Friday, April 22, 2016


The ability to read is a wonderful thing. My mother loved to read. Every book was a friend to her.  She taught herself many things from books that her limited grade school education didn't.
I learned to enjoy reading as well,  and books became my friends. But I  remember when I  couldn't read. I  remember pulling the book "King Solomon's Mines" out of my mother's bookcase and squatting on the floor. I opened it up and held the pages flat with my little hands and marvelled at the many little black marks on the pages in line after orderly line.
"How do you know what it says?" I asked her. I don't remember her answer but I do remember her telling me that one day I would understand all those little words. Several years later I took the book out and read it. It wasn't as interesting as I had hoped, not even when I re read it years later,  and there are stories I love more but I keep it in my library now because I still remember the wonderful feeling of opening it up and comprehending what, over 50 years ago, I could not.

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