Sunday, September 30, 2012
Thanks to my mom, I do not remember a time in my life without books.
I grew up with bed time stories, lounge-in-bed books, read-that-again poems, and serious literature. Every few weeks my family would spend the morning retrieving books from all corners of the house, pile into the van and drive to the town library. Once inside we divided, each of us to peruse the shelves for just that kind of story. I wandered the aisles and traded one adventure for another, a stack of books that would last a good spell. Then we would devour our books. It was understood and okay, that if you got a gem of a book, a straight read-through-dinner and the night kind, you could disappear for a period undisturbed.
Books fueled my childhood imagination. I looked hard for fairies, dragons, wolves and gnomes. Books made me explore my backyard deeper and taught me to be a good detective. I found philosophy in picture books: life is full of alternative paths; having a home didn't necessary mean a house. I learned that if you get flushed down the sewer, a plan of escape is necessary, and follow-through is vital to success. Books taught me that silly is good, and to laugh often at myself. Books led me to believe that stories are everywhere for the sharing.