Ever since I was a wee lad, reading has been more or less a main stay past time of mine. Even before I myself could read (an act I don't recall learning), books have been a part of my life in some form or fashion. For the next couple of posts - as it's the best idea I've had for a blog post in these weeks of drought - I will do some meandering through time, summoning memories of the books and book related experiences in my life. Also, I'm about to turn another year older, so I'm trying to forget about that by living in the past.

In a manner befitting sitcom television of the 80s and 90s, the bedtime story was an established ritual in my family. Mom and sometimes Dad would read a book or two (or a portion of a book, if it was longer) to us after teeth brushing but before we'd be confined to the late night prison of our room. This went on for quite a while, carried over into the lives of my younger siblings, and is still sometimes revived today. I probably appreciate it in a different light now than I did when I was younger, much the same as family meal time.

A lot of what was read were the usuals that all kids grow up with: Green Eggs and Ham; Goodnight Moon; Go, Dog, Go; Wynken, Blynken, and Nod; etc and so forth. I do particularly recall a set of Sesame Street books that we owned, which also reminds me of the Ernie plushie I had at about that time (incidentally, my favorite character). But, I digress. There were also some Little Golden Books in our library. I can still recall the taste of the foiled spines...

Of all the books that were ever read to me, however, there's one that stands out in my mind as being far and above the others (it also makes a great, heart warming tale to tell): the Hobbit. I don't recall exactly when this happened (general consensus places me at about 8 or 9), but my dad decided one day that we - then, Jeff, Chris, and myself - needed to experience this grande tale of adventure and theiving. I seem to recall not being enthralled by the idea of being read to initially (I was able to read at the time), but within a couple of chapters (one per night) we were all hooked. This was, of course, long before Lord of the Rings was turned into a theatrical masterpiece, but I'll be damned if my dad didn't nail Gollum's voice before it was even a thought in Andy Serkis' head. This experience left such an impression on my life that I fully plan on doing the same with my own children (regardless of whether they are boys or girls).

Counter to that, my mom read us a few of the Little House on the Prarie books (a personal favorite series of hers). I'll be honest: there are some okay parts, but as a wild young boy, the on-goings of a girl and her family in no-man's land didn't entirely capture my attention (sorry, mom). Luckily for her, she was able to reread these to my sisters recently, who probably enjoyed them more than I did. I was able to listen in on her reading this a few times, and approaching the text with my filthy, adult mind makes for some good times (though, not so much for the person reading aloud. Again, sorry mom).

There are more tales to tell, I'm sure (books we read in school and such), but that's the beginnings of my literacy life in a nutshell. Next time, I'll explore the world I opened of my own volition and where it's lead me today.