I cannot remember a time when I was unable to read. I have a
photograph that shows my mother reading to me when I was about four, so
I know there was a time when the letters on the page were mere
squiggles, but I am unable to connect the small child in the picture
with any definite memory. I do recall, however, Curious George
and stories about an elephant named Horton. I remember the
star-bellied Sneetches and Brer Rabbit yelling, “Do anything you want,
but, please, don’t throw me in that briar patch.” I still smile
when I think of those stories from my early childhood.
When I was about twelve years old, my family made a
weekly trip to the grocery store. Every Friday night, after Mom
finished work, we would drive out to the new strip mall, to the Grand
Union. I dreaded those trips. My Dad called me the “tote and
carry boy.” I was supposed to push the buggy behind my parents,
but I probably spent more time sighing dramatically and rolling my
eyes. Even with all my displays of pre-teen angst, I must have
been some help because, eventually, I was given an allowance.
Along with that first allowance, I was permitted to visit other stores
in the strip mall. Two doors down from where my parents shopped
was a bookstore. I bought a copy of Analog: Science Fiction & Fact; it cost one dollar.
Since then, I have always found something mystical
about books. Find a single sheet of paper on a table and it
is, at best, a curiosity--something to look at once and then
forget. At worst, it is simply another piece of clutter, waiting
to be thrown away. Glue the edges of several pages together, or
fold them in half and thread string along the seam and those pages
transform into something different, something important, something to
kept on a shelf or to be categorized in a list.
Here's mine: