I had this discussion with Younger Daughter today, on the way to the farmer’s market.
YD: When I get home I’m going to get back to my Grisham book.
Me: What? You shouldn’t be reading John Grisham!
YD: Why not?
Me (bemoaning the loss of innocence of my youngest child): My baby should not be reading about rogue lawyers and such. She should be reading about lollipops and moonbeams.
YD: Mom! I am not a spring bonnet!
Me: When I was sixteen, I was reading…. I can’t remember. I guess I was reading Jane Eyre. And poetry. Stuff like that. Jane Eyre doesn’t have gruesome things in it. It has… well, it has governesses and proper things like that.
YD: Mom, you do not know much about teenagers these days. I don’t want to read about governesses.
Me: Well, I guess it did have a madwoman in the attic. And potential bigamy. But I didn’t realize that when I was sixteen. By the way, did you start that book you borrowed from my library book pile?
(That would be Practical Magic, by Alice Hoffman.)
YD: Yes. It’s pretty good so far.
Me: DON’T tell me anything! I hate spoilers. I can’t even read the book jacket of books any more. They always tell some surprising thing that happens about a hundred pages in. I want to discover it when the author reveals it, not from the book jacket.
YD: Mom. A hundred pages is not that far into the book. And besides, the stuff they reveal in the book jacket is always obvious to everybody.
Me: Not to me! When we had to read The Scarlet Letter in ninth grade, everybody in the class knew who the father was except for me.
YD: Who was the father?
Me: Didn’t you read it?
YD: Yes, but I can’t remember. And I am not going to read it again just to find out who the father was.
Me: Okay. No one should have to read The Scarlet Letter twice.
YD: John Grisham writes page turners.
Me: Yes, he does. I think I read one John Grisham book. It was called The Runaway Jury. It was good. It was a page turner, all right. I think it had cigarettes in it.
YD: John Grisham books tend to have racy things in them.
Me: Cigarettes are not exactly racy.
YD: I mean things that sixteen year olds aren’t supposed to have experience with, like cigarettes.
Luckily for her, we arrived at the farmer’s market just then, so I couldn’t question her about racy things that she is not supposed to have experience with. Nor could I admonish her that she needs to be studying for finals instead of reading John Grisham. Instead, we argued about whether I was buying too many flowers to reasonably plant in the next few days. Of course I bought too many flowers!
|One whole flat of flowers. What, am I crazy?|
|Dusty miller - a new plant for me. I wonder how long it will|
take for me to kill it.
Dear readers, do you remember what sorts of books you liked to read when you were sixteen years old?