Who taught you to read? Was it a parent? A grandparent? A teacher? Your pet dog?
Okay, I realize it makes no sense to assume your dog taught you how to read. Mainly because dogs don’t have opposable thumbs, which prevents them from turning the pages without ripping them to shreds.
Besides, even if they DID have opposable thumbs, they would have to lick their paws before turning the pages, and who wants a book with dog spit all over it? But I digress.
I’ve had a love of reading that goes back as far as my memory can take me. I was fortunate that my paternal grandparents were both teachers who gently guided my four siblings and me toward an interest in learning.
One of my earliest memories is sitting on my grandfather’s lap while he read short stories from a book called “The Jack Tales.” I learned to follow the text as he read, and I think that’s how I learned to read. That experience was the spark that set me on this path of being a life-long reader.
My grandmother told me that I would sit in my great-grandfather’s lap when I was four years old and read the newspaper to him. I seriously doubt I could read an entire news story, but I might have been able to pick out a few words. But even at that young age, I loved to read.
Fiction books are able to take us to new worlds and to characters who provide us with untold hours of entertainment. Nonfiction expands our intellect and knowledge, and increases our ability for rational thinking. It chases the shadows from the dark corners of our brain, where ignorance resides.
Because my family knows that I’m a reader, I can’t remember too many birthdays or Christmases when I didn’t receive some kind of book. I also like giving books as gifts.
The spark provided to me when I was young is now a steady flame. I have bookshelves full of novels and nonfiction as a testament to my passion. I’m grateful to everyone in my life who guided me down this path, and for all the books they introduced to me.
Including the ones with dog spit on them.