The Joy of Being a Lifelong Reader

In gratitude for writers and the readers wandering through their words.

I grew up in a family with 11 children. I was number 8 in the lineup and frequently received hand me down clothing, courtesy of three older sisters. My parent’s budget may have been tight, but there was no expense spared for hardbound books, high-quality literature, and magazines.

Our bookcases were overflowing and many of the shelves contained two rows of stuffed books. It became difficult to extract the one you chose. End tables were stacked and coffee tables held piles of magazines, tempting young minds to take a dive. Even the end of our kitchen counter became a depository for books without a home.

I tested at a 4th-grade level in reading when I entered first grade at the age of 6. I had been read to, even as a toddler, by conscripted, babysitting siblings. Two of them had enough patience to show me how to read and corrected my errors.

I kept my proficiency somewhat hidden because I relished their dramatic enactments while storytelling. Animated fluctuations in their tone of voice, while I stared into stunning illustrations, sent me spinning into child nirvana, the imaginal realms.

My parents were hopeful their enthusiastic, young readers might turn into writers as well. They encouraged our curiosity by never revealing the definition of a word. “Look it up in the dictionary. Why do you think we have those beautiful encyclopedias and dictionaries lying around? If you don’t look it up for yourself, you’ll never remember it. Don’t be lazy.” Truer words were never spoken. Dictionaries began to intrigue me. How were words formed? What was their etymology? A future writer had been hatched.

I developed an addiction to National Geographic magazine when I turned 7. Sometimes I hid a new arrival under the mattress in my bed, having observed where my older brothers stashed their contraband, naked centerfold, Playboy Magazines.

My own obsession was an early indication I would go on to live out the archetype of an Explorer. I wrote a 17-page letter to my parents after completing a perilous, two-month journey down the Amazon River in my twenties. This was not about two, gone wild, women. It was the parental, edited version. A responding letter from my mother awaited me in the Poste Restante in Salvador, Brazil. Here’s an excerpt:

“My dear daughter, After reading your hair raising adventures on the Amazon, I turned to Dad and said ‘This is the aftereffect of raising a National Geographic fiend.’ My cousin Norma, [author of 90 novels] thinks you should turn it into a manual for teens, titled “How to Continue Torturing Your Parents After Emancipation.” The subtitle, “Constantly Remind Them You Could Die Young.” The joke is on me, as I check off another fulfilled fantasy, adventure of the child we couldn’t tame. Keep reading and please, occasionally try choosing a journey which does not accelerate our aging.”

I eventually became the reader for three younger brothers. There was a nine-year age difference between my youngest brother and I, so he became a frequent recipient of my theatric inclinations. His favorite story was titled “Who’s Got My Hairy Toe” about a giant whose toe was stolen during a nap. He stormed around, creating havoc and destruction in his search. Even though we both knew the ending, Andy always worked up a sweat, shrinking in horror from my new embellishments.

The ending to this rather gruesome tale was one sentence, “You’ve Got It!” when the giant found the culprit and pounced on him. I would lunge for Andy’s toe, allowing him to struggle out of my grip and tear off screaming. We both shrieked as I pursued and tackled him, trying to wrestle off his shoe. After we dissolved into laughter, he begged for another read of the same damn story. What a glutton for a fright.

Reading stories in our family also became a reflection of our innate, kid wisdom. Our sessions often morphed into a form of child therapy. We all realized on some level that storytelling was a safe release for tension in our sensitive nervous systems.

And then there was the delight of fairy tales. The best early childhood, Christmas present I received was a Golden Book, Special Edition of International Fairy Tales. It must’ve cost my parents a pretty penny. When I tore off the wrapping, Xmas and the outer world disappeared. I scurried off to my top bunk bed haven and began devouring the pages. The illustrations moved me profoundly. Each tale originated in a different country and had a moral embedded throughout. I lingered wistfully over the unobtainable, talking animals, magical birds, and wise old crones. Suspect, evil people, and forces instilled a sense of caution in my impressionable brain. Tales of intrigue and deception, such as Green Snake in the illustration below, were my favorites. Be aware, things were not always as they appeared.

I believe our very souls hunger for the record of what has been, tales told in the language of our ancestors. We instinctively need this knowing to establish roots, a groundedness in being. Our need to communicate extends to virtual platforms in our present time. Who knows what lies ahead in the future? One thing for sure, humans will continue sharing their stories.

Traipsing around the world for years led me to an even deeper love of the written word. Seasoned travelers had codes we lived by. We knew our packs should be light as possible and no wider than our backs, allowing for clear navigation on crowded streets.

Almost everyone carried a book to barter with and a book we were currently reading. One of the first things we did when landing in a hostel, or anywhere there was a gathering, was to pull out our trading book and take a look at the group offerings.

Sometimes serendipity would play out, similar to a magical happening in a fairy tale. I met up with a young woman from Madrid in the South of Morocco. She told me about a book I must read, ‘The Last Unicorn’ by Peter S. Beagle. I wrote the title down and moved on to Spain.

Two weeks later, I was on a ferry to the island of Ibiza when I spotted another nomad. He was immersed in the ending of a book and I wondered what he had. I was almost finished with mine. An hour later, I felt the shadow of the tall Aussie standing in front of me. “You look like a person who would enjoy the book I just finished,” he stated. ‘The Last Unicorn’ arrived via the unseen network of Book Gods and Goddesses. Bestowing their treasures on a whim. It was a mystical story of a female Unicorn, who believed she was the last of her kind and went on a quest to see if her belief was true. It seemed oddly familiar.

My favorite genre is a memoir. Mysteries come in a close second. I cracked up with laughter over a section in ‘Wild’, Cheryl Strayed’s memoir. She made a novice hiker’s mistake, taking everything she might need, ending up with a backpack she rightly named Monster. She could barely walk her first day on the kick-butt, Pacific Crest Trail.

I overloaded on my first long hike into the wild too. I felt real perky in the parking lot, hauling my own monster out of the car. Swearing to my boyfriend I could handle the ridiculous load. Flexing my biceps, pointing out the rippling muscles in my calves.

I had fresh, raw onions and potatoes on board, no dehydrated food for me! After steadily ascending grueling switchbacks, I became a beast of burden, sure I would die of a heart attack at the age of 19. I was also beginning The Wonderland Trail, ninety miles of wildflowers circling Mount Rainier. It was the most exquisite site I had ever seen.

There is nothing more intriguing to me in the Arts than the power of words. A writer offers a reader a glimpse into their mind. Every now and then, into their heart as well.

I learn valuable insights from the thoughts and creations of a writer’s imaginations and memories. How their life had been touched by where they lived, how they were raised and the experiences forming who they became. All this wealth of information because I have always loved to read.

Gotta go, the last chapter of ‘Untamed’ by Glennon Doyle is beckoning. Now there’s another wild ass woman. The book, highly recommended.