Reading Countess

Dear Scribes, Parents and Friends,

I jokingly call myself “Reading Countess” as an obvious play on words for my first name: Tess. However, the origin of my literary nickname has a more meaningful link, thanks to my beloved grandfather and instrumental fourth grade teacher. Granddaddy gave me the inspiration for “Countess”, and Mrs. Wolford planted the seed for me to add “Reading” to my pen name. I was blessed to have both people in my life, and determined to be that gentle whisper in my own son’s and student’s ears.

 As the only granddaughter for sixteen years, I was treated like royalty by my beloved grandfather. He was the only one in my family who called me “Contessa,” a play on my “real name”, and he went out of his way to treat me like a member of the royal court. Much to my brother’s chagrin, I received preferential treatment by Granddaddy time and time again during my childhood. When we misbehaved, it was my brother and not I who was sent outside to pick the weeds. I was even given “fresh water baths” when I was really young. My grandfather carted buckets of water from the kitchen to fill the bathtub so that I would not be forced to take a bath using the pungent sulfur water from the rest of the farmhouse’s plumbing system.  

I delighted in the extra attention, but it was the time spent on my grandfather’s lap that molded me to become what I am now-a reading teacher. Being the sole granddaughter came with my favorite perk of all. I was the only grandchild allowed to crawl up on his lap when he was reading one of his many thick books he devoured weekly. Peering over his shoulder through the smoke-laden air of his pipe, the value of the written word was palpable. Surrounded by wall to wall shelves of books in his living room, I learned at an early age that books were treasured in my family, and I desperately wanted to be a part of that seemingly secret reading world.  

I was an Army brat. Growing up moving from base to base every few years proved to be difficult, at best, for the shy and awkward child that I was. However, the one unwavering factor no matter where I put my head at night was the fact that I loved school. I longed to be “the star reader” in my class, and I worked diligently day in and day out. But despite my valiant attempts, I was never at the top of the reading heap. I longed to be in the star group and feel as if I finally was the reader that I saw in my head. One cannot imagine my bitter disappointment year in and year out as I was assigned to the middle group, or worse, the bottom group.

Despite my parent’s (and my grandfather’s) stalwart attempts to jumpstart my reading, I found myself stalled. My parents, both prolific readers themselves, were constant encouragers of my reading interest. They bought me book after book, magazine subscription after magazine subscription, and listened for hours while I read them aloud to them. Whether it was because I am a summer birthday and I was simply too young to be a stronger reader than I was, or whether it was a matter of the right book at the right time, I simply had not yet found that secret ingredient that would push me into the realm of a full-fledged running reader.

My luck changed forever when I entered the fourth grade. With Mrs. Wolford, through her dedication and encouragement, I was able to bust out of my cycle and take my rightful place at “the table.” Of course, a little book called Where the Red Fern Grows  played an instrumental part in my growth as well. Each day, Mrs. Wolford would crack out Wilson Rawls’ masterpiece and we would find ourselves transported to days gone by. I found myself rooting for Billy to earn the money he so desperately needed to buy his beloved hunting dogs. I worried about him as he traveled to the far away town to retrieve Little Ann and Old Dan, and reveled in their training. I found myself cowering when the dogs came upon a mountain lion, laughing at their antics together, and weeping bitterly at the poignant ending. What I didn’t know was that over the course of the book’s reading, I was slowly transforming into a reader. Through Mrs. Wolford’s skillful hands, I was crafted into a lifelong reader. As it turns out years later, Where the Red Fern Grows became a cornerstone book for me.

Cornerstone books are those special books that made us who we are as readers. They leave an indelible mark on us. I have often thought back to that magical time in Mrs. Wolford’s classroom in faraway Germany. Thanks to the right book and the right teacher at the right time, I was set on a path to become a lifelong reader and passionate reading and writing teacher. Wherever you are, Mrs. Wolford and Granddaddy, thank you.