Over the past few weeks I’ve had quite a journey. I visited Mississippi during the days of the civil rights movement, I was at the Salem witch trials, and right now I am stranded in a lifeboat with a teen-aged Indian boy and a Bengal tiger in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Yet I’ve never left my home. Amazing.

Books, dear readers. Books are the answer. Food for the mind and soul. Mind-expanding, imagination-fueling books.

I read a lot. However, not all books turn out to be as good as I would like them to be. The feeling upon finishing a very good book is initially one of regret. I hate to close that cover for the last time. No more words to read. No story to continue. finis. Still, a certain lightness of being and satisfaction is felt at the end. The three books I was referring to above are: The Help (Kathryn Stockett); The Heretic’s Daughter (Kathleen Kent); and Life of Pi (Yann Martel) [not yet finished]. Each one is such a book as I talked about above. I got lucky three times in a row.

I love reading a book and learning something from it. Something I can take away and apply to my own life as I see fit. Maybe it’s a fact I didn’t know before, or a way of looking at things differently—being shown another point of view I’ve never thought about—anything to change my life just a smidgen.

I was the first one to learn to read in my first-grade class. Don’t laugh now. Back then kids weren’t reading before they even entered school. Heck, kindergarten for me was painting pictures and learning to tie my shoes. I still have the book I read too. (See actual book below.) I can remember reading it in front of the entire class.  By Grade 5 I was reading way above my level. Read, read, read. Books, books, books!

I was also a teensy bit proprietary about my books and felt the need to scribble my name in them. Sometimes my proprietariness was not exclusive to my own books, but my sister’s books as well, and alas, many of her books were signed with my name. Looking back at all these books I defaced with my childish signature makes me shamefaced.

On summer days I would lug my considerable collection of books outside on the picnic tables under the trees for a kind of “outdoor library.” God only knows why I felt compelled to do this. Taking them out was fun; bringing them all back in was decidedly not.

Some books I’ve reread several times. Others I have kept thinking I will go back and read them, but never seem to. They sit there in spine-to-spine repose in my bookshelf. But even though they are not read they are not neglected. I tend to visit them frequently browsing for something to read. I brush them with my hand, my fingers tracing their titles, and in the act of doing so, my brain receives little bits and pieces of remembered story lines in return. Ah, I remember you. But you are not what I am looking for today. Perhaps another time, I tell them.

I am not quite sure was I felt compelled to write this down tonight. I know you are all thinking—boring!—but I don’t care. Right now I have to get back to the boat and feed my tiger.

I hope your day is filled with words beyond compare! Go read a book!

P.S. Yes, my penmanship have greatly improved over the years!