Impaled: Nostalgic rejuvenation

One thing is probably the same between all parents and children: although you have long led a life independent of mom and dad, you are still a child at home with your elders, or even the "little one" in serious cases. This is often annoying, but it doesn't just have disadvantages. Because in this parental sanctuary, you can always return to the bookshelves of your childhood and youth and dive into the worlds and stories of yesteryear. If you're lucky, the books are even still in the old children's room, which has become a sewing room or guest room, or they are neatly gathered in cardboard boxes in the basement.

The dives between the old book covers awaken wonderful memories of nightly forbidden reading hours under the covers, of stories that were always loved to listen to or read, and of pages that were never allowed to be opened again because of an eerie picture or a terrifying tale. Sometimes you even discover that you had the same favorite books as your spouse, which is nice and like a piece of childhood spent together. At least, when it's not "Hanni and Nanni at the Pony Farm."

Books (let) live

Especially for those who have small children of their own, a foray into the bookshelves of yesteryear can be very fruitful. After all, why not save what was good and beautiful in one's own childhood, what inspired imagination and dreams, for one's own offspring in the here and now? And at the same time, be a little child, fantasist and dreamer yourself once again. Thought, done. As I recently packed a few of my paper childhood companions into my suitcase at home for our son, a thought popped into my head: "Will these books one day end up in the hands of our children's children? Or will our grandchildren someday ask our son 'You, Dad, where are our childhood books anyway?" and get the answer 'I deleted them all from my tablet.'"

The ravages of time

Sure, the children's books I'm lugging home now are heavy - I'll probably have to pay excess baggage. I don't know where to put them at home, because our son's nursery is not particularly spacious. Besides, the books exude the smell of bygone days and one or the other page gives information about a menu or a chocolate snack from 35 years ago. Some of the spines are broken, some of the pages are crumpled or scribbled on - and yet the idea of neat, clean, space-saving books stored and finally deleted on the tablet sends a sad shiver down my spine. Because all the memories that pop up alongside and between the stories being told are worth more to me than hygiene, practicality, and new value. It's like I'm a little younger since the old books are back with me. That's why I hope that, despite all the technological progress, I will one day rediscover one or the other of my books on our grandchildren's bookshelves - because the old can also be a fountain of youth. And one day I'll be able to use it even more than I already do today.