Every group needs a rebel, right? I guess in this particular case, it would be me. You can call
me Venessa, the troublemaker. Give me a topic to write about and I go off in a completely
different direction. While everyone else in my group is writing about their top five favorite books
with ease, I’m over here panicking, so I must chart a new course.
Even though I’ve spent most of my life with my nose in a book… or two or three… I can’t
recall ever having a top list of favorites. There have been good ones, bad ones, ones I’ll always remember, ones I wish I could forget, but to categorize by first, second, or third place, isn’t something I can do. What I can do, however, is tell you why I love books and what they mean to me.
In my house growing up, books were everywhere. If mom didn’t have one in her hands or by her side, something seemed out of place. There were even those rare occasions where she would bring one to the table at lunch. I always wondered where she disappeared to when she read, since
it took repeating mom numerous times to get her to answer. I understood this more when I got older, and my own children complained about the lack of attention given when I had a book in my hand.
Watching my mom read, you could almost hear the story come to life with each changing expression. Sometimes a hint of a smile played across her lips, at other times, furrowed brows caused faint lines to appear on her forehead. When she read bedtime stories out loud, each character came to life with their own voice and personality. It made the stories memorable for my brother and I, and the grandkids and great grandkids to follow.
From the time I could walk, a small bookshelf filled with encyclopedias, science books, and other numerous reference materials, sat in the hallway outside my bedroom door. It was a magical place to me, and I would spend hours lying on my stomach rifling through each of their pages ‘reading’ to myself. I had barely learned my ABCs, but pictures speak a thousand words, and my imagination took me on all kinds of adventures. One day it could be a ride on a rocket ship with my favorite sock monkey, Pricilla. I still have her, by the way. Or the next, I would be a sheriff in the old West chasing robbers across the prairie. Each picture opened my eyes to a new world, and as I got older those special books continued to play an important role in my life. It’s hard to believe they not only survived me, but my little brother too. After all these years, it’s a different house and a different bookshelf, but there they sit, in my parents’ house, like an old familiar friend waiting to take someone else on their next adventure.
When I started reading at age four, I was given my own little bookshelf filled with all my favorites. My parents had started my collection with a weekly reader book subscription, and as I grew, the shelf did too, reading like the years of my life. Frog and Toad, Danny and the Dinosaur, Where the Red Fern Grows, The Call of the Wild, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, The Boxcar Children, The Babysitter’s Club, and Sweet Valley High, to name a few.
These days, those treasured books still hold a special place on my bookshelf, along with the several other thousands I’ve managed to acquire over the years. Yes, I said thousands. I have more bookshelves than I have walls and wouldn’t have it any other way. Whether it’s romance, fantasy, crime thriller, poetry, or sci-fi, each one holds the power to transport you to another world. What adventure will you take next?
This was Awesome and it took me back to my younger days. I found myself reading in a few different voices. Thank you.