Books… Duh

I don’t remember not knowing how to read. I don’t remember learning to read. What I remember is reading. Books. Lots of them. First it was picture books and easy readers, cereal boxes and comic books. I wanted to move on to the hard stuff. The school librarian didn’t seem to appreciate my second-grader’s frustration at not being allowed to check out chapter books before third grade. I got around the system by checking out books of fairy tales — with one story per chapter.

I remember the day I got my own library card at the bookmobile. When the Washburn branch library opened in 1970 at 52nd & Lyndale in Minneapolis, it quickly became my happy place. So. Many. Books. When I checked out 17 books one afternoon, the librarian had to provide me with a paper grocery bag to cart my spoils home.

Somewhere along the way as I brushed shoulders with the people that populated the books I read, I began to jot down passages that stirred me, excerpts with great turns of phrase, or those which seemed to distill important thoughts and ideas. My earliest memory of desiring to capture others’ words was when I read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings at age 14 or so. Maya Angelou wrote “the murmurs of waking people were sliced by the cash register as we rang up the five-cent sales.” I could hear the ding in the air and was in awe of the image she created in my mind.

I’m not just an avid reader. I think it’s safe to say I’m a rabid reader. I love books. I like to talk about books. And now I want to write about books.

Welcome to Books… Duh. The posts may be book reviews, mini-summaries, or just a collection of beautiful words I’ve gleaned. Another work in progress here.