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The importance of books in a child's upbringing is derived from the family memories that are usually involved in children's early reading experiences. All my early childhood book memories are, in one way or another, family memories. Two examples come to mind.

On my seventh birthday, my grandmother gave me Hector Malot's novel, Sans Famille, which will forever remind me of her. Being French, she was determined to improve my grasp of that language. She gave me the book on my birthday in June, with the injunction that, for the duration of the summer holidays that stretched ahead, she and I were to spend an hour a day, every day, reading it together.

I would stand behind my grandmother's chair as she sat in the garden, the coffee table size book with colored pictures and large print open on her lap. Looking over her shoulder, I would start to read aloud. Malot's novel was written in 1878. It recounts the tale of a little boy, Remi, a foundling who was sold to an old street musician (M. Vitalis) and who had to travel across France in the company of his master, a couple of performing dogs and a monkey. It is not particularly cheerful.

My French being what it was, I barely understood what I was reading. My grandmother would often stop me to correct my pronunciation, or to enquire whether I understood what I was reading. Each time she asked, I would answer, 'Yes, of course, Mamie'. All too frequently, she would point to a word and ask me to tell her what it meant. Desperately, I would examine the lovely colored picture on the page, looking for inspiration. I was able to make a correct guess a few times. When I did not, which was most of the time, my grandmother would make me re-read the chapter.

By the end of that summer, we had read less than half the book, and I was convinced I never wanted to see Sans Famille, ever again. But a few months later, I did finish the book, reading secretly in bed, using a flashlight and a dictionary. I wanted to find out how the story ended, and I was so relieved when Remi was reunited with his well-to-do family in London.

Another cherished memory I have is of the evenings my father used to read Sindbad the Sailor stories, in Arabic, to my brother, sister and I. I was younger then, and although I did not read those stories myself, they are etched in my memory forever. My father would read us a story, right before we went to bed. On some nights, about an hour after we had gone to bed, Sindbad would come into the room! My father, dressed in a wide old caftan, would stand just inside our bedroom door, in the shadows. Starting with my little sister, he would ask each of us in turn how we were, and what could Sindbad do for us tonight?

I remember the night when my brother confided to Sindbad that he hated his father and wanted him to go away. Whatever had prompted my brother to say that to Sindbad was quickly resolved the next day.

I still have the copy of Sans Famille my grandmother gave me when I was seven. I have handled it a few times, and each time I find myself surprised at its shabby appearance (though it has been well-preserved). In my mind the book is such a SHINY, colorful treasure! And though my French language skills are very different today, something tells me I should not attempt to re-read Remy's adventures. I prefer to keep my memory of the wondrous tale intact.

Learn more about this author, Sawsan Elzayyat.
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