My grandma lived in a red brick home in Logan, Utah, an antiquated place with a huge garden in the back. In her living room stood a fireplace, flanked on either side by built-in bookcases. Many of the books were doctrinal or in other ways over my head, but it was on those shelves that I first discovered Gene Stratton-Porter, Mother Goose, and many others.
I can’t so briefly mention Mother Goose without going back to do her justice. The book my grandmother had was a richly illustrated book, with a tan and black checkerboard background. I recently got a copy just like hers on Amazon for less than $10, including shipping. It’s a sentimental reminder to me of my childhood. The Real Mother Goose was her name, and the book was a cherished and much thumbed tome. I would spend hours poring over that book, studying the pictures. I can’t wait to share my copy with my children and create some memories with them.
Because my grandmother believed in literacy, she kept those shelves stocked and ready for perusal at any given time. It wasn’t long before her collection expanded and started to develop piles on the floor. Books about the Hole-in-the-Rock pioneers (our ancestors), Butch Cassidy, the old Spanish missions, and countless copies of Arizona highways were mounded by the old recliner rocker in the corner. It wasn’t at all unusual at a family get-together to go into the living room and see all the aunts and uncles sitting together reading, either an article that Grandma had found for them, or a book, or an interesting magazine.
I can’t thank my grandma enough for the example she set for me. Never one to talk much, she instead taught us by the things she did, and one of those things was to read. Someday, I want to have a whole wall filled with books, just like Grandma’s, and a living room full of children to page through and read them all.