Let Me Read That Picture

One of my most precious memories is the sound, the rhythm, the cadence, the -- dare I say it in this election year -- the nuance of either of my parents reading to me as I fell into sleep. I think they did it well after I passed age 11 or 12. Each had their unique, specific cadence that brought different meaning when either read to me. I know that Mike Muligan and The Little House were read to me. Thus, I have enjoyed watching a bio of the life of Virginia Lee Burton tonight, one of those illustrators whom I am sure I recall, and whose visuals take me back to those voices that brought such comfort between the warmth of tie quilts and the chill of mid-January prairie nights filled with frost and coyotes in the near distance.