Joy of Reading
The Joy of Reading, or,
What Reading Really Means to Me
When I was first asked to make this short speech, I was struck by the title “What Reading Means to Me.” My knee-jerk reaction was “What doesn’t reading mean to me?” As a professional librarian, I thought of all of our standard platitudes: “Reading is Life.” “Reading is Fundamental.” “There is no such thing as too many books.” I might easily have gone on and on along this vein, until I remembered that, for me, it hadn’t always been that way. Not by a long shot. My approach to reading as a child was quite different than it is today. I can still remember clearly how scientific my approach was at the ripe old age of ten. “Dad,” I would say, “next time you’re at the library, get me a book for my book report.” I did give him some direction, however. “Remember, it should only be about this big…..it can’t be more than 100 pages…..and please, make sure it has lots of pictures.” You can only imagine my reaction when he proudly walked in the door once with a copy of The Call of the Wild. “Dad!” I screamed. “Dad! This is like, huge – OhmyGod – 221 pages??! And, there’s like, practically no pictures. Anywhere! I tooolldd you -” “Dave,” he responded, only mildly irritated, “it’s Jack London! It’s a classic!” I stared at him. All I could muster in response was “Daaaaddd!!” Prior to this crisis, my only memories of going to the library were when we would drive my Grandmother there every Saturday afternoon when we took her on errands, right in between our stops at the bakery and the cobbler shop. I was thankful that my Gramma only read Westerns, since these were shelved in the coolest section of the library.
There was a big overhang above the Westerns section, right underneath the stairs which led up to a balcony, and it was a great place to hide in the shadows and throw things or jump out at people. I definitely loved visiting the library in those days.
My
What Reading Really Means to Me
When I was first asked to make this short speech, I was struck by the title “What Reading Means to Me.” My knee-jerk reaction was “What doesn’t reading mean to me?” As a professional librarian, I thought of all of our standard platitudes: “Reading is Life.” “Reading is Fundamental.” “There is no such thing as too many books.” I might easily have gone on and on along this vein, until I remembered that, for me, it hadn’t always been that way. Not by a long shot. My approach to reading as a child was quite different than it is today. I can still remember clearly how scientific my approach was at the ripe old age of ten. “Dad,” I would say, “next time you’re at the library, get me a book for my book report.” I did give him some direction, however. “Remember, it should only be about this big…..it can’t be more than 100 pages…..and please, make sure it has lots of pictures.” You can only imagine my reaction when he proudly walked in the door once with a copy of The Call of the Wild. “Dad!” I screamed. “Dad! This is like, huge – OhmyGod – 221 pages??! And, there’s like, practically no pictures. Anywhere! I tooolldd you -” “Dave,” he responded, only mildly irritated, “it’s Jack London! It’s a classic!” I stared at him. All I could muster in response was “Daaaaddd!!” Prior to this crisis, my only memories of going to the library were when we would drive my Grandmother there every Saturday afternoon when we took her on errands, right in between our stops at the bakery and the cobbler shop. I was thankful that my Gramma only read Westerns, since these were shelved in the coolest section of the library.
There was a big overhang above the Westerns section, right underneath the stairs which led up to a balcony, and it was a great place to hide in the shadows and throw things or jump out at people. I definitely loved visiting the library in those days.
My