Getting My Book Taken Away

I was a really good student in 5th grade-smart, but also into sports. I sat in Mr. Perguson's second row. He was the overweight teacher that turned away from the class and sneezed towards the chalkboard to cover up his flatulance.  I never got in trouble until one day during silent reading.  This is the book I was reading:

See them walking on the beach in nightgowns? Does this look risque to you? It sure did to Mr Perguson.  He took my book away and asked me where I have gotten it.

"My mother," I replied.

He harrumphed and told me he'd be keeping it for a while and that he would be calling my mother after school.

As the daughter of a daughter of a high school principle I knew that if I got in trouble at school, I would be in trouble at home. My parents supported our teachers as much as they could. So I sweated it a little, but mainly hoped that my mom would just think it was funny. After all, this was Katherine Paterson, the author of Bridge of Terabithia and The Trumpeter of Krakow. And this one was the Newberry Medal winner in 1981. 

I went home and told me mom what had happened. Better she heard it from me first, right? She did laugh, just like I was hoping. Later that evening she talked to Mr. Perguson on the phone, but she did not share the conversation with me.

The next morning before class started he came to my desk and returned my book saying he had read it the previous night and it was okay for me to read.

No kidding, I thought, my mom is the one who gave it to me.

He didn't question my reading for the rest of the year. The flatulence I'm afraid though, didn't go away. If only I'd been a few rows further back . . .

Have you ever had a book taken away? What book and why?

Getting My Book Taken Away

I was a really good student in 5th grade-smart, but also into sports. I sat in Mr. Perguson's second row. He was the overweight teacher that turned away from the class and sneezed towards the chalkboard to cover up his flatulance.  I never got in trouble, until one day during silent reading.  This is the book I was reading:

See them walking on the beach in nightgowns? Does this look risque to you? It sure did to Mr Perguson.  He took my book away and asked me where I have gotten it.

"My mother," I replied.

He harrumphed and told me he'd be keeping it for a while and that he would be calling my mother after school.

As the daughter of a daughter of a high school principle I knew that if I got in trouble at school, I would be in trouble at home. My parents supported our teachers as much as they could. So I sweated it a little, but mainly hoped that my mom would just think it was funny. After all, this was Katherine Paterson, the author of Bridge of Terabithia and The Trumpeter of Krakow. And this one was the Newberry Medal winner in 1981. 

I went home and told me mom what had happened. Better she heard it from me first, right? She did laugh, just like I was hoping. Later that evening she talked to Mr. Perguson on the phone, but she did not share the conversation with me.

The next morning before class started he came to my desk and returned my book saying he had read it the previous night and it was okay for me to read.

No kidding, I thought, my mom is the one who gave it to me.

He didn't question my reading for the rest of the year. The flatulence I'm afraid though, didn't go away. If only I'd been a few rows further back . . .

Note: there are 21 different covers of Jacob Have I Loved, and this cover is still my favorite. 

My Parents

I blame my parents completely for my addiction to books. My house was overflowing with them. For treats Mom would take us to The Intimate Book Shop and let us pick four or five books of our choosing. How I loved that store. I wish it still existed, but this post isn't about the takeover of local book stores, so we won't talk about that.

Each summer we took road trips-either out West to see our family or up the East Coast on camping adventures. And along the way Mom or one of my older siblings would read to us. Lots of Roald Dahl (isn't he wonderful?). I distinctly remember my mom reading Danny the Champion of the World and being so engrossed in the story that the car trip flew by as I was busy poaching pheasants and out smarting the town's nasty rich guy, what was his name? What a dream to live in a caravan with a father whose eyes smiled.
So, it's not surprising that growing up when I wasn't romping in the woods behind our house, catching crawfish in the creek, or flying on my bike, I would be reading in my room. "Hibernating" my mom called it.