When I was growing up, there was nothing I loved better than having my nose jammed in a book. My allowance, such as it was, went to Nancy Drews, which were disappointingly short when one was a voracious consumer. I read my dad’s Louis L’Amour paperbacks from the bookcase in the back hall, The Wind in the Willows, The Narnia series, Island of the Blue Dolphins – whatever I could get my hands on. By third grade, I was obnoxious about it. I had to shut down a teacher who challenged me concerning a choice I wanted to borrow with a “tell me what you just read” quiz by doing exactly that.
I didn’t have any more problems checking books out of our little school library.
My parents, bless their hearts, made sure books were always gifts as well—for Christmas, birthdays, and surprises out of nowhere.
The magic of words.
I loved to write, too – scribble in all disciplines, really. I guess…
