In a world of iPads and audiobooks, is it hopelessly old-fashioned to read aloud to your child to pass the time on a road trip?
What if your child is 22—and she’s doing the driving?
I had planned to read The Best American Essays of 1999 silently, as any unhip, 20th-century dad should. But somewhere along Florida’s Interstate 75, I noticed an essay by my daughter Sophie’s idol, Joan Didion. I thought Didion could add some color to the dusty landscape, and Sophie turned off Phoebe Bridgers and indulged me.
My tongue hit Didion-induced potholes on every page of “Last Words,” about the world of unauthorized posthumous Hemingway collections. My kind child never complained, though she did offer to let me make the next music selection.
Instead, I noticed and read to her an essay by John Lahr, then a drama critic for the New Yorker. He was also the son of Bert Lahr, aka the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz. In fact, “The Lion and Me” was about his relationship with his dad, and his dad’s relationship to his most famous character. For a friend of Dorothy like me, the Oz arcana in the piece (his tail was operated by a stagehand holding a fishing rod offscreen!) was catnip.
Bert was already a Broadway star when he was cast in Oz—the Lion’s songs were written specifically for him. But the legend of the movie overshadowed the rest of Bert’s career like a tornado over Kansas. The realization that he would be largely remembered as Judy’s furry sidekick wounded his fragile psyche and, by extension, everyone around him. Sadly, he seemed to care more about his career than he did about his family.
In our house, we took Hop on Pop literally.
And yet John Lahr held none of this against his father. Oz brought magic to the world, and if his father provided part of the sparkle, that’s a sweet legacy, despite the cost. If you happened to be a fusty dad reading this story aloud to your indulgent daughter, you might have shed a tear thinking about a child’s unconditional love.
Did I let Sophie see that I was as mushy as the Cowardly Lion? Of course not. I quickly wiped my face, steadied my voice, and turned the music back on.
Then I glanced at my baby, all grown up and driving us to her first apartment. And I found myself thinking about Charlotte and Wilbur, Amelia Bedelia, and the BFG. They were the co-stars of both my daughters’ childhoods. I started reading to them when they were infants, lying on my chest until they fell asleep. In our house, we took Hop on Pop literally.
Many parents have something special connecting them to their kids: sports, cooking, scary movies. For us, it was books. (What is the true definition of parental love? Reading all seven Harry Potter books aloud again, to your younger child.)
Unfortunately, reading aloud is a bond that comes with an expiration date. Except, for a few hours on I-75, I got to turn back time. And you know what? I might try it again. Because I learned something on that trip. Sharing a book with someone you love is a feeling that never grows old, even when the parents do.
Marc Peyser, ’86, is the co-author of Hissing Cousins: The Lifelong Rivalry of Eleanor Roosevelt and Alice Roosevelt Longworth. Email him at stanford.magazine@stanford.edu.
