I am, in my soul, a reader.

I grew up in a house full of love and books, and everyone I meet falls into one of two categories. They either Don’t Get It, or they Do. This is true for both love and for books, and often (though not always) both at the same time. Today, I have been thinking about books. The house I grew up in is full to bursting with books. (aside: In my experience, the love of a family such as mine cannot burst, but books are still physical things and even libraries run out of space. But love is for another post.) There are books in shelves, on dressers, stacked in the hallway. They are organized by subject, by author, by preference. Every bedroom and every common area has at least one bookshelf. Every transitionary space has books waiting to find a bookshelf. My nephew, perhaps both my nephews by now, has been holding books upside-down and backwards since long before he could read, in that ever-present human mimicry that spawned the phrase, “Monkey see, monkey do.” Read the rest of this entry