Under The Covers

One of my great joys in childhood was to read. I went through a period of devouring Nancy Drew Mysteries, Little Women, The Five Little Peppers, and the list goes on. When we were sent to bed with a ‘lights off’ command I could not resist reading my treasured books. I would take a flashlight and pull the cover over my head. There in the dim light of my bed cave I would devour the adventures and thrills between the pages. Sometimes my heart would pound with freight, and I would put the book to my heart for a moment. Somehow though, I needed to continue through and find out the outcomes of the adventurous Nancy Drew or the sleuth of the moment. I loved the smell of books, and the feel of them in my hands. In a day when illustrations were black and white and interspersed throughout the book, I would look ahead at the picture and insert myself into the scene. So much was left to imagination, and the intrigue was addictive. Night after night I would leave my world of chores, and family and experience the world in a way my provincial life would never afford. When I read about the Normandy Invasion I was there on the beach. When I read about Cromwell’s Head, I was a witness to English history. Later when my reading choices were of a higher caliber, I learned of other cultures, other peoples and witnessed their suffering and tribulations. Some books were read more than once; The Diary of Anne Frank, A Tale of Two Cities, The Brothers Karamazov. I traveled the world over, and developed a depth of knowledge that went beyond the history books. It all started under the covers.