My grandmother had a library in her house. It smelled like must and yellow paint. Sitting on the floor, looking up, I’d imagine that I could hear the voice of each book. A chorus of authors, some living and many who were no longer breathing, saying “Here are my thoughts. Let me share with you.”
Haphazardly organized, some books were alphabetical while others were grouped into categories like “History”, “Fiction”, and “Reader’s Digest”. Still others were simply stacked in no particular order. My desire to read them all made my heart beat into my throat. Then, as childhood swept me into my teens…those voices grew softer with the passing of days.
Books extend our life experiences. Beyond the places that we will travel, the people will meet, and even what we are able to imagine.
My grandmother had eight children and many more grandchildren (whom frequently filled her home), but somehow she always had time to read. Whenever I feel like I don’t have enough time, I think of her…and I look around at my appliances (which were designed as “time-savers”) and I know that I do have time.