Reading · Bandersnatch’s Substack

by Kristen Pittman

Some weeks this summer, we’ll be sharing some “flashback” posts—highlights from past years’ newsletters. We hope you’ll enjoy them again, or catch them for the first time. This post was first published in May 2024.

“That looks like a good spot to read,” my oldest daughter said, peering at a fork in the oak tree at the end of the sidewalk up to her school. I paused our goodbye hug to look at the place she was pointing out.

“Yes, that looks like a great spot to read,” I told her, dropping a kiss on the top of her head before walking her to the front door.

All my daughter heard was simple agreement. But what couldn’t possibly be explained was the deep, aching nostalgia that settled over me.

The cool of early morning, the whispering of stirring leaves, the thought of rough bark biting through the back of my t-shirt—I was instantly transported back to early June days spent in a little white house on Suburban Avenue, just outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Every summer my mom, brother, and I spent a couple weeks with my grandparents while my dad traveled for work. And every summer, I spent hours perched in the apple tree in their side yard reading, among other things, Shel Silverstein’s books of poetry.

Not long ago, I was listening to a podcast interview of a neuroscientist who studies the mechanics of memory. He and the interviewer were discussing the differences between semantic and episodic memories. Semantic memory deals with factual knowledge we have. Episodic memory details our lived experiences. As I listened, I thought back to the nostalgic ache I had when my daughter pointed out the tree.

My guess is you have, at some point in your life, read something by Shel Silverstein. If I asked you about his poems, we could connect over his silly stories, almost lyrical rhythms, and simple black-and-white art. We could recall very similar semantic memories.

But only I could think of Shel Silverstein and smell the scent of sour green apples mixed with my grandmother’s fragrant flower garden. Only I could hear the doleful call of mourning doves or feel a breeze soothing sun-warmed skin. My episodic memory will only ever be my own.

Even so, my semantic memory of Silverstein’s work is enhanced and enriched by my episodic memory of reading it in my grandparents’ tree.

I bet you have some book that elicits the same response in you—some book that makes you feel, smell, taste, or hear something that no one else will.

This could be a lonely thought—that some things about a particular book or author or story will be things only one individual can know. I choose to think of these experiences as little delights to be treasured forever.

It is this kind of delightful experience I hope to facilitate for my daughters as they grow in their love of story. I hope one day they will be stopped in their tracks, feeling the deep and joyful ache only they can know.