Reading Voraciously

by Terri McFadden

In my childhood home my favorite room was the cathedral ceilinged living room with its twelve-foot high bookcase. It was filled with volumes on myriad topics, reflecting my mother’s eclectic taste. There were books on everything from history to religion to science, and classic and contemporary fiction.   

I very quickly learned to read and soon read all the books kept on the children’s shelves in the play room. By the time I was ten I made the leap to Mother’s collection. She rarely suggested books and never censored them, she was just pleased to see me reading. Only once did she question my choice. When I was 11, Mother spotted me reading Hawaii by James Michner. There was a slightly racy scene in it that I had already read. She asked me about it and was relieved when I confessed I hadn’t understood it. Naturally I went back and reread it – it still didn’t make sense.

During those exciting years of learning about a world outside of our small-town, I read about dinosaurs in the Gobi Desert of China, I cried when I read about the dog found in Pompeii, frozen in its last agony. I read Gulliver’s Travels and Anne of Green Gables, Ladies Home Journal and Newsweek and the back of the Rice Chex box (which had a changing newsletter). In short, I devoured anything I could get my hands on.

It got so I preferred reading to playing outside. On a Saturday, after morning chores, I would find a nook somewhere in our large house and settle down to read. With luck I could stay undetected and read for four or five hours. Sometimes my sisters or my mother would roust me out and I’d be forced to go outdoors, leaving an unfinished story. The long dreary days of school were hard for me. I hated being separated from my books. Often, unable to bear not knowing what was happening in my book-of-the-day, I would sneak it into class. When I got caught I didn’t mind the punishment – it was worth it. Oddly enough, reading probably held me back in my school work. However, except for math, I believe I learned more of history, science and literature on my own. The problem was that the teachers weren’t testing me on what I was reading.

When I was old enough to ride my bike the mile to town to visit our small library, it was something of a shock. Although my mother didn’t mind what I read, the librarian most assuredly did! She wouldn’t even allow a child to look at the books in the adult stacks, which I minded very much. However, she did guide me to children’s fiction that I hadn’t read before. I especially loved the series The Black Stallion and Nancy Drew and I discovered that I loved mysteries. I still do.

It seems voracious readers run in the family. My daughter and granddaughter are from the same mold as my mother and me. When I visit their house, more often than not both are deep in a book. Ten-year-old Bella has the intense concentration that I used to have; she rarely hears what is said to her when she is reading. The other day her mother and I were having a conversation. I noted that Julie looked rather tired and she confessed that she’d stayed up late in order to finish a book. I suggested that maybe she read too much. Bella lifted her eyes from her book and said: “You can’t read too much!” I’d have to say I agree.