“Can we read the almanac?”
My 10-year-old son, Daniel, asks that pretty often at bedtime lately. He’s an avid reader, which does my book-critic heart good. But his tastes in reading can be particular, despite the best efforts of my wife and I to expand them. Left to his own devices, his literary choices roughly default to three categories: the continuing adventures of tweenage stick-figure antihero Greg Heffley, selections from the endless supply of YA books about boys thwarting Nazis, and — increasingly, these days — almanacs.