Beth Arvey Inlander

I’m an avid reader, nurtured by my mother’s love for books, which she imparted to me in so many ways. I recited nursery rhymes she read to me by 18 months. Her weekly trips to Chicago’s Loop invariably resulted in the gift of a Golden Book. My bedroom was decorated with pictures of fairy tale characters framed by red duct tape. At 8, I was thrilled when we moved to a house where I could sneak into my closet and read with a flashlight late into the night.

Nothing captivated me more than the books from my mother’s childhood, especially The Patchwork Girl of Oz, by L. Frank Baum.  My parents read it aloud to my brother and me on our annual summer road trip. What a fantastical quest through Oz with Ojo the Unlucky accompanied by Scraps, the crazy quilt Patchwork Girl; and Bungle, the glass cat.

Flash forward, and I delighted in reading the same book to my children, Michael and Amy, so they, too, could be enchanted by the quest to bring Ojo’s beloved Unc Nunky and the Crooked Magician’s wife back to life after a tragic accident turned them to marble!

Now, sequestered at home during the pandemic, my favorite time of day is reading over Zoom to my grandsons, Max and James. After making our way through some short chapter books, we began The Patchwork Girl of Oz. While sharing the same adventure with a fourth generation of our family, I hear my mom’s familiar voice drifting across our motel room and feel the weight of my kids on my lap as I read to them. Although summer trips and close contact aren’t possible in these strange times, the constant of sharing this story uplifts me.