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It seems to me I’ve spent my life in libraries, or at least in the presence of a book. As a little girl, I was taken to that lovely old library on Second Street, now the home of the Carnegie Center. As an undergraduate at the University of Kentucky, my favorite place was the browsing room in the King Library, which had soft old leather couches, enticing to a bookworm like me between classes. To check out a book, all you had to do was sign your name on a card. The card was interesting in itself because you could see who else had read the book. One physics professor must have read every book in there; his name preceded mine in every book I took out.
As a young mother, I took my sons to the bookmobile, and I escaped at night to go back to the Second Street library. In the years between undergraduate and graduate school (1945-1960), I always took out five large books; if they were small books, I would have had one read at the stoplights on the way home. As teenagers, my cousin and I would go to Cincinnati to shop. She always came home with clothes, and I bought books and music. No one ever had to guess what I would like for a present; the question was: which book? Even Santa Claus knew, in the years I believed in him.
When I finally went back to school in 1960, my time in the library was serious study. No time for novels and biographies; I was still a housewife and a mother, as well as a graduate student. And after that, as a full-time professional at UK, the reading I did was not the “for pleasure” kind.
Then retirement! What shall I do with myself? My husband died unexpectedly. I went back to my old addiction –– books. There was no one to say, “Do you know what time it is?” So I read more and more, and later and later into the night.
I joined a group of mostly retired educators who present programs assigned by committee, outside one’s area of expertise. We were thus required to go on learning. Among the membership are some of my neighbors at Hanover Towers. Our programs during the year are fairly esoteric, but during July and August, we indulge ourselves in some reading for pleasure. This year, we are reading “Crossing to Safety” by Wallace Stegner. My reaction to this new author is to wonder how he escaped me for all these years. He is of course very famous and a splendid writer –– so good that I have trouble waiting for the next Wednesday to read with the group.
When I had to stop driving, I worried about how I would get to the library. One of my neighbors, Becky Nelson, a compulsive reader like me, and also a daily walker, offered to be my “book buddy.” This has proved a great arrangement for me: I have not had to order books; I have read and enjoyed whatever she selected. Now, however, I ask her to bring me whatever Stegner books are in the library. So far, she has brought me two, and I have finished one.
It was very exciting to discover such an interesting writer. I realize my custom was to examine the new books and select from those, forgetting those authors whose work was no longer on the best seller lists. I’ll never do that again.
Reading is my addiction. As they go, it is probably the least harmful and most pleasurable one I can think of, and the best part? There are no commercials!