I believe that books are very important to children's upbringing; not simply to develop their reading skills, nor even because of the knowledge children can gain from reading books (there are so many other effective ways of obtaining information nowadays), but because of the family memories involved. I cannot imagine a childhood without books and all my childhood book memories are, in one way or another, family memories.

Each time I read this special book I am reminded of my grandmother. Sans Famille, a French children's novel, that my (French) grandmother gave me on my seventh or eight birthday. My grandmother wanted all of the children in her mixed family, including my brother, sister and myself, to become better acquainted with the French language. She gave me the book on my birthday early in June, and I had to spend an hour reading it with her every single morning of every single day for the duration of the summer holidays that stretched ahead.

She would sit in the garden, with a tall glass of cool lemonade on the table before her. I would stand behind her chair. The book, which was a coffee table size book with colored pictures and large print, would be open on her lap. I read aloud, while looking over her shoulder. Sans Famille was written in the late 1800s and is the story of a young orphan, Remi, who was sold to an old street musician and had to travel across France in the company of his master, a couple of performing dogs and a monkey. One can assume that the book did not cast a happy tone, such as the one in Charles Dickens' Oliver Twist.

Because my French wasn't very good, I would only understand about 30% of what I was reading aloud. My grandmother would correct my pronunciation, and ask if I understood. Yes, perfectly, Mamie was always my answer. After that, she'd point at a word and ask for the meaning. I would look desperately at the lovely colored picture on the page for inspiration. If I didn't guess the correct meaning of the word, we would have to read the whole chapter again, which happened more often than not. By the summer's conclusion, we hadn't completed the book, and I was sure that I didn't care to lay eyes on it again. Ah, but you know what? I finished the book, in secret, in bed, using a dictionary for reference. It was necessary for me to hear the ending of the story. The ending of the book set a happy tone, by the way. The orphan boy finally found his family, in London, and discovered he was the heir to a large fortune.

My father would read to us about Sinbad, the sailor, in Arabic when it was bedtime. We were not as old as we are now. I was five years old. Though I have never had the chance to read those stories personally, I will take them with me in memory. My father turned it into a game. After he was finished reading us the story, it was time for bed. All of us three lived in one room. Occasionally, Sindbad would also enter the room, sixty minutes or so after we went to bed. Standing in the doorway was a dark figure doning a cape, which turned out to be my father. At that time we had no idea who he was. He would ask each of us in turn how we were, and what could Sindbad do for us tonight?

One night, when Sindbad asked my brother what he could do for him ,my brother answered that he hated his father and wanted him to go away. Whatever the problem had been that had made my brother say that, it was resolved the next day.

Books for children can be used to bring family members closer. Making books part of your children lives is one most important things in my book. They will have fond memories of you with it.