The Littlest Critic

I find it rich beyond belief that as I prepare to step down from a 15-year tenure as an alternative weekly critic, my 7-year-old son’s reviewing career is ascendent. Illustrating the value of independent businesses, a recent visit to the beyond-charming Little Shop of Stories in Decatur yielded a mega-dose of bookwormophilia in my man-child. One hint of A’s interest in Ripley’s and other oddball phenomena and the bookstore manager Terra, who was so righteously named, was off and running. She was grabbing books about parasites, books about Houdini (score!). The woman knew a slightly freaky book kid when she met him. Then, the coup de gras: Terra unloaded a stack of advance reader’s copies for A to peruse. You know, check them out, make some recommendations.

“You are a book reviewer!” I squealed with delight at preparing my child for professional obsolescence.

His first, rather ambitious if you ask me, undertaking was a 12 and up (yes, I’m bragging. No he didn’t read it on his own) tome about the Scopes monkey trial. We enjoyed that one, probably because the word “monkey” was involved, much as I enjoy a film with the words “Viggo Mortensen” involved.

I bought him a clipboard for taking notes. He wrote a heartwrenchingly cute note to Terra, who has become a huge intellectual crush and G.O.N. (Grown-Up-of-Note) to A. He recommended the book to readers interested in “court,” which is perceptive, since that probably describes about 75% of America.