I am a reader. I have always been a reader. I wasn’t an early reader, like before I started school, but I learned very quickly there in Kindergarten and First Grade, that reading was the best escape, EVER.
I would read cereal boxes, front, back, and sides. I read my animal crackers’ box and my Little Golden Books until they were in tatters. I progressed to reading really, anything I could get my hands on until my mother had to monitor for age-appropriateness. I would read the newspaper asking for definitions for words I didn’t understand, such as “rape.” That was an interesting conversation at the age of six. Madeline and Eloise and the poor little “orphaling, who had no mother and father because they died before she was born” were my best friends. I read under the covers with a flashlight, and in the shade of the lilac bush “cave” on summer afternoons.
As a pre-adolescent, I read and re-read my favorites like A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Gone With the Wind, and Parrish. Book reports were not a problem for me. What was a problem was deciding which book to write about.
As a teacher, I was able to read all the new children’s books and the Young Adult books without a stigma of reading something too “young” because I was reading for use in school. There was almost nothing better that getting the Scholastic Books order, both for me and for my students.
I remember thinking, “I can’t wait until I can read for as long as I want, and not have to stop for someone or something.” Well, that day is here. Now the problem is what do I read next? A beautiful problem, that one. So here is my stack of books:
And here is my other stack of books, all waiting for me to settle in:
Ah. So many books, so little time. A “champagne” dilemma, for sure.