Was reminded today in a happy-sad way of a wonderful book and a lesson I taught some time in the early 1980s that I reckon was the best half-hour's work I ever did in a classroom. The sadness came from reading about the death of Clive King, the writer of the children's classic Stig of the Dump; the happiness came from how reading the article ignited so many memories - of the novel itself, of some other great novels for kids I've had the good fortune to read, and sometimes teach, and of how much sheer fun those texts generated in the classrooms of a comprehensive in South Yorkshire.
In case you're thinking I'm deluding myself using the word fun here, let me tell you that the lesson I'm referring to above, which featured a reading of the chapter about Stig and Barney's encounter with the Snargets, ended in something approaching chaos with at least three kids actually rolling laughing on the classroom floor and me unable to complete a number of sentences as I was cracking up in the middle of them to the point that I couldn't see clearly through the tears of my own laughter.
Sometimes books are referred to as magical in a clichéd kind of way. It's no cliché with regard to Mr King's Stig. I must read it again soon, and become young again.
No comments:
Post a Comment