For The Love of Books
I’m not sure whether I love words because they create books, or I love books because they contain words. Like the chicken and egg conundrum, I suppose it’s irrelevant. I’m extremely fortunate to have been born into a family who valued and respected the written word. The ability to explore the world through books and find the right words when I need them most was a priceless gift. Neither of my parents finished high school, having to go make their way in the world at a young age, but they self-educated themselves and created opportunities to learn and grow throughout their lives.
I don’t remember my first books; I was born into their world, but I could read before I started school. One of the benefits of having older siblings was that someone was always available to help me with new words and phrases. They were also old enough to drive me to the Dairy Queen. Both are equal in the eyes of a four-year-old.
Weekly trips to the library were a highlight of my summer routine. The Killeen Public Library wasn’t as grand as some others city libraries, but it stood out for me, nonetheless. It was a large, square, modern building that took up an entire city block, with big white steps leading to the entrance. Inside, the clean, well-lit and expansive space was quiet and cool (this was bliss in the relentless summer heat). My mother and I would browse contentedly for as long as it took to find just the right books for the coming week.
Once home, I would tuck a book under my chin and scale the sycamore tree at the edge of the front yard. Thick branches hung at least ten feet above the street and created a perfect reclining seat where I could lounge comfortably undisturbed for hours under the cover of the large and lush green leaves.
In between trips to the library there was no shortage of other reading material at our house. My parent’s impressive collection of books lined two walls of the den. Most were too grown-up for me at the time but over the years, I worked my way through all the Reader’s Digest Condensed compilations. The counterpart monthly publication, along with The Saturday Evening Post and Alfred Hitchcock Magazine helped fill times that called for light reading. Yes, Hitchcock was considered light reading in our house. My mother had a penchant for exploring the darker side of humanity through mysteries and horror. She was a complex woman. Her kind and gentle nature apparently concealed her dark and macabre side. Now that I think about it, “gallows humor” was plentiful in our house, so maybe it wasn’t so concealed after all.
It’s impossible to remember every single book, but there are those that stand out for me as time markers. In my very early years there were nursery rhymes, fairy tales and Dr. Seuss. A few years later, I read my first favorite proper novel: Island of The Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell, inspired by the true story of a young Native American girl who was left alone with her dog for 18 years on the San Nicholas Island during the 18th century. I read it so often I committed most of it to memory. I was elated when I came across a copy in a second-hand bookstore a few years ago and convinced my granddaughter, who was the same age I was when I read it for the first time, to give it a try. She humored my request but returned the book mostly unread. We’re all different and I was pleasantly surprised when she asked for a book of short stories while working at a summer camp last year. It doesn’t matter what we read, only that we do.
Other books were a rite of passage. In my early teens I covertly read Once Is Not Enough and Valley of The Dolls, both by Jaqueline Susann; The Exorcist by William Peter Blatty; Helter Skelter by Vincent Bugliosi and Curt Gentry, and other less controversial titles that were not Catholic mother approved. What she didn’t know, didn’t hurt her. Looking back now, she probably knew.
My mother’s eclectic taste rubbed off on me a bit and after I’d grown and left home (not in that order) we traded Jackie Collins, Danielle Steele and Stephen King novels. I even adopted her nighttime reading habit, staying up into the wee hours partly to finish a chapter, or the book, and partly to scare myself silly. From there, I moved on to Anne Rice and her world of vampires and witches and New Orleans. My mother was gone by this time, but her spirit read with me and I’m certain she enjoyed the world depicted in these stories as much as I did, and still do.
Reading was a lifelong habit, but it was also my means of escape from a mediocre life. Without realizing it, the habit shifted from immersing myself in books, to diving into the vast realms of the internet. In the beginning, the two happily coexisted and the internet even fueled my inner bibliophile, not only by providing easy information on books and authors, but by simplifying delivery through the new service called Amazon.
In the early days, the internet was a magical place where every single book lived and would be delivered to your door in a matter of days. I was a little late to Armistead Maupin’s Tales of The City series but caught up with Barbary Lane in no time. The same with Harry Potter. I explored my spiritual interests in Daoism, paganism and witchcraft, I read the classics I’d missed by Dickins, Wilde, Austen and others, fun pulp fiction like Bridget Jones Diary and Margaritaville tales by Jimmy Buffett. You name it, it went in my online cart. Those little brown boxes with a smile printed on the outside and little sticky notepads tucked inside as a gift became my library replacement and before long, I needed more bookshelves to hold my own precious tomes.
Over time devices became portable, and more personal, and social media became the dopamine hit my brain needed to cope with increasing work stress and responsibilities as I moved up the corporate ladder. At the end of the day, I didn’t have the mental bandwidth to read anything but word-bites.
The E-Reader revolution began competing with physical copies for tech-friendly book lovers, like me, who saw the development as the best of both worlds. The first models weren’t great, but they quickly improved, and I upgraded to a Kindle Paperwhite with the intention of reviving my reading habit. I now had a device the size of a single paperback that contained over a thousand books. Some I left unfinished, most I left unread. As I first announced, and then approached my retirement date, I began scanning the Kindle store offers, loading up on ‘retirement reads’ but even after that milestone passed, it took a few months for my brain to decompress enough to think about reading.
I’ve finally freed up the brain space to become immersed in a story. I’m a recent fan of the Libby app, having registered with two libraries (libraries!) and am quickly expanding my queue of books waiting to be read.
I’ve regained the ability to think about the space just outside of the story. To contemplate what might happen next in a story. I’m once again reading for the journey, instead of the escape. I want to talk about books, gathering recommendations like precious stones.
An additional development is that I’m spending more time writing on my laptop and scrolling my iPad somewhat less. It feels like a more significant way to spend my time. More reading has led to an increased desire to write, both this column and the stories I that I've had locked away. Stories I like to think my mother would want to read.
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