When I was a kid, I read a lot. My Dad was a pastor, and often during the week he would take me along as he went calling on members of his flock. I guess most kids would go crazy waiting for their father to be finished holding the hand of a bedfast octogenarian who was reciting her list of medications, as well as the names of her fifty-two great grandchildren. Not me! As long as the octogenarian owned a reasonably well-stocked bookshelf, I was content. When it came time to go I would have to be coaxed out of the corner where I had retreated into the imaginary world I had discovered within the pages of my book.
In a pinch, I could read just about anything: vintage issues of the Ladies Home Journal, Shakespeare, poetry, comic books, history, crock pot manuals, biographies, The Wall Street Journal, ghost stories, Chilton’s, the TV Guide… Once, while my Father was preoccupied with a marital counseling session, I rummaged around for reading material until I was lucky enough to discover a fascinating heart-shaped box tied with faded ribbon and full of yellowed letters.
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