The joy of reading aloud

When I was young, we lived in a log cabin with no DVR and only a single landline the whole family had to share. Sometimes, I would wait for what seemed like hours for my sister to get off the phone so I could have a turn. Then I'd give up and wait for what felt like years for my brother to get out of the outhouse so I could have my turn there instead.   

I don't miss much about my childhood.

One thing I do miss, though, was when we'd gather in the evenings to listen to my parents read out loud, which is what parents used to do with all the time they now spend on Facebook. In addition to the L.L. Bean catalog, our family subscribed to the Roddenberry Weekly, from which my father used to present long solo renditions of Star Trek scripts. Having never seen the performance of a Leonard Nemoy or DeForest Kelley, we thought his renditions were pure genius and they provided us with many long hours of entertainment on the long, dark nights of the 1980s.

It's been years, though, since I last saw a copy of Roddenberry Weekly. And up until this week, my own family has been far more likely to crowd around the computer for YouTube videos of bleating goats or Sesame Street clip compilations than to gather around a shared magazine or book. 

Recently, however, due to a fatal encounter between a weasel and our home internet connection, my family has rediscovered the joys of reading aloud. When the sun has set and the children have finished their suppers of cracked wheat and milk, I turn to a treasured childhood classic and enchant the little ones with my rapid readings of passages such as this: 

I got a grim gash at the grey gas station. I got a grim gash at the grey gas station. I got a grim gash at the grey gas station. I got a grim gash at the grey gas station. I got a grim gash at the grey gas station. I got a grim gash at the grey gas station.

And when my tongue has tripped itself bruised, I pass the book to my wife for a paragraph she adores:

Barbara Bing bought bright blue bling. Barbara Bing bought bright blue bling. Barbara Bing bought bright blue bling. Barbara Bing bought bright blue bling. Barbara Bing bought bright blue bling. Barbara Bling blought blight brue bring.

The mirth that fills our humble home on such priceless evenings is difficult to describe. Our attic may stink of rotting weasel corpse, but our children will always remember "On Friday night, Fritz fled four fights."

The joy of reading aloud is part of my life once again.