by Virginia Allain

Created on: November 04, 2009

It never occurred to me that what we had was something special. My parents read a lot and so did all five of my siblings. Reading was just part of life.

Mom started us early visiting the library where we each selected the three books allowed. That wasn't enough to last for the two weeks between visits. Fortunately after reading our own choices, we could read our brother's and sisters' books. That expanded the number of books to 18 for the two week period. It was hard to wait for someone to finish a book if it was part of a series we'd started, like The Borrowers. To prevent poaching, we resorted to hiding the coveted book under the mattress or in the closet.

On our first library visit, I ambitiously decided to read all the books in the children's section. I started with the A authors. By the time I reached Alcott and read through Jo's Boys, Little Men, Little Women, and Rose in Bloom, I started rethinking the project. It was going to take a long time before I'd get to Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books and I really wanted to read those. Dropping that goal gave me free range but I did my best to read everything by favored authors.

We lived in the country, so during the summer we had long hours to fill with playing in the creek, taking care of our animals and reading. Knowing that chores were being handed out, I'd guiltily ignore Mom's call while I continued reading. Pretending not to hear would only gain an extra ten minutes or so of reading before she would finally track me down.

Reading in bed was a nightly ritual. Mom's voice calling up the stairs, Time to turn out the lights, always seemed to come at a place where I didn't want to quit. I found that if I tiptoed down the hallway, I could sit on the top step reading under the dim night light.

I wasn't very interested in Nancy Drew, Honeybunch or Sue Barton Student Nurse that was being offered to children in the 1950s and 60s. Maybe reading all the Alcott books developed my interest in fiction from earlier times. I read Pollyanna and thought how wonderful to spread cheer throughout your village and boost the spirits of the sick and crotchety people of the world. I cried over the plight of Black Beauty and developed a passion for horse stories. That led me to Thomas C. Hinkle's horse and dog stories.

Many of the books that grabbed my imagination involved orphans or fatherless children. I'm not sure why that was, but I found Anne of Green Gables, The Secret Garden, Elsie Dinsmore, Heidi, Michael O'Halloran,

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