When I was very small, way back when, I remember being ill. I think it was flu, but it might have been measles… anyway, I wasn’t well. And I wasn’t a good patient, either.
So there I was—I can picture the room, the single bed, the smell of the pillows and the blankets, and the smell of Vick’s vapour rub—and in comes my Dad with a book. I have a feeling he’d just got back from a business trip to America, but I could be jumbled up.
Anyway, after feeling my forehead—as parents are wont to do—he sat down and read me the tale of Max and the Wild Things. And then he read it again, as did most of the decent adults who ministered to poor old me. Once was good, but twice was better! Once I was well again it became a bedtime ritual… for a bit. I haven’t read it in an age, and the last time was to my nephews.
I was very sad when I heard Maurice Sendak had died, but thinking of Max and the Wild Things, and his fantastic illustrations have stirred up some wonderful memories.