I love to read. So far as I know, I have always loved to read. I remember unoriginal episodes of reading with a flashlight under the covers. That probably provided a major contribution to my need for glasses in the sixth grade. About broke my poor father’s heart. Not being an avid reader, he would not have understood
My mother would, though–although she would not have approved. But she read all the time. Regular excursions to the library always resulted in armloads of books to carry home.
And I remember that library, an old house, in the center of our village, that is now on the historical register; welcoming wooden floors to sit on while reading and looking for books. I was not impressed when, years later, they built as a new modern facility across town.
Although I did use it prolifically, also. It holds one of my few negative reading memories: At