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.