As a child, I spent countless hours immersed in books. Though I often spent most of the day reading, at bedtime I would inevitably find myself in a gripping part of a story. I would dutifully brush my teeth and hair, change into my pajamas, and get tucked into bed. But I knew that stashed under my pillow hid a flashlight. Impatiently I waited for the house to be quiet so I could pull out the flashlight. Making a tent under the blanket, I would read page after page, well into the night. All the while my ears would carefully listen for the CREAK of the floor or the SQUEEK of a door hinge indicating my parents might check on us. At the slightest fall of footsteps, out would go the flashlight, my eyes would squeeze shut, and with my arms limp, the blanket hiding my book, my breath would slow mimicking the soft quiet of sleep. Sometimes it was a false alarm. Other times Mom or Dad would peek into the bedroom, listening to our breath patterns and checking for the still forms of the children. As soon as the house was still again, the flashlight would turn on. On into the night I read, until my eyes could no longer be trusted and the lids dropped shut.
I got my love of reading from my Mom. Every day, Mom read a few picture books to us. She also read chapter books, which we loved to listen to: Heidi, Number the Stars, Little House on the Prairie, The Secret Garden, Anne of Green Gables, and the Witch of Blackbird Pond are a few that sparked my childish imagination. Mom rarely read books on her own. She said that she didn't have enough control to stop reading, so she couldn't start. During our vacations, whether camping or at Grandma's house, Mom's nose was perpetually in a book. Sometimes we ate dinner late because she couldn't put her book down.
Every other week was library day. In those days, our car was frequently out of commission. Mom would grab our red wagon and place a nice, big, plastic laundry tote on top. My brother and I would grab our bikes, and off we would go into the sweltering, Utah heat. The rule was that we could each check out as many books as we could carry. Mom cheated a little bit-she had the laundry basket to fill. Walking out of the library, I would carefully balance my stack of books against my body-arms outstretched as far down as they could go. I mastered the art of using my chin to ensure my unsteady stack of books did not topple to the ground. As soon as we exited the library, we were allowed to stack our books on the laundry basket and soon we were home. I started with my stack of books, then I read the picture books (though I knew Mom would read them aloud to us as well). Last I read my brother's books. I didn't always like his books, but by that point I was always desperate for something new to read. I calmed myself by reading his fictional books, like Animorphs and Holes, and his non fiction books on computers and pirates. When I was lucky, I didn't have to finish reading his books because it was time for another trip to the library.
In 5th grade, Grandma discovered Harry Potter. She was hooked, and bought the first three books. She sent them home for us to read. After that, we all fought over each new book in the series. Dad usually confiscated the book until he had read it first, but lucky he breezed through each book in only a couple of days. And if he was at work, I got to read the book. I grew up with Harry, Ron and Hermione, rejoicing at their triumphs and crying over their losses. I was infuriated by the emo Harry in the 5th book, and imagined how I thought the series would end. I loved experiencing different worlds and meeting strange creatures and magical characters.
I suppose I also got my love of reading from my Dad. He had less self control than Mom did, and could be found nearly every evening reading a new book. Dad enjoyed telling us funny parts of the story, or telling us part of the plot. When I asked to read them myself, he usually said they were too "adult" for me. Once, I snuck one of his books from a box to read. I wanted to know why I wasn't allowed to read them. Most of the book was good and interesting, but there were a couple strange, awkward scenes that I didn't really understand. After satiating my curiosity, I stuck to my own books.
I still love to read, though finding the time to finish books doesn't come as easily as it once did. Of my stacks of library books, I will usually finish only a couple before their due date comes. My list of books to read is growing longer and longer, and I despair of ever catching up. Most of my reading comes from textbooks-interesting, but required. I scatter several of my own books around the house, and in any spare moment, I try to read a little bit more of one of them-the Koran, a Guide to Investing, The Book Thief, Tuesdays with Morrie, The Dialogues of Plato, the Norton Reader, eventually I'll finish them all.
Sometimes I long for the days when I could spend all day reading, and then hide with my flashlight under the bedcovers reading some more.
