Clara was not pleased. We had finished reading the Harry Potter series and had decided to move onto “The Hobbit” and eventually The Lord of the Rings trilogy.
She was having none of it. She had gone online, read a review from some obvious moron, and decided that “The Hobbit” wasn’t for her. A girl who might know more about mythology than nearly any other human being under the age of 20 won’t like a story based on, among other things, Norse mythology?
An argument ensued. She shouted. I spoke in clear, measured tones. I explained how joyous the last two years had been, gathering as a family and reading the Harry Potter books together. Watching the films side by side. Going to see The Cursed Child on Broadway. Visiting pottermore.com so we could be assigned to our Hogwarts’ houses and wands.
There had been Harry Potter gifts at birthdays and Christmas. Hogwarts on Minecraft. Spell books. Endless conversation.
She was still having none of it. She told me to stop trying to make her feel guilty. She told me that she had the right to skip the book if she wanted. She told me to leave her alone.
Eventually, we reached a compromise. I would read the first chapter of “The Hobbit” to Elysha and Charlie in the living room, and she would sit on the stairs, two rooms away, ready to escape at the moment she found the story unpalatable.
I needed to do what I had done nearly two years ago when I convinced her to join us for Harry Potter:
Read loud enough, enthusiastically enough, and with enough emotion to convince her that “The Hobbit” was an excellent story.
Thankfully, Rowling had made it easy by writing a first chapter filled with mystery and delight.
Happily, Tolkien had done the same by writing a first chapter filled with humor and surprise.
I read loudly. I read with lots and lots of emotion. I read with a heart filled with hope.
A couple minutes into the story, I heard Clara giggle. A second later, a genuine laugh. When I heard Clara again, a minute or so later, she had apparently moved from the stairs to the kitchen. A couple minutes after that, she strolled into the room and sat down in her customary seat on the couch.
She was hooked.
To her credit, she admitted that she was wrong to pass judgment so quickly.
Despite this acknowledgement, I suspect that she’ll do the same thing to me again in the future.
If so, I’ll be there, ready to put nearly a quarter century of reading aloud to students to work again, not as much reading as performing the hell out the story in hopes of enchanting her once again.
Of all the good things I have done as a father over the years, I think that hooking Clara into these books and thereby including her in all of our family adventures might be my single greatest achievement.
Keeping her fed and housed has been pretty great, too.
