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A Legacy of Literature
Topics: reading, literature, children, bereavement, death, LIFE, Love, siblings, Family, harry potter, Books, stories
Posted by ghostriter Mon Aug 13, 2007 11:09:09 PDT
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I started reading at three years of age. At least, that is the story according to my parents, who have always been more than willing to believe that their firstborn was a reading prodigy. It began with sounding out road signs with my grandpa; by age six, I had graduated to my mother's medical textbooks. Being a chronically ill child, my only escape from the confinement of four walls was through any literature I could get my mind around. When I was seven years old, I sat next to my father at the kitchen table while he pounded out his college assignments on what was, even then, an archaic typewriter. I was there for two reasons, the first being that I fervently wished to spend time with my dad, whom I adored. He was rarely home during my waking hours. He worked days, and then attended evening college classes, living on barely four hours’ sleep every night in an effort to earn his college degrees. The second reason was that, even at my young age, I could correct his spelling errors. By the age of ten, I was writing poetry and fiction; at age twelve, I had begun studying my father’s antique volumes of Chaucer. During my senior year in high school, I had three of my stories published in a magazine.

When I foolishly quit college and got married, it was the general consensus among all those who knew me that my intellectual talent was forevermore confined to domestic incarceration. No one, myself included, took into account the possibility that any of my children would equal, let alone surpass, the potential I had so infuriatingly squandered. Jordan, my youngest son, proved that potential, when passed over by the parent, can find new life in the essence of the child.

Jordan did not easily take to reading as I had. In fact, it was, for a time, a perpetual source of frustration for us both. He tried so hard, but seemed unable to maintain focus, unable to concentrate on anything for a prolonged length of time. For me, who had always found the mastery of the written word so simple to understand, teaching Jordan to read was a baffling quandary. When his pediatrician diagnosed him with Attention Deficit Disorder at age four, it gave a more tangible reason for his academic struggle. It did not, however, lessen my efforts to teach Jordan, or encourage me to consent to mind-altering medication for my son. He needed love, understanding and patience. He did not need pharmaceuticals.

For several years, Jordan and I continued to read together, even though Jordan did most of the listening and I did most of the reading. It became a loving exchange between the two of us, and I found a miraculous channel to my son’s mind when we read together. Although he could scarcely sit through an entire movie without losing interest, Jordan could listen to me read aloud for hours. He often fell asleep to the sound of my voice becoming increasingly hoarse with overuse as I narrated to him the wonders of the world of books.

One summer day, just before his sixth birthday, the literary light bulb became suddenly illuminated for Jordan. I will not ever forget it, that day when he looked written words in the face and realized that he knew how they all came together. He was ecstatic; it was like he had just discovered the cure for cancer, or, at the very least, for diaper rash. His eyes, his face, his entire being lit up from within. One minute, he’d struggled to read; the next, he possessed total understanding. From that moment, he could not get enough of books. He stayed awake late at night, using a flashlight to absorb the knowledge that he had been heretofore unable to comprehend; he went through “D” batteries faster than most people run through twenty gallons of gasoline. In what seemed the blink of an eye, Jordan visited first Dr. Seuss and Clifford the Big Red Dog, then the historical writings of Laura Ingalls Wilder, and then his brother Alex's Goosebumps collection, book by book, over and over.

He started out with me helping him, but within a few short weeks, Jordan was reading to himself, with very little help from me. Even so, his progress did not put an end to our reading time together. He would lie for hours with me, he with his book, and I with mine, both of us engrossed, occasionally sharing interesting or humorous passages. Following the lead of my father, an avid historian, Jordan developed an affinity for ancient history, especially Egypt, Pompeii, and Rome. Books about shipwrecks fascinated him, the sinking of the Titanic in particular. However, he retained a deep-seated adoration for fantasy and the whimsical. J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series became his absolute favorite read, and, surprisingly, the first outward indication of Jordan’s intellectual ability.

            Sometime following Jordan’s seventh birthday, my father took him to the public library; Dad needed to do some business research, and his young grandson begged to go along. When they arrived at the library, Dad planted Jordan in the children’s section. “I will be busy for an hour or two,” my dad told Jordan. “Pick a book and read for a while; I will only be across the room if you need me.”

Jordan looked around for a few moments, and chose the first book in the Harry Potter series, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. “I’ve been wanting to read this one,” Jordan told his grandfather, and he sat down to begin reading.

A couple hours passed; my dad checked on Jordan several times, only to find Jordan’s bespectacled eyes buried in his book, his position never changed.

When my father finally finished his work, he arrived at Jordan’s side just in time to see him close the Harry Potter book.

“Do you want me to check that out for you, Jordan?” my father asked.

“No, that’s okay, Grampa,” Jordan replied. “I’m done.”

Jordan rose, walked to the shelf, and replaced the book.

My father did not question whether Jordan had read the entire story.  They left the library and went to the parking lot.                   

“So, what was your book about?” my dad asked as he steered his truck toward home, hoping that Jordan had retained some of the story he had been reading. Jordan began to narrate the story to his grandpa. When Jordan was about five minutes into his narrative, my dad realized that his young grandson was sharing something significant, and he pulled the truck over to a stop on the shoulder of the road. Over the next several minutes, sitting in the truck, Jordan told his grandpa the entire storyline of the Harry Potter book, including those parts that had been omitted from the movie. At seven and a half years of age, Jordan had read the complete story in less than three hours, with full comprehension.

Upon hearing my father’s account of this, I immediately ran out and grabbed all the existing Harry Potter volumes for Jordan, the one he had just read, and the next two in the series. I’d previously believed that the storylines were too complicated for him, but I had greatly underestimated my son; I never made the same mistake again. Over the next couple years, whenever I had the money, I purchased nearly every book Jordan asked for. Star Wars and Star Trek were big hits, as was anything dealing with history. However, Harry Potter and Jordan remained close friends. The fourth volume, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, was released in July of 2002, when Jordan was ten years old. It was the largest and most complicated volume of the series thus far; I bought it for Jordan as a Christmas gift, and I promised him that he would have every Harry Potter book that J.K. Rowling chose to produce. I truly hoped that she would never stop writing them.

Jordan’s eleventh birthday was August 10^th, 2003. He loved his birthday, as much or even more than he enjoyed Christmas. He always made his birthday plans early, although he was careful not to ask me for anything he thought I could not afford. Sometime in April or May of that year, I asked him what his birthday wish was. Jordan’s only request was the newest Harry Potter book, The Order of the Phoenix, which had not yet been released. He had committed the previous books nearly to his memory by then, and was anxious to take his adventures at Hogwart’s to the next level. In May of 2003, I hurried to my local bookstore and pre-purchased the new book, eagerly anticipating seeing Jordan unwrap it on his birthday, to watch his face as he read it. But it was not to be. On June 27^th, 2003, my Jordan was killed by an accidental gunshot, yet another firearm accident involving two curious children at a friend’s house, and an “unloaded” gun that was supposedly safely locked away. Jordan’s wonderful light was forever extinguished, never to shine again. He was only six weeks shy of his eleventh birthday.

A few weeks after Jordan’s death, I received a call from the bookstore where I had ordered the new Harry Potter. The book I’d ordered had arrived. When would I come for it? the caller asked.

Against all advice, I retrieved the book I had ordered for Jordan. Sitting in our living room on Jordan’s birthday, cradling the carved box which contained the remains of my beautiful boy, I sat and read the story to him, chapter by chapter, line by line, just as I had done when he could not read on his own, always hoping that he would chime in. I read aloud until I no longer had voice to read; and then, I read silently, until I finished it for him. Then I closed the volume, and placed it in a strong box with the other books that belong to Jordan, keepsakes that speak of his imagination, his intellect, his adoration for the written word and all that is beautiful and full of life. Of all the things that belonged to my deceased son, his books are my greatest treasures. They are kept with his favorite toys and his Boy Scout things, carefully preserved in my closet, always near me. However, I have not been able to open the box of books since I packed it. Seeing Jordan’s books, knowing my son can never read them again, has always been too much for me to take; and so, I have kept them safely protected in a dark corner of my life.

            Jordan has been gone four years now. I miss him every day of my life, never less than the day he was first taken from me. I save my grief for times when I think no one can see it. I swear that, someday, a traffic cop will stop me and give me a ticket for Driving While Crying.

I continued to buy every new Harry Potter book for Jordan. Ironically, they always seem to be released just in time for his birthday. I just picked up the last one in the series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I ordered it on March 31^st, for Jordan’s fifteenth birthday. Deathly Hallows is his final birthday gift. After all, I promised him that he would have them all. 

I have recently remarried, and my new husband is a wonderful person, someone that I fervently wish Jordan could have known. He has two children whom I adore, a girl and a boy. My stepdaughter, Cassidy, is twelve years old, and coming to terms with the emotional and physical upheaval of puberty, and the concept that there are ideas in this world other than her own. She has very little time or inclination for reading. I hope to change that someday. My stepson, Carson, turned nine this past June. He struggles with his reading skills, but enjoys the stories notwithstanding…rather like my Jordan once did.

Very recently, I asked Carson to go into my closet and get me a roll of wrapping paper. After a while, he did not return, and I went in search of my young stepson. Upon entering my bedroom, I stopped short. Carson had found the carefully preserved box in my closet, clearly marked “Jordan’s Books”, and he’d pulled the box to the center of the room for him to explore. I was taken aback to find the box open on my bedroom floor, and an innocent, blue-eyed question staring into my soul.

“Does Jordan mind if I read his books?” Carson asked.

Remembering Jordan’s early struggle to read and his joy when he reached his reading epiphany, I closed my eyes for a brief moment. Does Jordan mind? I could see Jordan’s glowing smile, his luminescent eyes shining, radiating his kindness, his spirit, and his love. He is still, and always will be, the most selfless person I have ever known. He loved sharing, he loved helping others, and he loved reading. He loved the world, and life. And above all else, Jordan loved his family. Jordan loved…always. The baby of the family, Jordan had always had wished for a little brother or sister. I guess he has them both, now. How joyful Jordan would have felt if he could have helped a younger sibling to overcome a difficulty learning to read, as he himself had. I could picture Jordan sitting in a corner of the bedroom, reading to Carson, and helping him sound out the words for himself, sharing his love of books. 

I knelt beside the box next to Carson, and I picked up the book at the top of the box. Love You Forever, by Robert Munsch. I had purchased it when Jordan was born. He and I had read it together until I knew the story by rote. It is the illustration of a parent’s eternal love for a child.

I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always,

As long as I’m living

My baby you’ll be.

Looking at that book, I realized that the passage I remembered so well went both ways. Jordan would always be my baby, but, regardless how long he was gone from me, I would always be his mommy. It was up to me to see that everything good in Jordan did not die with him. Jordan would never be here to share his love of reading, but what was stopping me from doing so? I nearly broke down again; however, in my mind, behind the sadness and beyond my own soul, I saw my beautiful blue-eyed Jordan, laughing, wiping cake and frosting from his face on his tenth birthday. And I remembered something Jordan said to me, out of the blue, just weeks before he died.

I never want my mommy to be sad.

And instead of crying, I smiled. To Carson, I at last said, “Jordan really loved to read, and he wouldn’t mind at all. I know he would like you to read his books. In fact, why don’t we read them together?”

I carried the box marked “Jordan’s Books” down the hall to the living room sofa. Carson followed, and curled up next to me, and I tucked a cozy quilt around the both of us. Cassidy joined us then, eager to be in on the secret. Of course, the one they picked was Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. I looked into a pair of adorable, innocent faces waiting for the next adventure, and I opened the book. I began reading, and I did not stop until my voice was hoarse, and Cassi and Carson had long since nodded off to dream of the world of wizards. As I put them both to bed that night, I thought, we’ll finish it later, and then, we’ll start another, and another….

I then unpacked the box, and placed Jordan’s books in the bookcase in the living room, in plain sight, to await the time when they would once again be opened and read. They were never meant to be hidden in a box, after all.

It is amazing that a boy who never even reached his eleventh birthday can leave such a phenomenal legacy of knowledge and love. Today, it is Harry Potter and Star Wars; tomorrow, it could be Shakespeare. Maybe someday, Carson and Cassidy will even let me introduce them to the works of Chaucer.

Jordan would be so proud.

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Comment From: HeatherIjames

Absolutely beautiful! What a treasure! I am so moved by your story and your writing. Thank you so much for sharing your wonderful memories of Jordan. God Bless you! Comment From: ghostriter

Thank you so much, Heather, for your kind words. I am happy that you enjoyed it.