A friend told me recently about a toy he desperately wanted when he was ten years old. The advertising said he just had to have this toy. It was “Hands Up, Harry” and the toy responded with hands-up when you shot at it. If you happened to hit his belt buckle, his pants fell down. He didn’t get that gift, but his brother did and together they shot at it all Christmas day. By the end of the day the toy had fared badly with broken hinges and unresponsive parts. It got put away in the garage and was never used again. Everyone needs some toys—even grown-ups—but this story puts the gift of books in proper perspective. Years later they will still be around to be read and treasured.
People who know me get used to receiving flat packages and hardly ever have to guess what is inside. I brought such a package to our three-year-old neighbor boy one holiday, and his mother said he could open it early. He excitedly removed the paper, eager to see his gift. When he saw it he cried, “A book? I can’t even read!”
His mother and I have laughed often over this memory. But the story goes on. When he graduated from the university last year, he wrote me a note thanking me for all the books he had received from me, saying he had majored in literature! The “major” doesn’t matter so much; it’s his loving to read that matters.
