At one time, my mom belonged to several book clubs: these were the “clubs” that, with a subscription, would send the newest publications, a “Book of the Month” sort-of-thing.  In between waiting for the mailman to bring the next volume, we also had a well-endowed library in town and one in every school, thanks to the combined interests of the University of California and the federal government. There were always books in our house and we all read. A lot. I think I was the only kid in town that looked forward to a rainy day during summer vacation.

There was a storage shed attached to our house that stored the overflow from the bookcases. Books on shelves lined nearly half of two walls in the shed, gathering dust, for the most part. My sister Micki discovered the joy of mom’s eclectic tastes in reading material when she’d forgotten to write a book report and it was Sunday night. In desperation, she searched until she found a slim volume and read only the dust cover of “Young Man from Caracas” or some such improbable title. Well, it happened that her English teacher had also been my English teacher, so she naturally assumed Micki had read the entire book, the report was well-written and, deserved or not, was marked with an “A”.

Some years later, our brother Lonny was placed in Mrs. Wyles’ class, the very same teacher, mellowed considerably but still assigning book reports. Having even less time for homework and a flair for being creative, Lonny wrote about a book on falconry. That book, to date, has not been written. He not only got an “A,” but Mrs. Wyles never forgot that report and would comment about it every time she saw me or Micki. Lonny was, later, licensed as a falconer so he got something out of the entire fabrication.

When it came to interior décor, mom was a “minimalist,” having figured out, early on, that the fewer the knick-knacks, the less time she had to spend dusting and cleaning thus leaving more time for reading. As she got older, she asked me to bring the books in from the shed, about five at a time. She’d go through them, put those she wanted to re-read aside and she’d donate the others to the library. The good part about aging is that, by the time you bring out the old books, you’ve forgotten what they’re about! 

On the other hand, my daughter brings books home from the thrift stores and I do know whether I’ve read one by the time I get through page one. Maybe that means I’m not as old as I think I was on my birthday last month! But I usually read on and enjoy the story all over again, so maybe I’ll keep that book for the next time around. I still have my first copies of the A.A. Milne poetry for children and stories from the 100 Acre Wood. I’ve read them countless times and there are a few of my early drawings on some of the pages, but I plan to read these to Patience this year. She’s a good reader though not particularly enthusiastic but all she needs is a “kick start.” Micki was off to a slow start too, but discovered the magic of books when mom handed her a copy of “Gone with the Wind” as remedy for a summer day of “I’m bored.” I’d been hooked early on with tales from the Brothers Grimm, which are truly grim and nothing like the translation into Disney’s world. My daughter was aghast to learn that Cinderella’s step-sisters cut off heels or toes to fit their feet into Cindy’s slippers, hoping to make the ride to the castle as the next princess bride. If you think that’s grim, read the Grimm version of “The Little Mermaid.” Or maybe not. It might discourage your enthusiasm for reading.