Tag: reading

Mrs. Brayton and Anne of Green Gables

Brenda Stratton

I can still hear the inflection in her voice when she’d say, “Oh, Anne…”

I don’t remember any more what the characters’ conversation was about, but I know who was speaking. It was Marilla Cuthbert, Anne’s guardian.

Before she began reading, Mrs. Brayton passed out brown paper towels—the rough kind that came on a roll and had to be cranked out manually. She gave one to each of us. Then she poured a careful measure of raisins onto the paper towels—our cook, Mrs. Archer, had graciously contributed them. We sat there, quietly eating one raisin at a time, while Mrs. Brayton brought Prince Edward Island to life.

Those afternoons were like magic in my ten-year-old mind. It was the best part of the day. Everyone was so quiet we didn’t miss a word of the story. I could see the scenes unfolding in my imagination as clearly as if I had been there myself.

All eyes were on her—at least mine were—as I watched her slowly turn the pages and speak in her expressive voice. The raisins were just sticky enough to leave a faint sweetness on my fingers, though they didn’t cling too stubbornly to the paper towels.

I believe she read to us during the winter months, probably instead of recess. Whatever the reason, those afternoons stretched over many days, giving us time to journey through Anne’s world together.

Looking back, I realize those afternoons did more than fill the winter hours. I was already an avid reader—my mother had seen to that—but being read to was something different. It wasn’t just about the story. It was about cadence. Tone. Inflection. The way a voice could make words come alive.

Maybe that’s part of why I love audiobooks.

And maybe—though I hadn’t thought about it until now—it was also the beginning of something else. I remember being in fourth grade and wanting to write stories of my own. I tried a few times. But when I didn’t know what the next step was, I stopped.

Perhaps I was still listening. Still learning how stories were supposed to sound.

Listening to the Little Kids Read

Brenda Stratton

When I was in second grade, Mrs. Clawson asked me to help the younger children learn to read.

She gave me a copy of the reader they were using and told me which story they were working on. Since it was the same reader I had used the year before, I already knew the stories.

The desks were lined up in neat rows, all facing the blackboard.

I would pull a little chair up beside a student’s desk and listen while they read out loud. When a child came to a word they didn’t know, I encouraged them to sound it out. If that didn’t help, I would tell them the word.

There was something satisfying, even at the age of seven, about being able to help.

I really enjoyed it — and I was proud that Mrs. Clawson trusted me to do it.

Of course, I had my own work to do, but if I finished early and she needed someone to listen to the first graders read, she would ask if I would like to help. I always did.

The next year, when I started third grade, I moved to a different classroom. Even then, there were times when Mrs. Clawson asked my new teacher, Miss Nesbitt, if I could come back and listen to her students read.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I suppose that was my first experience as a tutor.

First Grade

Brenda Stratton

Around the time I first started school, I went shopping with Mom, Dad, and Monty for school supplies. I was so excited! I remembered the years when my brother went to school and I had to stay behind. Now I would never be left behind again.

When we got to the store, it was decided that Dad would help me pick out my supplies while Mom helped Monty. When everything had been chosen, Dad paid for the supplies. He was still carrying my tablet under his arm.

We left the store and had only gone a few feet when I heard him say, “Oh, no! I forgot to pay for the tablet.”

Without another word, he turned around and went back into the store — still clutching it to his chest — and apologized to the clerk for the mistake.

The only real experience I had with school before starting myself was the day I went with my brother — a memory I’ve written about before.

I can’t remember the exact first day of school. What I do remember is the school and the classroom itself.

The school was a tall, square building made of dark brick. It stood exactly one block from home. I couldn’t guess what school would be like, but I was anxious to find out.

I remember the inside of my classroom — from the wall of windows where the light filtered through the oak trees outside, to the crayon color chart on the wall with the names of each color printed in bold lettering. I remember my cubby, too. We each had one with our name printed on it to keep our nap rugs in.

We would move again before the end of the school year, but this is where I met Dick and Jane, Baby Sally and their pets, Spot and Puff. It is also where I learned that colors had names that I could write and someone else could read — and that classical music could make a child sit still and listen… and imagine.