The Little Engine That Could and A\a full set of Encyclopedia Britannica are the books I remember in our home growing up. I was not a reader. I was too busy to be a reader. My knees were always dirty.
Reading was modeled at home. My mom would sit in the plaid pleather chair, feet on a hassick, sun shining in the window on her as she read. My sister was a reader. She would retreat to the bedroom we shared to read. My dad would read at the table. Often researching some information on concrete or construction. He would read to hone his craft. I don’t remember either of my brothers reading – not that they didn’t- I just don’t remember.
I was a walker. On library day at school, my mission was not to find a good book but rather a book that was small and easy to carry. I repeatedly checked out Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit. I think I remember reading it a handful of times. It was the size that appealed to me.
My childhood was busy.
Books never called me.
I heard the call of my neighborhood friends wanting to play manhunt.
I heard the call of my bike, and the swing-set in the back yard.
I heard the call of the mounds of dirt on the edge of our backyard.
I heard the call of living and playing.
No I wasn’t a reader
My life is busy.
Books call me.
My journal calls me.
I still hear the call of friends and colleagues wanting to play.
I hear the call of family and family time.
I hear the call of blogs to be read.
Now, I am a reader, a writer, a liv