Overwhelmed

 

I grew up surrounded by books. My grandparents’ house in Oklahoma was a treasure trove and I worked my way through the shelves. My uncle had had polio as a child and so his old room was filled with them. A staunch anti-book banner, my mother had an open-read policy. I started with his Pogo collection and then by the time I was eleven or twelve I’d already read Andersonville, The Egg and I, Cheaper by the Dozen, and Gone With the Wind, to name the few that I remember.

          I slowed down a bit in high school – as you do – but then college and Grad school cranked up my reading hours, followed by a career teaching English. For years it seemed I was always working my way through something required by someone else, or something I was preparing to teach. In fact, when a past book club proposed that we read classics, I looked at the list and realized I’d read them all.

          Now going to the library is like a trip to a chocolate counter where I have unlimited pick of anything I want. I’m choosy about the quality of the writing and since I tend to immerse myself in what I read, I don’t want to read about tragedy and heartbreak. 

        I did join the book club here in my complex and I know it’s good for me since it yanks me out of my usual track, but our next one is a thriller (which I never, ever read) and the title alone gives me the jeebies.

          Then a day later an acquaintance handed me a shiny new book she thought I’d like. I’m sure she meant well, but it’s something I wouldn’t have chosen because Picoult’s characters are usually embroiled in family traumas. Maybe I’ll just skim a description on line and give the book back with a thank you next time I see her.

          And meanwhile, I’d just been to the library and come away with four books under my arm.