The Legacy of the Red Bag

So, I really like books, like a lot.  I always have.  When I finish a book, I close it gently and lay my hands on the cover.  I don't exactly pray over the book, but I take a moment to linger in the atmosphere it has created around me, watching characters transform back into misty ideas and thinking of the words or images that will always transport me back to that book from now on.  I see this ritual as my way of offering thanks for what that book has given me (and every book gives us something), as well as an exercise in self control because it restrains me from putting the finished book aside and immediately opening another, which would seem a bit obscene or disrespectful.  But having had that moment with my new fully realized book friend, I can never wait too long to get my hands on the next one.

It was my mother who made me this way.   Some of my earliest memories are going to the public library with my mom and older brother.  We had this red canvas tote bag with white stripes down the middle, and every week I got the pleasure of combing the shelves in the children's section and filling up the red bag with as many books as I could fit.  I would line up dolls and stuffed animals in the den and read to them, being sure to show them all the pictures on each page just like the librarian at story time.  I was like a dog that goes berzerk whenever anyone says "car ride" or "treat" - I would see that red bag and start drooling and running around in circles.  Mom also read to us every night -- Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary, all the classics that every mother should read to her children.  We would lay in my bed, Mom in the middle, and I just loved the sound of her voice and the way she rubbed her toes together while she read, crossing one foot over the other and strumming them back and forth.  Mom would tell you that she got me hooked on books even earlier than that. Before I could walk or talk, she would sit for hours with me and a book, usually one by Richard Scarry, in my lap, not trying to get me to understand the story, but just pointing to words and pictures and talking to me - Where's the ball?  Point to the red car.  How many apples are there?  I'm no psychologist but I'm pretty sure that kind of thing is good for child development.  Pretty soon I was devouring chapter books on my own, and by the time I got to Mrs. Shore's first grade class at Speas Elementary School, I thought I was hot sh*t.  I became locked in a bitter contest with two boys in my class to see who could read the most books.  It was a happy day when Omar got the measles and fell out of the race.

All of these experiences mean that today I am a 27-year-old self-diagnosed bookluster, whose love for the written word interferes with daily life more often than I should probably be comfortable with.  I've started this blog to see if I might enjoy writing about books as much as I enjoy reading them and if anyone cares about what I have to say.  So I will be posting about the books I read as I read them, and maybe about anything else I feel like talking about.  Please keep reading!