Back in late June, I was talking to my friend Adam, who was going to see his nieces, ages 11 & 13. They were passing through NYC on their way to summer camp, and Adam wanted some gift ideas. Now, my memory of summer camp is that the best thing one could possibly receive was a food package, particularly if that package contained ramen noodles, Easy Cheese, and candy. But that concept was rejected out of hand, so we moved on to books. Adam went through a list of books he still had from back in the day, and I yay’d and nay’d and pondered age-appropriateness (which has never been my forte). Paula Danziger? Totally. Bridge to Terabithia? Probably read it in school. Lord of the Rings? Oh right, the movies. Sylvia Plath? Mmm, maybe wait a few years for the teen angst to bloom more fully. Anyway, I was having fun, but Adam eventually decided to bring several options and let them each pick one out.
The report the next day? The 13-year-old heartily recommended that her younger sister take The Giver. To which the younger sister replied, “yeah, well – I have a kindle.”
And then I felt old and out of touch. Because that had not even for a second crossed my mind.