 39 plays, Homer’s The Iliad and The Odyssey and Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. Those few who read this blog know my thoughts on the state of reading today, and my opinion of the amount of crap that’s out there. And I confess that I spent a couple of anxious nights thinking about how Morgan (and millions of other kids) was wasting her time reading the drivel of Harry Potter and whatever villain he was going up against in the latest volume. I’m still not convinced of the argument that says reading Harry Potter leads to better literature, let alone the argument that says “better to read Harry Potter (or some other piece of crap) than nothing at all.” I’m not buying it.

But for now I can breathe a little sigh of relief. I think Morgan gets it. I think she gets some of the reasons why serious readers read. She knows that good writers know more than we do and help us see the way things are. She’s understanding that in our finite lives we can’t possibly know enough people and that deep reading allows us to know ourselves better and by knowing ourselves better we learn to weigh and consider. In short, she’s learning the deep pleasures of reading.

Happy Birthday Morgan! And thanks for the gift.