One of my earliest memories is of my dad and I, sitting with me on his lap in his black velvet recliner chair - the same chair that just a few years later I would fall into and acquire a dent in my skull that I still have - reading a big book together, sounding out the words for what felt like hours. They weren’t dreadful hours, though, as that phrase can often mean. They were joyful hours, and continued to be joyful hours throughout my young life into my adolescence and into my adulthood.
In first grade, I won an award for reading fifty books at home on my own and the prize was a red wagon full of brand new, beautifully illustrated hardcover books. My mom came to the classroom for the presentation, the principal came down to the classroom, and a photo ran in the district newspaper. When they announced the competition, it was the first time I could remember truly wanting something and feeling that fire burning in my gut. I was determined to win and when I did, I was so proud and excited - not just to win, but to win books.
