One of the first books I ever remember reading was Stone Soup. Originally published in 1947 by Marcia Brown, it’s actually a much older French folk tale. The basic premise of the story is that a group of soldiers stop in a small village, looking for food and rest. However, the villagers, having heard that soldiers were approaching and afraid they had hardly enough food to feed themselves, hid all of their supplies. The soldiers go door-to-door, but all of the villagers tell them that they have no food to spare. So the soldiers devise a plan to stone soup.

Their interest piqued, the villagers fetch the soldiers a large pot, fill it with water, and set it to boil; then, following the soldiers’ orders, they fill the water with a multitude of stones. First the soldiers convince the villagers to part with a little salt and pepper, for the good of the soup’s flavor. They continue, lamenting the lack of carrots or cabbage, until the villagers, still wondering how one makes soup from stones, volunteer some of the ones they hid. The call and answer continues with meat and potatoes, barley and milk; the villagers all volunteer some of theirs and then marvel at the extravagant soup made from stones.

When the soup is complete, the villagers prepare a grand party, and they all celebrate well into the night.

I can’t recall the first time I read Stone Soup, but I remember how it invoked my imagination. The magic of picture books is that one feels like they’re there. I remember smelling the soup, tasting it, feeling like I was dancing with the villagers at the end of the night.

Now, what strikes about the story is always how old-world it is. The illustrations in Brown’s version are distinctly vintage; the only colors used are black, orange, and white, and the characters all look uniquely 20^th century. It fills me with a sense of community. I’ve always believed that people are at their best when they’re suspending their disbelief. The villagers suspend their disbelief, and stone soup is made, not through magic but through generosity. By pooling together their resources, the villagers were able to improve all of their lives and be a little awed in the process. That’s what I’ve always believed is the very nature of a story.

My earliest reading memory is from the fourth grade reading The Little Engine That Could by Watty Piper to a group of kindergartners. On this particular day, my teacher stationed me as a teacher assistant to a kindergarten class of twenty-five students. That same day my class attended a field trip to the CNN Center. Unfortunately, I was not able to attend so the students that could not attend the field trip stayed at the school to assist other teachers during the day. I remember assisting the teacher by setting up worksheets for the students to work on when they arrive back from recess. Once the students arrive back to the class it was story time. As the assistant teacher, I was required to read a book of my choice to the students as they wind down from recess. While I read to the students, the teacher continues setting up work for the students after story time ended.

The reason why I chose the story The Little Engine That Could because the underlying message it gives to its readers. Particularly for this story, there is no age attachment to it. All ages whether young or old can rekindle the story of the little engine and how it persevere through whatever obstacle that may get in its way. This story captures the essence of believing in yourself despite what others may think or say towards you in general. The students adore the idea that they too are little engines. They also like the idea of helping one another. This opens the opportunity for the students to learn how teamwork helps to complete a task. After reading this story, I believe that they gain awareness of believing in themselves no matter what the task may be.  This was a great exercise to incorporate a great lesson along with moral they can continue to follow for years to come.

My mother read a lot of books to me when I was younger. Some of these included Little Bear by Else Holmelund Minarik, a children’s book about the adventures of a personified bear, and Happy to be Nappy by bell hooks, a story meant to uplift the self-esteem of young African American girls by praising their natural hair, which is often criticized by others. My first favorite book that she read to me was Sam’s Sandwich by David Pelham.

My mother is an artist and she really loved the illustrations in the book, so I think she wanted to share that with me. The book itself was shaped like a sandwich. All the pages are brightly colored and readers could unfold little flaps and reveal Sam’s secret additions to the sandwich his sister, Samantha, was making. The story rhymed too, so it was fun to hear my mother read it aloud to me. Every time my mother would reveal an ingredient, which was always an insect or some other outside creature, I would giggle in mild disgust. We read the book over and over again, and I enjoyed it, pretending I did not know what Sam was hiding in between the lettuce, tomatoes, and watercress, but little did his sister know she was about to get some unconventional forms of protein. At the end of the book, Samantha offers Sam some of the sandwich, but he kindly declines. Looking back, the story has greatly influenced my life, enabling me to eat bugs regularly without blinking an eye. Thanks, mom.

I have such fond memories reading with my parents. Not only did it begin my love of learning and reading, but it also created an incredible bond between my mother and me.