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A fifth grader whom I taught when she was a struggling third grader, told me she was "addicted" to the books from a particular series she'd received as part of CLN's summer reading program. She begged me to order the rest from the public library for her. This is a girl who used to hate to read! She's among those who improved their reading scores over the summer. Tremendous.

Several months after recording a mother, she stopped by to thank us, again, and to tell us her son had brought his recording and book to school. She's been in prison since he was a baby so his friends haven't met her, nor have any of his teachers. “This is my mom,” he told his teacher, holding up the CD, along with his book. “This is my mom.” The book, the actual, physical object, acquired significant emotional and symbolic weight, a presence, a proxy, for an unimaginable absence. “Well,” this first-grade teacher said, “let’s meet your mom.” She played the CD for the class, twice.

"I feel like a mother again. It's like sending a piece of my heart. My sister says my little boy always takes his book to bed with him and listens to his recording over and over and over."

"I can finally start building a home library! I've heard about that before!"

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