In third grade, story time was a reward for me. It was never included in scripted minutes which teachers must now justify and adhere to. Time shaved off other subjects was used, because story time was something that my kids and I needed. Like air. After lunch, little bundles of sweaty happiness knew. They came to the carpet and got a story rock. Sitting or laying, the rule was, the smooth rock could only be in one hand. Not thrown at Sally or Rob. Not tossed or dropped annoyingly. The rocks were thinking rocks. Smooth and flat, they fit nicely in small fingers and were to be rubbed as the story unfolded. During suspenseful times, the rocks moved with their little fingers. Big wiggles ceased, as pure, sweet eyes watched me read. Not with a pure gaze, but with visualized words flashing before their eyes.
I had a favorite book, read every year. “Because of Winn Dixie.” It was one that I read every single year, because of the voices. They were in rich southern drawl, which I could read in a very entertaining way. The kids ate it up. I loved reading it to them. Winn! Winn! The character, India Opal, hadn’t had the easiest life, living with her father, The Preacher. The kids related to her. When I started reading the award winning story to them, it was brand new. Right off the press. No movies or visuals preconceived visuals, we all made our own. Each of us would have known Opal on the street by our ideas of her height, weight, hair length and smile. We knew her in our hearts.
After I had read the book through many classes, the worst of all things happened. Towards the end of my 3rd Grade adventures, when scripted lessons and minutes timed by the principal had robbed so many rich and joyful teachable moments, “Because of Winn Dixie” became a movie. My class being legendary, my 3rd Graders came in knowing after lunch story time was a priceless experience. Everyone was giddy when I brought out the book. But, the saddest thing happened. Slowly, the rocks couldn’t work over whispered spoilers. Kids commented on the color of the actresses red hair. Or the size of Winn Dixie, her dog. Or anything else Hollywood dictated to be absolute. If they could see it, it was. If the story in the pages didn’t match what they had seen, the book lied. Just like that the magic was stolen. I never read that story to anyone again.
Sometimes, on the hottest of Central Valley Days, when the thermometer read 100 by noon, the kids would come in from lunch drained. Many needed time to rest, longing for rainstorms missing for awhile. On those days, story time would turn into rain-storm reading. Recorded rain drops and thunder would bring images of storms to them. Under the cooling storm, they would all get “out of the rain”, curling up under desks or tables, to happily read their favorite book. The sound of rain cemented good feelings about reading into their brains. Never a “I don’t want to” or a “This is stupid”. Nope. Rainstorm reading was a hit when we were all needing to check out into our own worlds for just a few minutes. No movies needed because we all had rainy day words.
Being a life long reader, books will always be my first love. But, there is definitely a place for movies in my world now. How many of us immediately know what the King of Siam looks like? Dorothy? Don Corleone? The African Queen? King Kong? R2D2? Yes. What a shame if we didn’t have that collective visualization of such rich characters. What a shame if such brilliant minds hadn’t taken words on a page and created them for us. But, what a loss of all the individual possibilities never born, because after seeing an image, we accepted that as we would the nose on our best friend. What if Dorothy was blonde with bright blue eyes? Or R2D2 the shiniest of copper?
VST had a small DVD player on which he would watch movies when he went to bed. Complete with headphones, he would zone into his own private little world, not wanting to bother my sleep. I always found it strange, as sleep would find me so easily, providing dreams of the richest kind. Much more entertaining that a canned experience a movie maker created.
One day, I really wanted to watch a movie I didn’t have on hand. I didn’t want to buy the image online. I wanted a disc. Something tangible that I could hold and manipulate. I ordered it and some others through Amazon. When they arrived, I remembered VST being excited when he found a movie he had been looking for in the $5 bin at Wal Mart. Just like that, I had a new way to relax at night.
As I started thinking back to my favorites, more came to me. Cocoon. Fried Green Tomatoes. My Best Friend’s Wedding. Sleepless in Seattle. You’ve Got Mail. Murphy’s Romance. Fiddler on the Roof. South Pacific. West Side Story. Rear Window. North by Northwest. Vertigo. Psycho. The Birds. These movies were created by visual geniuses. The music created by real musicians and chosen to enhance the visual and emotional experience. Real movie stars created by Hollywood gave us someone to imagine with perfect life and happiness when ours weren’t. Visual Fantasy Land.
Although nothing will ever match the perfection of story time with eager children wanting to know what happened next, my story time is now one in which I can let someone else do the telling, while I soak up tale and stop my brain for a few minutes.
Last night, after spending hours writing and editing, I had texted MFP to tell him I was stopping for the night because my brain was sweating. He replied that he didn’t know how to air condition a brain. I do. Movie-fied stories are my brain air-conditioning. Whether through written word or big screen viewing, find a way to let someone else tell a story for a bit. I highly recommend it.