For the Love of Books

My son sat in the backseat of the car, strapped into his car seat holding a book. I could hear the chatter between he and his sister, but paid little attention to what either was saying. At some point I tuned in to my son’s voice and realized he was reading the book he held.

“How do you know how to do that?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m just reading it.”

I didn’t teach my son to read; he seemed to figure it out on his own. I had planned on homeschooling my children, setting a solid foundation for their reading by introducing phonics as building blocks for words, words for sentences, and sentences for stories. Somehow my son beat me to the punch.

When I think back to my childhood, I realize I don’t really remember learning how to read either. I remember going to kindergarten and first grade, listening to stories and following along with Dick and Jane. I remember learning about vowels and consonants, silent es, diphthongs, and blends; but I was already reading. My sister was a year ahead of me in school and I think I just wanted to keep up with her, doing the things she did. At some point, the words on the page just sorted themselves out and started making sense.

On the stairway landing in my childhood home sat a bookcase built by my dad, filled with books which were like my friends. Among the shelves sat tattered, well-worn copies of Big Little Books and Little Golden Books through which I was introduced to characters like Richard Scarry’s Lowly Worm and Little Red Hen. My siblings and I each had favorite books sharing space on the shelves. Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel sat next to The Story about Ping. I read and re-read a children’s version of Grimm’s Fairy Tales and, when I hear the stories of Snow White and Rose Red or The Bremen Town Musicians, I still picture the illustrations from that book.

I fell in love with the library, both the one at my elementary school and the one downtown which held after-school reading programs. I remember the honor of applying for, receiving, and signing my first library card, believing I had been entrusted with great responsibility. I thought it a huge disgrace to return a library book late, and was humiliated when I once found myself owing nearly a dollar in overdue fines. I felt a certain thrill in realizing I could search the card catalog by author, subject, or title. I loved my libraries so much I wanted to recreate one in my home and, on my mother’s ancient manual typewriter, created checkout slips for each of the books on my family’s bookshelf. Every now and then I find a book from my childhood which still holds a homemade library slip tucked inside its back cover.

My reading habits developed early. Once I found an author or series I loved, I couldn’t rest until I’d read every title in the collection. I read all of Marguerite Henry’s horse stories, often using a flashlight under my covers late at night. I remember feeling at a loss when I finished the works of a beloved author as I wandered around the library until I found a new favorite.

Highlights for Children was a staple of every doctor and dentist office waiting room when I was a child, but my siblings and I were fortunate enough to receive a subscription at our home. We would fight over who got to read the newest issue first, to find all the hidden objects and read about the latest escapades of Goofus and Gallant. I walked home for lunch each day from my elementary school and, on one of my lunch breaks, decided to write a summary of one of the issues. I chose one sentence from each page of the magazine and copied it onto my elementary-grade lined school tablet. Returning late to school because my project took longer than I thought, I proudly showed my work to my teacher. She seemed more excited than I expected, especially since I was worried about getting into trouble for being late.

My teacher began helping me see I’d made the connection between loving written words and wanting to write words. I remember wondering how someone came up with stories long enough to make whole books.

Sometime during my teen years, my love of reading seemed to dwindle. Throughout high school and college I rarely read anything not listed on a course syllabus. I wrote English compositions and term papers only because I had to.

After graduation, when I found I had time to read for pleasure and the freedom to choose what I wanted, I felt like I was learning to walk again. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to read, and I couldn’t seem to remember how to choose. I found myself gravitating toward the stories of Wendell Berry, Frederick Buechner, and Madeline L’Engle, needing to read everything they’d penned. I read my way through stories of simple English village life written by Miss Read. After reading their stories, I turned to biographies and memoir written by some of my favorite authors. I began to see how the places and experiences in their lives shaped their writing.

I became convinced that the simple everyday stories of regular ordinary people matter.

As with reading, I don’t remember being taught how to write; I just do it. I’m still not sure how one comes up with a story long enough to make a whole book, or even if I want to. But I’ve begun collecting stories, simple stories of real people in the real world. Vowels, consonants, and phonetic patterns come together, and I form words and build sentences. Sometimes I even punctuate them correctly. Often my stories ramble on far too long. But I share them here and am happy to have found some fellow story lovers kind enough to read them.

Linking with Laura Boggess at The High Calling as part of her delightful Bookworms Project. Please click over to read others' favorite book stories.