One of my earliest memories- I know I had just turned five years old- is lying in my parent’s bedroom, on their enormous bed and realizing that I was reading the words of a book inside my head. I no longer had to spend time saying a word out loud- it was now inside of me! That was the beginning.

My family keeps books. I have books that belonged to my mother when she was a little girl, and many of the ones that I read and was read when I was a girl. My maternal grandmother sold children’s books for decades, and many of my books are inscribed in elegant writing, To My Darling Julie, Love Grandma Bede.

These were hardcover, often first editions, of a lovely picture book or chapter book that she had found. In the ways of all true children’s book* they have been well-loved and oft-read and look it. But they are priceless, nonetheless.

I learned the world through books. From the stark but friendly geometry and primary colors of This Is London just before my family and I moved there:

This is London, Miroslav Sasek, 1959

And the walk I took down to A Bunch of Grapes in Vineyard Haven, just after my parents told me they were getting a divorce to find What Boys and Girls Need to Know About Divorce.

As my world grew, and I began to ask questions about who I was, books were sources of comfort and ideals. Outgoing but lonely, I sought the companionship of other booky-

slightly awkward girl characters- possible best embodied by   L.M. Montgomery  in her Anne of Green Gables series), and Emily (Emily of New Moon series). My own loved and tattered copy shown above.

I read and read and read. Read while walking, while brushing teeth, while watching TV (still do). But this blog is not jut about my experience reading as a kid- but about the entirety of what reading in childhood means to the child. I hope to share stories with you about book, kids and books, books and old kids, old books and old kids…. you get the picture- so, please, share!