Tuesday, July 5, 2011

A reader.

From the time I was young I have had a love affair with my books.  My mother would take me along on her weekly trips to the library.  She would fill her basket with mysteries and mine with my favorites: Make Way For Ducklings, Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel and Lentil.  We would return home where instead of giving her peace to read, I would demand to be read to.  Pretty typical of most two year olds.  I also had some favorites at home, Good Morning, Farm, Finger Tales and Richard Scary's Please and Thank You.  I added to my collection many Little Golden Books and some records of stories, probably purchased to buy my mother some reading time.  When my mother went to the hospital for her cancer treatments, she sent home a book for me every day. I have a few of them still, including the one she sent home the day she died.
When I finally turned 8 I was so excited.  I could get a library card!  I would no longer have to make do with the ones I had at home or got at school!  I could choose as many as I could balance in the basket of my bike.  I eagerly rode down to the library, got the form, took it home to fill it out and have my step-mother sign it and rode back down to get my card and begin checking books out.  I rode down to the library a minimum of twice a week. I read through every book in the children's section by the time I was twelve.   My ability to read and comprehend far outpaced my emotional maturity so after a few pretty graphic mysteries and romances I settled on biographies and historical novels.
My taste in books has gotten much wider.  I can no longer sit on my bed reading and eating cookies all hours of the day and night.  But I still feel that thrill of excitement every time I enter a library or bookstore; the endless possibilities of being home.

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