I started a new book with Cass the other day.
'The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane' is about the voyages of a china rabbit, who is lost by his first owner and has to re-learn to love. (I am done with being loved, thought Edward. To love is pain.) It's a sweet story (although I did some glossing over when Edward is given to a consumptive little girl who dies*) and Cass liked it, he being of the age when his dolls come alive at night just for him. I haven't liked any of the authors' other books, but this one resonated a bit and twinged some memories for me of my father reading to me - not the same story, but one along a similar vein.
The Mouse And His Child by Russell Hoban (he wrote the Frances books!) was the story of two wind-up tin mice, father and son, who search for the meaning of life. I thought it was magical and an incredible book and loved every page of it. I haven't had a chance to read it to Cassidy yet - although he found the movie at the library and tried to watch it. (True to form, the movie was horrible - WHY do people insist on making cartoons of children's books? Even Disney doesn't do it that well.) He turned it off halfway through - probably because I was moaning and gnashing my teeth the whole time and he couldn't hear it - but all the better for him, right? More surprise when we read the book?
Oh, and Happy Birthday, Grandpa! May your 91st year be the best one yet. I know your love of language helped me learn that books were my friends.
*We're treading softly around the idea of death right now, as one of the clan is in hospital.