I love to read. I grew up as number six, of the seven children my parents had. If I wanted to be heard, I had to make my presence known. If I wanted to be seen, I had to do something noteworthy. And if I just wanted solace, I would pick up a book.
The best reading spot was in a tree. The big gravenstein apple tree in the front yard, or the little red-apples tree in the orchard were perfect. I could even spy from my perch if some unknowing wanderer came around – if I had been there, unmoving, long enough.
My mom taught me there was no use for boredom. There was always something to do (like chores), somewhere (on the farm) to go, enchantments to see (like a cow giving birth), someone to hang out with (one of my siblings or a neighbor) and adventures to be found. Along with all of that, I found books. Mom read to us when we were little. Then, somehow the nuns in our parochial school got through to my fast-flying, developing brain and sure enough, the stories came alive for me. I do remember Mom helping me sound out words at first, then low and behold Dick and Jane were regulars that I could read about and discover new horizons with.
I prefer to read for entertainment. It is much different than watching the movie or just hearing a story. The pages tell the soul of the writer and pretty soon I am wanting to understand from their perspective, just what is going on, who did it, why something happened and, well my curiosity is usually peaked.
So, enough of the articles, emails, etc., on to adventures and heart felt stories.
Photo Credit – Aliis Sinisalu