Monday, May 4, 2020
Hello, Covid-19 World! If there was ever a time to wax rhapsodic about books, now works. We’ve been staying at home since 13 March. (That’s 13 March of 2020 if you signed up for updates to this blog nine years ago...) What was the first book I read on my own? My mom swears it was Erich Segal’s Love Story. She said I was five years old and she found me reading the dog-eared copy from the book shelf in her room. I think the sexy and sad parts were equally lost on me. But,I do kind of remember feeling guilty/ashamed/ and naughty for lifting it from her room. I don’t recall any better options though. I did love Nancy Drew mysteries and read them all. Even owned the matching collection. The ones with the yellow spines and the version of Nancy with the “That Girl” hair style and matching sweater sets and pearls. I liked Nancy’s spunk, keen mind, and confidence. I imagined I could make my way down a damp poorly lit stairwell with nothing but a flashlight even if reading the passage made me put off going to the bathroom on my own at night. I favored Carolyn Keene over Laura Ingalls Wilder. I had that set, too, but the covers were bland beige and a pinafore was not my idea of fun. Laura’s dad was cool and a musician. He seemed a better father than Nancy’s always engaged sleuth dad. I guess I liked my stories with a little more materialism and less pioneer spirit.