By the Book : The Morals of Childhood Stories Echo Through the Years

A very dejected 9-year-old shuffled into the house two weeks ago and slumped into the sofa. After a half hour of silence, the litany began. He had not made the cut for a special traveling soccer team, the chain on his bike was off, he had forgotten to take his lunch from the refrigerator that morning, and he was facing more than the tolerable burden of homework for that night.

I strolled over to a bookshelf and retrieved a well-worn family favorite, “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day,” by Judith Viorst. Some of the sadness that enveloped this 9-year-old dissipated as we read this narrative detailing the dismal day of Alexander, a character who commences his day with gum in his hair (after having fallen asleep with gum in his mouth the night before). The tale continues as we witness Alexander’s day without a dessert in his school lunch, a visit to the dentist detecting cavities in his teeth, and having to settle for “plain old white sneakers” while his brothers are able to purchase the special ones they desired.

With each passing year of parenting, I recognize that I have more questions than answers to the everyday complexities of childhood. Each progeny appears complete with special attributes, adeptness and needs. While I may not have all the responses, and my children are frequently not willing to listen to my explanations should I have them, sometimes a well-worn picture book in our home serves to address a particular situation.

“Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day” suffices to explain why bad days occur “even in Australia.” No doubt. Alexander, in life the author’s youngest son, encountered a host of these days as he grew. Perhaps he experienced a spring with a perpetual batting slump or passed two days practicing calling a girl for a date to a school dance only to finally make the call, with sweating palms, and learn that his friend had already asked her to the dance. He may have even been the recipient of a thin envelope from a college “wishing you all the best as you pursue your education” but not extending an acceptance.

On occasion, the topic of a new “somewhat weird” student at school will occur at the dinner table. This is an ideal opportunity to remind my children of the character from Taro Yashima’s “Crow Boy.” The story of the young student in this tale is told from the vantage of a classmate who recalls a “strange boy who was afraid of the children and could not make friends with them at all.” This misunderstood classmate “was left alone in the play time, and was always at the end of the line, always at the foot of the class, a forlorn little tag-along.”

With the intervention of a sensitive teacher, Crow Boy enchants his classmates at their sixth-grade graduation with his imitation of the “voices of crows.” He has perfected these voices while listening to the crows on his lengthy walks to school over the previous six years. It is a book that addresses well the topic of the hidden talents of young people.

Crow Boy’s talent is revealed and recognized in sixth grade. Often, the gifts and talents of a student are not recognized until much later in life. Fortunately, I have been witness with my older two children to the vast number of boys and girls who didn’t necessarily excel in sports or were not asked to every school dance, but who were gradually recognized by their peers and ultimately considered prime assets by such institutions as MIT or Juilliard.

Promises--often made in haste and without great deliberation--are a recurrent source of quandaries in any house. There is a message in Dr. Seuss’ “Horton Hatches the Egg” for the eighth-grade girl who promised to spend Saturday afternoon at a friend’s house and then entertains the more recent invitation to go to the movies with another friend. This is also a tale of significance for the 10th-grade boy who committed to a friend on Monday to help him and his mother move on the forthcoming weekend and then receives, on Tuesday, an offer to go skiing with another friend’s family the same weekend.

“I meant what I said. And I said that I meant. . . . An elephant’s faithful. One hundred percent!” The recurring chant of faithful Horton, the elephant who promises Mayzie, the bird, to sit on her unhatched egg in the nest, is not easily forgotten. Stating that “I’ll hurry right back,” Mayzie “enjoys the sunshine way off in Palm Beach” while faithful Horton endures storms and hunters. Fortunately, for Horton, “who sat and sat and sat” on that nest, and all children who must face the consequences of a promise made, the result of Horton’s promise is a reminder that there is often a rewarding experience underlying each promise.

When the term paper is yet unfinished, the science fair project is proceeding with bleak results, or the fourth-grade mission project is in the planning stage, a 1930 classic can be inserted into the discussion. Watty Piper’s message in “The Little Engine That Could” has not diminished in the 60 years since its publication. This is the saga of “happy little train cars filled full of good things for boys and girls” whose engine breaks down. Other engines decline to pull the train over the mountain when a “Little Blue Engine, a very little one” happens by and hears the pleas of the dolls and toys on the train. The little engine replies, “I think I can. I think I can.”

I recall a certain eighth-grader who whined and whimpered through an entire science fair project, using expletives such as “I hate science” within earshot of her scientific father. As she stood on a stage with other first-place winners in the county, I sensed the rhythmic words, “I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could,” drifting from the stage.

Picture books also hold significance for parents. We invariably allude to Russell Hoban’s “A Birthday for Frances” to render some explanation as to the complexities of sibling rivalry. This book is our standard gift to all families upon the arrival of a second child. Frances, a charming and clever badger, with equally charming and clever parents, is confronting the birthday party of her younger sister, Gloria. Frances’ exchanges with her parents deal profoundly with the emotions surrounding Gloria’s having a birthday party and being the honored person.

As we observe certain family members “acting out” on occasions when other siblings are revered at birthdays or lauded for academic or athletic achievements, we customarily whisper the name “Frances” in reference to the “silently suffering saint.”

Lastly, a favorite for all mothers who question the balance of careers and parenting, Du Bose Heyward’s 1939 classic, “The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes.” The “wise, kind and swift Little Cottontail Mother” in this tale raises her 21 children so well that she is able to leave them to perform all the necessary chores of the household while she pursues a career.

I loved the tale and the beautiful illustrations when I first encountered this book as a small child. Its message has grown in its significance with the passing of time.