So many books, so little time . . .

Photo by Ian Britton

My grandma was an avid reader.
She definitely passed that on to me (not her love of doing the laundry, however! : ).
Most of my life, my memories of reading are connected to her in some way.
There was the reading of many picture books at bedtime, when I was a little slip of a girl, before sleep and dreams took over; and endless hours of poetry read to me by gram and mom and Aunt Jane from a beloved volume of poems published by Reader's Digest that I wish I could remember the name of; and listening to A Wind in the Windows and The Prince and the Pauper as gram read them out loud in the evenings while I played near her feet; and reading Ivanhoe to Gram as she cooked dinner; and later, taking turns reading Jane Eyre to each other; and discovering together that it's the convict all along that's Pip's benefactor at the end of Great Expectations.
Major reading moments in my young life . . . she was there.
When I went to college and became an English major, Gram would ask me what I was reading, and often, on my recommendation, she would read the same things and we would talk about them.
I remember her calling me once, after I had moved to the mid-west to get my Masters in English at a university here, and saying, "Joy! I walked into the new addition at the library today, and there were books lining every wall, from floor to ceiling, and shelves and shelves of books in between, and it made me kind of sad . . ."
She paused, and I thought, "Books from the floor to the ceiling?! What's sad about that?"
"Why sad, Gram?" I asked.
"Because, all I could think was there were so many books, and I would never be able to read them all in my lifetime."
And I knew it was true.
Not just about Gram.
But about me, too.
So many books. So little time.
I'll tell you what, though. . . she sure did try.
She read all the books she could -- fiction and non-fiction, inspirational and mystery, biography and how-to, and, of course, every day, her Bible.
Later, when she lost her eyesight and could no longer read to herself, I would sit in her room and, once again, read to her. It's funny, how life comes around. I started my journey of books with her reading to me, and she ended hers with me reading to her.
She also subscribed to the Talking Books service in our community, and would get tens of books on tape each week.
As quickly as she would get them, she would "read" them. And true to our tradition, she would tell me about every one. If there was a book she particularly liked, and thought I would too, she would buy it for me.
She pretty much is single-handedly responsible for providing me with the majority of the books in my personal library.
In fact, the other morning I rolled over before getting out of bed and came face to face with my bookshelf. There are lots of books on there that I haven't read yet. Many of them, gram bought for me.
They call my name, and I will read them . . . one day.
But right now, with a toddler running through (and trying to run) the house, and two active boys, and school, and so many other things going on, it seems like there are so many books, and so little time.
Those who say there is no magic in this world must not be readers, for reading can transport you to different times and different places, and introduce to you exotic and horrific and terrific people and things, and can change your perspective and your mind and . . . you.
Grandma knew this.
She knew the magic.
And she shared it with me.
And I am sharing it with my sons.
And we will keep reading, until we can read no more.