Eight Cousins by Louisa May Alcott, of Little Women fame, is also the name of a lovely and well-loved children’s book store (now for grown-ups, too) in Falmouth, MA. It’s an institution on Main Street in a charming brick building with high ceilings and a water bowl for dogs out front. In the mullioned windows are bright and happy illustrations of book covers; in the lobby are stacks of flyers on events of interest to children, and on the door, a sign offering “good boxes free.” The name – Eight Cousins – makes me smile. It’s a book probably not read too often today; but I loved the story, and to me, it invokes a world of children – lots of children, real ones with quirks and personalities, other than cutesy or wise-cracker.  My mother says she’s happy not to be raising children in this generation – too daunting. But inside that bookstore is a respite from the tests and demands that are part of the “put-down” culture of today. It’s a quiet, peaceful place of getting lost in other worlds; a place of unexpected beauty and delight.

The basic set up of the book store hasn’t changed much since I started going almost twenty years ago – local authors, seaside books and storybooks to the front; young adult, non-fiction and puzzles toward the back. At the counter, little toys and decorations. There’s a section on Native Americans, and next to it, beautifully photographed books on children of many nations.  Several times during the summer, guest authors come to read and visit, and for many years, one of the owners wrote suggestions for summer reading in a Guide to the Cape for Children, always a pleasure to me.  I got ideas from it of unique special books that I might like to get, sometimes storing them away for special occasions.

I developed the tradition, like my Aunt Tesha before me, to buy books for my children, and their nine cousins on birthdays and for Christmas.  Mostly, I bought picture books, or later, those on topics of special interest to each child – as opposed to rather large, expensive reference books that my aunt sent to us – on religion, mythology, art, poetry and nature.  How excited the children were over my selections, I’ll never really know – perhaps not too much. I do recall the less than enthusiastic reaction from my children’s friends at birthday parties, when they would feel the wrapped package and say with a sigh, “book”.  But I’ve seen, too, a child engrossed in a book, and sometimes it was the one I had given.

They were all sorts, given and collected. Some classics – Dr. Seuss and Curious George.  The fun ones like “Chicka Chicka Boom Boom” and “The Old Lady who Swallowed the Fly”; the simple, lulling, “Goodnight, Moon” and “Ten, Nine, Eight.” The adventures of Spot, where we first found that Dylan could read, and “This is the Bear” who got lost in the trash, and rescued by his human friend.  The nature lovers: wistful “Owl Babies” and magical “Snowy Day” and those with attitude: “The Little Old Lady Who Wasn’t Afraid of Anything” and “Chato and the Party Animals” – Bruce loved those.  The whole world of Thomas the Tank Engine, that gave way to Harry Potter. Gorgeous non-fiction books on fish and dinosaurs, bugs and shells.  And even the gentle melancholy of “Paper Boy” who got up in the dark to deliver papers on his bike to a sleeping town. So many have made an impression and stayed with me over the years.

How I loved picking out those books – such treasures, and sending them along.  The picture books especially - such a beautiful combination of artwork and simple prose that I delighted to share with my children and nephews and nieces.  I ask myself as a writer, couldn’t I write one – in collaboration with an illustrator? But the answer seems to be “No”, that it’s not in me. Like poetry and mysteries that I so love, I can’t seem to make myself look at the craft that propels them, lest I lose the magic for myself. Some say that childhood itself is a new social development, not so far removed from short generations, hard lives, infant mortality, and child labor. If so, then children’s books, in my mind, are one of the hallmarks of culture – where we at least expose children to beauty, values of friendship and care, and the joy of escape into the imagination.