Reading by Example

My parents taught me to love reading. I'm sure they did it consciously too, or would have if it had been necessary, but I think they mostly "taught" me by just being themselves. I have vivid memories of lying in bed awake long past my bedtime (I enjoyed this time and entertained myself by making up stories), or waking up in the middle of the night, and looking out the half open door of my room into the living room to see my mother, with her knees drawn up in front of her on the corner of the couch, absorbed in a book in a pool of lamplight, a slight frown on her face, combing her fingers through her hair. She was the type to stay up late with a book, and also suffered from insomnia and could often be found to have gotten up from bed to resume her spot on the couch at any hour of the night. If it was still evening, there might be the sound of the dishwasher, NPR, or classical music in the background; later she would be perched on her spot on the couch in a pool of silence and darkness in our very silent, dark house, which was located miles from any other in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I found the sight of her there extremely comforting. I slept in a high loft bed right up under the high ceiling of my bedroom (except in the summer, when it was too hot up there; then I slept in a regular bed); at a certain point my book collection grew so large that my father completely walled the loft in with bookshelves. This was delightful, but I remember telling my father it was imperative that I still be able to look down from the loft on the side where I could see out the door of my room. He built a small window into the back of the bookshelf which formed the headboard of the loftbed, which gave me a perfect view of my mother's spot on the end of the couch. While it was generally useful to be able to see into the living room from my bed, I think it was this sight of my mother reading in the night which made me insist on the window.