Happy Sunday! I have been quite productive today, if I do say so myself. And I do. I know you’re not supposed to toil on the day of rest, but I really wanted to get the tree knocked out and peace and order restored to my home. I didn’t get around to mopping (maybe by design, maybe I’m pooped) but accomplished pretty much everything else I sat out to do. I need to be putting forth more effort on reading, but maybe this week I can settle in and do some of that.

Speaking of reading, it pains me to see someone apologizing for a lengthy post on Facebook. Guess what? You aren’t forcing people to read what you’ve written. It’s not literature class, they’re not obligated. Just like I’m not obligated to look at 80 pictures of your grandchild. I rarely see anybody apologizing for that, by the way 🙄 So stop apologizing! Say what you want to, with as many words (or pictures) as it takes! It’s your page.

Another thing you don’t have to apologize for is not taking calls. And not answering text messages right away. Sometimes you just don’t have the energy for people. You know what a phone call is about: they’re wanting to gossip or ask for a favor. An innocuous text asking what you’re doing is leading. I hate that so much. You’re under no obligation to tell anybody what you’re doing, what you’ve done all day, or why you didn’t answer the phone. “I didn’t want to” will burn, but it might cure them of their nosiness.

Now I’m off track. I was gonna talk about reading. My friend Emily asked me the other day who instilled my love of reading. Well, my mother did. She read to me in utero, and she ran me to the little Bookmobile once a week over at the bank. Every now and again, if I was lucky and her car was running good, she’d take me to the big library in Sevierville with a real childrens’ section. I could check out 15 at a time, and that was all my little bluejean satchel could carry, anyway, but they didn’t last me more than a few days. And if am recalling correctly, I read most of them twice. My mother encouraged me to read all the time, and continued to buy me books well into adulthood. I am eternally grateful for that. Reading is a gift that transports, and no one can ever take it away from you.

It’s funny. Just today, I was having a conversation with a dear friend about reading. He’s one of these that claims he doesn’t like to read, but he’s all the time got his nose stuck in farming journals or gun magazines and what have you. He says he’s only read one book in his entire life, and was ashamed to admit what it was. Listen, I’m judgmental about most life choices, but reading material is not one of them. He finally admitted that the one book that ever captured his attention was Where the Red Fern Grows. And he was a bit surprised I was familiar with it. Which prompted me to tell him exactly why I know about it. And if you went to Seymour Middle School, your story is the same as mine.

Mr. Hamilton, my 6th grade science teacher, would read to us for a few minutes every day. Or maybe it was once a week, I can’t remember now. And in those minutes, we were not in the crème-tiled classroom with the brown metal door with chicken wire glass that led into the greenhouse. We were not pimply, pre-pubescent smelly children, trapped for another 45 minutes sitting beside a guy who picked his nose. We were wild children, running with our dogs in the forest, in search of adventure.

I wonder how many times he read that book over the course of his career, standing behind his wooden podium at the front of class, flicking through the small, tattered paperback, and licking his finger as he turned the well worn pages. I wonder how many children sat spellbound, hanging onto every word, and groaning when he’d quit for that session. How we’d beg for just one more page! Not just because we didn’t want to do real work, but we loved that story. And we loved being read to. I don’t think you ever get too old for that. I remember being read to in 5th grade, too, by Mrs. Greer. We were plenty old enough to read alone at our desks, but Mrs. Greer knew the way to children’s hearts. We’d gather at the front of the grey carpeted classroom, sit grouped in a half circle Indian style (or as they say now “criss cross applesauce”), and she’d pull her swivel chair over and read a chapter or two. We made our way through Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Superfudge, Ramona Quimby, and Queenie Peavy. I loved Mrs. Greer, even though we all were cruel, awful children and made fun of her, from her old fashioned beehive hairstyle that had a greenish hue, to the glasses she wore on a chain. Mrs. Greer had us enraptured and she did her best to make us lifelong readers.

My junior year, there was Mrs. Tipton. I think that was the year we had our choice of summer reading books. There was a list of a dozen or so, and we picked three. I know I picked some Mark Twains. And maybe Peter Pan? I’m high on adventure and fantasy to this day. But Mrs. Tipton made us understand that perhaps when a book didn’t entertain us, you could appreciate it for other reasons. Just like life, sometimes books teach us a lesson.

But Mrs. Tipton also recognized my writing ability. Once she gave us instructions to write a persuasive essay. Evidently I wasn’t paying attention and instead, I wrote a page about trail riding. It came back with an “A” and a note at the top, explaining that I hadn’t followed directions but she was giving me the grade I deserved. I guess in my own way I did persuade…I persuaded her to give me a good grade.

My friend wasn’t so lucky in teachers that guided him. He was too backward to speak up and get help, and has a tendency to fade into the background still to this day. He was passed over and never led to enjoy books. He thought that, on the whole, books are dry tomes filled with lengthy words and plenty of pretension. It makes me sad, because he’s missed out on so many years of filling his brain with fantastic stories. He didn’t know plenty of authors write like me, southern and down-to-earth. But I’m working on him. Now the hard part will be getting him to sit down and slow down long enough to get lost in a story.

How many people have only read the books that were read to them? Is this why audiobooks are so popular? Because it unlocks a core memory from our childhood? It almost makes me want to host a gathering once a week and all of us take turns reading our favorite books to each other. It’s such a wonderful feeling. It’s a hug, but with words.

I’m hugging you now, friends. Please let me know if you ever need a book recommendation. I’ll try my best to find you a great match. I promise to not give you a slog.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy