I visited the National Gallery of Art with some college friends yesterday. We went to see the Dorothea Lange photo exhibit. If you're in or near D.C., I recommend it. Her photos of migrant workers showed the hardships they endired during the Dust Bowl. I felt as though the images bridged the generations. Today's newcomers face many of the same hardships as those in the photographs.
We ducked into the museum's busy cafe to wait for the rest of our group, and found ourselves near a woman and her two young daughters at the next table. The girls were young, with, I'm sure, short attention spans. I couldn't imagine taking my own daughter there at such a young age. I could imagine her toppling over one of the many statues that were propped precariously on pedestals amidst the priceless paintings, or spilling something on the beautiful marble floors.
The girls at the table next to us, however, were giving their full attention to their mother, who was reading aloud to them. We eavesdropped, remarking on the titles of the books she was reading. She occasionally stopped to feed them the healthy snacks she had packed for the visit. She deftly peeled a clementine without really missing a beat. At one point, she pulled out two glass jelly jars filled with water. You don't want to hear my thoughts on bottled water, but needless to say, when I saw her produce those jars, I was in total awe of this young mother.
It was then that she pulled out the Madeline book. I nearly moved my chair closer so I could hear it, but I didn't need to. I can recite it by heart. I can still clearly hear my mother's fake French accent as she read Miss Clavel's parts, and the squeaky voice of Madeline, both of which I adopted when I read this story to my own daughter so many years later.
The young mother soon packed up their things, loaded the girls in the stroller, and they were gone. I wish I could have told her how many powerful memories she brought up in that cafe. Memories of my mother. Memories of myself as a young mother, and memories of my daughter as a little girl.
Good night little girls, I hope you sleep well.
Good night, Good night, Dear Miss Clavel!
We ducked into the museum's busy cafe to wait for the rest of our group, and found ourselves near a woman and her two young daughters at the next table. The girls were young, with, I'm sure, short attention spans. I couldn't imagine taking my own daughter there at such a young age. I could imagine her toppling over one of the many statues that were propped precariously on pedestals amidst the priceless paintings, or spilling something on the beautiful marble floors.
The girls at the table next to us, however, were giving their full attention to their mother, who was reading aloud to them. We eavesdropped, remarking on the titles of the books she was reading. She occasionally stopped to feed them the healthy snacks she had packed for the visit. She deftly peeled a clementine without really missing a beat. At one point, she pulled out two glass jelly jars filled with water. You don't want to hear my thoughts on bottled water, but needless to say, when I saw her produce those jars, I was in total awe of this young mother.
It was then that she pulled out the Madeline book. I nearly moved my chair closer so I could hear it, but I didn't need to. I can recite it by heart. I can still clearly hear my mother's fake French accent as she read Miss Clavel's parts, and the squeaky voice of Madeline, both of which I adopted when I read this story to my own daughter so many years later.
The young mother soon packed up their things, loaded the girls in the stroller, and they were gone. I wish I could have told her how many powerful memories she brought up in that cafe. Memories of my mother. Memories of myself as a young mother, and memories of my daughter as a little girl.
Good night little girls, I hope you sleep well.
Good night, Good night, Dear Miss Clavel!