It’s funny the things our parents leave us, often without realizing they are doing it. My mother bequeathed to me an enduring love of reading. When I think of her, my mental pictures almost always involve books. She read constantly, especially in her later years. In her nineties, I think she was consuming a book a day, though she sometimes forgot she had just read a particular book, read it again, and enjoyed it just as much the second time. When we visited each other in Phoenix or St. Louis, people often asked me what in the world we did to pass the time. We read. We sat on opposite ends of my couch or hers with our feet up and our noses buried in our respective books, and we read together. It was our ritual.
My mother belonged to the Literary Guild and Book of the Month Club for years. She hung out at public libraries and gave advice to people perusing the shelves at local bookstores. She read fiction — mysteries, espionage, historical, and romance. She had to keep recycling books because, even though she seemed to be constantly installing bookshelves, they always overflowed. When she died, her daughters and granddaughters felt like we had won the lottery as we packed up many of her most precious titles.
If there is a reading gene, she definitely passed it down to us. We read, compulsively. We buy books; we trade books; we borrow books; we own multiple library cards. We are addicts. We read different kinds of books for different reasons. I read to escape, to relax and unwind, to learn, and, sometimes, just to be doing something. Some people crash in front of the TV; I curl up with a book.
My fondest memory of childhood was of the annual book sales at my school, P.S. 51, in New York. Every year, the newest and best children’s books — later to become classics — were displayed like jewels on long tables in the library. My mother and I would examine each one and then thoughtfully order our selections. The titles and covers are vivid, even today, some six decades later: Anne of Green Gables. Heidi. Misty of Chincoteague. The Happy Prince. Geraldine Belinda. Mary Poppins. Lad of Sunnybank. The Crystal Locket.
Alas, too many of these treasures have disappeared over the years, but some remain as testament to my mother's precious gift.
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