That crazy book lady

Everyone has a story.

Mine began with books.

In a corner of the playroom in my family’s first home was a book case lined with colorful volumes of children’s stories – many of them passed down from my much older half-brother.

“The Runaway Flying Horse.” “The Little Old Man Who Could Not Read.” “Leaf Magic.” “Walt and Pepper.”

My favorite, by far, was  “Miss Suzy,” the story of a lonely grey squirrel whose toy soldier friends help her defend her treetop abode against a gang of menacing red squirrels. I was fascinated by this little rodent who drinks from acorn cups and lights her home with firefly lamps.

When my parents read to me before bedtime, I didn’t just look at the pictures. I studied the words. Before long, I was reading on my own. I was selecting books above my grade level, which inexplicably irritated the cranky, ancient nun who presided over the meager library of the Catholic elementary school I attended. I was passing spelling and vocabulary tests with flying colors.

It’s a good thing, too, because I struggled in math. I rarely grasped science. It took me years to appreciate history. I was, and am, “athletically challenged.”

There were many periods of my early years when I wasn’t sure I had a friend in the world. But I still had my books.

Like Mary Lennox in “The Secret Garden” – a beloved book I discovered in second grade during that hallowed tradition known as the Scholastic Book Store – I had an escape. For me, it wasn’t a bed of crocuses but a pile of novels.

This post is what I anticipate will be the first of many about my love of reading and all things book-related – reviews, spotlights on authors I enjoy, and so forth. And because I do have other interests, I may stray from this blog’s primary theme from time to time.

As I seek to establish a solid footing for “That Book Lady Blog,” any feedback – book suggestions, post ideas, constructive criticism – is welcome and appreciated.

I’ll leave you with the words of Sylvia Plath in her “Unabridged Journals” (which is sandwiched in my stack of TBRs):

“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.”