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 For my mom, books and reading were an integral part of life. We had weekly trips to
the local libraries, daily reading time sprawled across the couches and rugs in the
living room, and evenings spent exploring the wonderful, fascinating world of children's
literature together. Our library excursions also included that most celebrated of events,
storytime, after which my mother would carefully peruse the new books
section. She read everything from science fiction to medical journals, but her favorite books
were collections of short stories and comic strips (our house was nearly overflowing with
"Charlie Brown" books). When I was sick she would bring a chair from the kitchen or
living room into my bedroom, sit at my bedside, and read to me. Her soothing voice and the
animation she put into reading the story almost made being sick worth it. "Lad, A Dog" was the
last book she read to me before she passed away in 1973.
My mom subscribed to several literary magazine, if one can call "The Magazine of Fantasy and
Science Fiction" a literary magazine. There were others, but I remember that magainze in particular because the arrival
of the magazine was an event. Both of my parents read it. No matter who got the mail,
literature was primarily my mother's domain and she got to read the first story. As the
magazine was passed back and forth between them over the next several days, dinner discussion
focused chiefly on the stories, with much speculation and thoughtful head-nodding. I was too
young to understand much of what was being said but I liked seeing my parents so deeply engaged
in something they enjoyed together.
The role modeling and reinforcement paid off. By age three not only could I read and write,
I had developed my own music notation system and composed songs with the help of a
small electric organ which had found its way into my bedroom. (I also choreographed
theatrical dance routines to these songs, much to the amusement of my family.) An essay based
on Hemingway got me a scholarship to college, and I make my living, a good one, as a writer,
albeit of computer documentation and not fiction. Those were extremely valuable skills to
have learned so young. (I still use those theatrics today whenever I volunteer as a
costumed storyteller for children's homes, hospitals, and libraries.)
When I was driving home from the library this afternoon, I glanced over at the books I'd
checked out, "The Year's Best Science Fiction" and "The Tenth Anniversary Calvin and Hobbes
Book," with their creaky plastic covers and stamped due date cards (they don't use them
any more but the cards are still glued inside the front and back covers) and I was struck
by the familiarity of the scene and by old childhood memories. I thought about the gift
of loving to read that my mom had given to me, and thanked God that I turned into someone
who loves to read, just like her.
Thanks, Mom.
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