Love of Reading

The Love of Reading…

This is a Guest Post from Award Winning Journalist and Historian Ruth Anita Foote

Three chairs down, and one row over, I watched in dread as his small hands fervently tore and tugged at the wrapping. I knew he was eager to get inside and see what surprise awaited him. I feared every second that passed, the closer and closer he came, and I wished with all of my might that I could just disappear—just slide down my seat and seep through the floor. I did not want to be around when he reached his destination.

The madness ended as fast as it started. Swift and complete.

And as I knew, he slowly turned toward me, his eyes as lasers on me—yes, I was the doomed target, and the moment I feared became reality.

He stared at me. Or maybe, it was through me. With such intensity. And such confusion—as if his third grade mind could not wrap around, nor fathom, what he had seen before him.

I could not maintain his puzzled and bewildered glare, and I sheepishly, with much embarrassment, quickly looked down into my lap. All morning I had asked myself: Why—oh why—couldn’t there be a bright shiny truck or toy soldier, or even some cheap marbles inside?

Why—oh why, oh why—had Mama bought him a book for our Christmas gift exchange?

His stare haunted me through the decades even though the gifting of books remained a treasured part of our family repertoire for Christmas, birthdays and other special occasions. Our love for books was ingrained in our DNA. But even as a child, I knew that I could never explain the joy of reading to those who had never been introduced to it. And that made me sad.

But that year, as a nine-year-old, I knew there were no words I could say to bring forth redemption. And so I remained in silence and shame. The only thing that saved the day was our teacher had given me a book as a present, and joy filled my heart. It was Peter Pan, and to this day, it sits on one of my bookshelves. When I first read it, I remember being so worried about the possibility that Tinkerbell might die, and I wasn’t sure if I was too late, but I clapped with all my might, nonetheless, when I reached that passage. And I’m sure like children throughout the ages everywhere, I was so relieved when she became better and could fly once more.

Books were always an integral part of my life as far back as I can remember. My favorite, as a child, was The Little Ballerina. I read it over and over and over. That book made me want to become a ballerina. I never became one, but that never stopped me from collecting paintings of ballerinas, and taking ballet as an elective in college.

My sister and I enjoyed escaping into the worlds of Hans Christian Anderson and the Brothers Grimm. Pure magic. We enjoyed fairies and goblins, knights and princesses, and folk tales and fables.

Our love of reading was indeed intoxicating. Next to life itself, it was the greatest gift my mother gave me.

My mother also introduced us to comics, and they were gems as well. We quickly fell in love with Archie, Little Archie, Richie Rich, Casper and his cousin Spooky. We loved to read about Superman and Batman & Robin. And it was even greater when they emerged years later on televison. And of course, Mama also made sure our collection included comics about the classics and historical events.

My fondest school memories were when the small readout was passed out for students to order Scholastic books. I don’t know if it was more exciting to decide which books you were going to order or when the day came in and they had arrived.

Encyclopedia Brown was our Harry Potter, and we couldn’t wait to get hold of a new book. Somewhere along the line, I graduated from Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys to Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot. As an adult, I settled on espionage and legal thrillers. I had not visualized Matt Damon as Robert Ludlum’s Jason Bourne, and surely not Tom Cruise as Lee Child’s Jack Reacher. But that didn’t stop me from watching the movies. Years later, I smiled whenever I would recognize a country’s name from being a place of intrigue in my international thrillers. Among thrillers, another favorite was Joseph Finder. At times, I preferred the British authors when it came to thrillers because they seemed to have such layered writing. Just like their wit, you had to uncover the layers to really appreciate their words. And for that, you admired them greatly.

Before I left my childhood, and even as an adult, I loved Beezus and Henry Huggins books. As an adult, I remember being on an airplane and trying unsuccessfully to muffle my laughter as I read about Ramona’s latest antics. Later in life, I connected the dots on why I loved the name Megan—she was the main character in another favorite childhood book, A Wrinkle in Time.

These characters followed me through the years, and were very much a part of my life and soul. And they inspired me to write stories.

In my childhood, the neighborhood library was always a delight, especially during summer when you received shiny little gold stars for each book you read. You were only in competition with yourself to put as many stars on the your certificate as you could. My sister and I cherished these months.

Not sure why, but somewhere along the line, I even began reading stories on young Catholic girls who had visions. Not sure if it was because I always envied my friends for being able to go to catechism while I had to wait patiently for them to return so we could play afterwards because my family was Methodist.

It is now hilarious to recall, but I remember that I nearly panicked at crossing the line from books with pictures to books without pictures. But it didn’t take me long to overcome such dread. I quickly realized books without illustrations allowed me to go deeper within the story and kick my imagination into even higher gear. I don’t think I ever went back to pictured books after that.

Books took me away—far, far away. I lived and breathed through them.

For a while, as an adult, I disregarded and ignored audible books. They were no way to enjoy a book. There was something so comforting about enjoying it tangibly—opening the cover, turning the pages, holding it in your hands. But then I checked out an audible, composed of CDs, because that was the only version of the book available. At the time, I just popped one of its CDs into my car’s CD player even though I had other options to listen. However, it made me enjoy driving more as I found myself actually looking forward to being in my car so I could hear what happened next. That was when I decided that an audible book was not so bad, after all.

But—when it came to the love of tangible books, I believe my coworkers considered reporting me for elder abuse when I dropped my mother off at Barnes & Noble one morning, and hours later, she was still there. First of all, they could not imagine what was she still doing, and had obviously concluded that I was being negligent. I tried to assure them that even after we got off work and I went to pick my mother up, most likely she would still not be ready.

My mother first introduced me to John Grisham. The Firm had just come out in paperback and she purchased  it for me as a treat. After he became part of my addictive cadre of authors, I quickly realized that I could no longer wait for the paperback versions from Mama, and either purchased or checked out the hardbacks from the library. A friend could not understand why every time she called, I refused to talk because I was engrossed in The Pelican Brief. I hadn’t even known before opening the book, one of the settings was Lafayette, La., right where I lived—a delightful surprise. All I knew was that like his others, the legal thriller would be enthralling, and I wouldn’t want to put it down until I had consumed every word, every morsel.

Once I had to laugh when I realized that just as you attract the same people into your life, you attract the same authors. That’s why it did not surprise me when Eric Van Lustbader was asked to write Ludlum books after the author passed away. Both of the authors were among my favorites, and indeed had reminded me of one another previously. But along with thriller authors, I also enjoyed Phyllis A. Whitney, Taylor Caldwell, Jackie Collins and Harold Robbins. And I was in love with James Baldwin.

My most cherished times with my niece—decades ago—were when she would excitedly ask if I wanted to read when I was babysitting her. It had become a tradition. When I promptly said yes, she would quickly get her book, and I would grab mine, and we enjoyed one another’s company in silence as we shared the love of reading, respectively and together. Such precious moments surpass quality time.

Through the years, I’ve had to self-impose a ban on public library book sales. Not only were they costly—the greater the sale, the more boxes of books I filled up—because I no longer had room in my place. Since I could not trust myself, I forced myself to ignore these biannual events. Buying books actually took precedent over paying bills.

And to this day I refuse to open a novel from one of my favorite authors if I had a pending project deadline. I no longer trust myself here either. I become so engrossed in each chapter, I completely forget about my responsibilities. Instead time dissolve, and the world ceases to exist. Only my book is reality.

After chatting the day away with a friend, I got ready to leave when a thick paperback, Black Betty, caught my eye. I picked it up, skimmed the first few pages, and put it down. Something made me pick it up again, and within seconds, I found myself asking if I could borrow it to read. That book introduced me to Easy Rawlins and Mouse. And moreover, their creator Walter Mosley, and I quickly added him to my cadre of favorite authors. All of Mosley’s characters have been a delight, but once I met Leonid McGill, none of the others could compare.

Sometimes, it is difficult to explain the thrill of diving into a book and losing sense of everything. But that is exactly what happens. There have been times when I am in awe of a certain passage or paragraph or phrase, and may read it over and over again, marveling—and savoring—at how the author has strewn his words together.

Reading provides you with an invaluable opportunity to stretch your mind across timeless spectrums. It takes you within the lives of characters, and you find yourself joined at the hip with them as they maneuver here and there throughout the pages. Reading is addictive. And so fulfilling.

There is nothing better than a good book to exercise your mind to new heights and great joy

Always remember, it is never too late to develop a love for reading. It may seem a little hard to grasp at first, but it is an amazing investment that compounds daily, and you will reap priceless dividends.

Ruth Anita Foote is a writer, award-winning journalist, author, public historian and online entrepreneur. Please connect with her at linktr.ee/ruthanitafoote.