Summer Reading

What does an English teacher do in the summer? She reads, my friends; she reads. In gray November when my spirit's weary from school politics and my eyes bleary from reading plot summary, I need to remember the deliciousness of this moment, turning my face to the memory for warmth. Even though I have plently of projects waiting for me, none of them have to be done just this moment. This very moment is mine, all mine, for reading. There will be time tomorrow for the sorting of boxes, for the organizing of papers.

Each night I make a list of what I'll accomplish in the morning: attack the pile of bills on the counter, deconstruct the various piles of stuff still waiting for my attention after our garage sale, scrub the bathroom surfaces until they gleam. Beginning any one of these projects would make my husband smile. If I feel more studious, I could design my courses for the fall semester, read up on composition theory, write the great American novel.

I begin each day with the best intentions, but before I know it, I'm snuggled into my comfy chair with my book or my Nook in hand, lost to the world around me, sliding fast into uncharted territory. As I begin to read, I can feel the pages rising up, enfolding me, pulling me in. I am no longer.
One of my brightest childhood memories is of the West End branch of the Carnegie Library. I still associate calm and well being with stacks of books, perfect rows of alphabetized titles. Even now, a visit to Barnes and Noble is high on my to-do list, where I can sit for an hour or two with a mug of coffee and a pile of new books to consider. When I leave, all is well with me again.

During my childhood, there was only one answer to the question "Where's Jill?" I was in my room reading, of course. I resisted every attempt to move me outside, causing my parents, I'm sure, to worry about my single-mindedness, my unexercised pale freckled thighs, but their own weighty preoccupations surely allowed them to be grateful for their youngest child's ability to make herself invisible for long periods of time.

The usual kid things didn't have a hold on me. Chasing balls, swimming, hiding and seeking were all second hand choices; instead, I devoured books. I think my parents were happy when I finished the last book in my stash because I was forced to go out for more. On those days, I took an excursion to the library. Armed with a canvas bag, I would walk the two city blocks to the bus stop, waiting on the corner with anticipation. A short bus ride dropped me across the street from the nearest branch of the Carnegie Library, where my older sister worked as a library assistant. My sister's job offered me priority status over the average library card holder. Bored with the selection in the brightly painted Children's Reading Room, I greedily sought new territory in the off-limits adult section. Judy ignored the age code on my card, allowing me to borrow anything she didn't consider too "racy." She also overlooked the six-book limit, using the number of books I was able to carry as my personal cut-off. I overfilled my bag, when the head librarian wasn't standing at the front desk, and I'd cradle several more books in my free arm, making my trip back home on the bus more of a physical struggle than the outdoor games my parents wanted me to play. Some days I was lucky to coordinate my library exit with my sister's quitting time, the ride home making my day perfect.

I'd learned early that books could shelter me. Almost everything I knew to be true could change on a dime in my household, and so I became a rather cautious child. It was easier to live within the rhythm of words and the refuge they spun than to wait anxiously, sucking in my breath through my teeth, waiting for a moment when things might snap. I would sometimes emerge from my books temporarily in the midst of my actual life, often blinking furiously at finding myself back on Clairhaven Street.

I still run away to my books. In the summer, I read hungrily and nearly indiscriminately ...stopping short of science fiction (my apologies to all those whose allegiance belongs to crusaders from another realm). This summer, I've visted Oxford via The Discovery of Witches, toured Paris through the first Mrs. Hemingway's eyes in The Paris Wife and entertained a decidedly different Paris through Mr. Hemingway's eyes in A Moveable Feast. The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane took me to both the Salem of 1692 and 2009, and I followed Frank Lloyd Wright and Mahmah Bothwick Cheney through their love affair in Chicago to their tragedy in Wisconsin as I turned the pages of The Women and Loving Frank.

You must excuse me now, dear reader. My books are calling me. I'm off to post-war Bosnia with a restorer of rare manuscripts named Hanna (People of the Book). Just think-- it's only July!