Introduction: The History of a Reader

In my mother's family, not reading was unacceptable. My grandfather was an education professor at the local college and my grandmother a retired biology teacher. Two of my uncles were also teachers, and my own mother worked as a journalist and an English teacher before I was born. Everybody read all the time. Newspapers, magazines, fiction, non-fiction, the backs of cereal boxes, everything. At one time, I counted twenty-one bookshelves in my grandparent's house.

It wasn't just reading. In my family, the art of letter writing never died. A game of Scrabble while watching Wheel of Fortune was the favorite nighttime activity. The crossword was a staple on to-do lists. My grandfather made up stories, some of which he wrote down, some of which he didn't, one of which he even published. Not even old age and macular degeneration could keep my Yoy (the other kids called him grandpa Roy; I couldn't say it), from his beloved words. As his sight got weaker, the print got larger and he switched his writing notebooks for the large pads used to help youngsters learning to write to form their letters.

However, even in this literature-saturated environment, the love of reading eluded me. I was content to sit on Yoy's knee and have him read to me. Nothing could have kept me from one of Mannie's (aka Granny Mark's) stories about her childhood. Still, the thrill of curling up with a book of my own and reading to myself eluded me. I'd rather be out climbing trees, or watching Disney movies with my best friend Kelly. When first grade came along though, I no longer had a choice. I had to learn to read.

I hated it. I was bad at it. I fought my teacher every step of the way. Luckily for me, Mom wouldn't have it. Maybe it was inconceivable to her that a daughter of hers would never be "a reader." Maybe she knew what a benefit extensive reading offers in school. Maybe she wanted to expand my imagination by exposing me to the wild and varied worlds contained in the written page. Whatever the case, while I fought the teacher, Mom fought me. Unlike other kids, I didn't just read the assigned short story of the night and then go to sleep. Oh no, I read TWO short stories, and I read them slowly and carefully till I got it right. And over time, something wonderful happened. As my reading improved, my love for it increased. Before long, I too was playing Scrabble (and losing spectacularly). By the end of first grade I was just as likely to be found with a book in my hand as up a tree.

Then, towards the beginning of second grade, my Aunt Mary (another teacher in the family) did something that sealed the reading deal. Her own children, both several years older than me, had outgrown many of their books, so she sent them to me. That first enormous box had the first thirty-two books in The Boxcar Children series. I read the first one. I was hooked. I read them all, over and over until they were falling apart. I bought more of the series. I took one to school and asked the teacher to read it to the class. I had found the first love of my literary life. In short, a reader was born.