“A room without books is like a body without a soul.”
This would never be a problem in a bookjunkie’s house. We are more likely to hoard books because you never know when you might want to read them again. And we do read many of them again. But that’s a post for another time.
Growing up, our house was never bookless/soulless nor was it ever in danger of being so. My Grandma Nell was a reader. And a teacher before she married. I wonder now if books were her time-out from being a farmer’s wife and mother of nine children. Did she slip between the pages whenever she had a moment to call her own, losing herself in the people and places waiting there? My father was the youngest of those nine children, so I was still quite young when Grandma Nell died. Too young to ask questions like that.
What I do remember are the boxes of books that came to live in her room; books salvaged from the closing of the small, rural school down the road. Those books drew me like a sleuth to a mystery. Cracking the code of reading opened their covers, spilling their secrets into my mind and heart. I became addicted to reading. I became a bookjunkie—craving my next book like a druggie craves the next fix. To this day, if there are no other demands on my time (or when I want to ignore those demands), my nose is in a book. And you will find books in every room of my house. Yes, even the bathroom. When it comes to books, I’m definitely a multi-tasker.