The Reading Porch

“Children are made readers on the laps of their parents.” ― Emilie Buchwald

By definition, I am an incurable reader and collector of all manner of books. Some think I am way too fond of books “for they have turned my brain” (Louisa May Alcott); but I feel that one can never, ever, have too many wonderful, soul-enriching experiences as can be found in books.

My TBR (that is a “to be read” list of books to the uninitiated) is as high as the ceilings are in my home. There are books shelved and stacked and shoe-horned into every available space in my library. There are books on tabletops and books waiting to be read in my own cozy reading nook, where the afternoon light is perfect for an afternoon excursion to lands unknown. Books are stacked next to my bed, stuffed into tote bags, piled on chars in the dining room, and yes, one may even find a book in the “loo”.

Under no circumstances should I ever be left alone in a book store. Self control (or should I say “shelf” control) walks out the door the second I walk into any bookshop, whether it be a big box store, a chain or independent book seller. I love to walk among the shelves and tables running my fingers across spines to discover new titles; or browse the magazine racks for curiosities as I admire the special eye-catching displays of the current bestsellers. They are mind and soul candy for a reader’s heart; a child buried in wrapping papers on Christmas morning; an unexpected snow day; and a bleak and chilly rainy afternoon in November, all presenting themselves and overwhelming me at once. Like Dorothy in Oz, I may never find my way home.

Watercolor by Cyndy Chisare

There is no way to know what my new acquisitions may be… a newer, more contemporary work, a much-loved classic, a book about books or a coffee table book on watercolors. Whatever is chosen, I know I will inevitably become lost in the book. Whatever I may read, I will always find a genuine comfort and delight in the tactile turning of a printed page, a whisper in movement, the smell of ink.

My love for books covers every genre, but my one true love lies in those of a classical nature by authors whose names are forever etched into the collective consciousness of readers. Romantic authors who have created images of a solitary character walking across a windswept moor under a full, golden moon; or Rochester’s mad wife roaming the halls of Thornfield; or a story where good and virtuous triumphs over every unsavory evil; and the stuff that dreams are made of, is very real indeed. Dickens, Bronte, Austen, Shelley and Hardy are just a few of my favorites. I will fall in love with characters, become involved with plights and plots, walk behind them in their gardens, and rejoice or cry with them when the novel has come to a close. I may discover a secret passage to depths unknown, relive history or even solve a beastly murder. The longer and more complex a novel, the deeper in love I may fall.

All of what I have written brings me to ask: Is it possible that becoming a reader is somehow etched into our genetic codes, woven into the very fabric of who we are? I know that the way we learn is genetic; but what about an actual love of reading?

I’ve often wondered about this and even though I’m not sure, what I do know is reading was encouraged, not only in our home, but in the home of my grandparents. My great-grandmother was a reader of Scripture; my grandfather was a Zane Grey fan; my mother was a reader of mysteries and “dark and stormy nights”; and I too have become a reader. Without that early encouragement, I wonder if I would have become the individual who I have become.

There have been times when I have joked that I have printer’s ink in my blood; and not necessarily because I love books. This is because my grandfather set type for a company that printed books, magazines and a local town newspaper. Ink was inevitably on his hands, under his nails and more often than not, on his shirts. Much to my grandmother’s dismay, this ink never seemed to wash out and the odor of printer’s ink permeated their home.

Even on holidays when their home was filled with the fragrance of roasting turkey, spices, pumpkin and apple pies, my grandfather would still have his own exotic aroma about him of cherry pipe tobacco and printer’s ink. I would love to nestle into that walking, talking, breathing smell of ink and paper and bound books. To this day, when I open a new book and inhale deeply the fragrance of ink and paper, my grandfather can still be found among those pages, letting me know that I have chosen wisely. Some things never leave you.

During the warmer months and well into Autumn at my grandparents’ home, my grandfather would move his pipes, pipe tobacco and a stack of books onto the screened-in porch and settle into his retreat for the season. This retreat was furnished with only the finest of essentials for a good day of reading: an antique glider piled high with my grandmother’s hand-made quilted pillows and throws — just in case someone wanted to catch a nap or fell asleep reading; an old side table that had always been where it was, next to the glider, painted a sky blue, stained and warped with years of use and abuse by one and all and especially by my grandmother’s feline colony which perpetually inhabited this porch. The table held an ashtray for my grandfather’s pipe, his pipe stand and pipe tobacco and a low, green-shaded lamp that he used for reading as well as a stack of books, magazines and newspapers.

This retreat was without heat in the cooler months except for what might be provided by the reading lamp or my grandmother’s throws and pillows. The space was especially inviting to a child in need of a nap or a book of their own; and I remember many times when those pillows and throws would be arranged so I could join him while he read. The two of us alone on the porch with the rain falling on the metal roof; I, nestled into the warm throws and absolutely absorbed in the tales from Oz and curling pipe smoke, and he in the latest Zane Grey.

It has been said that our grandparents are partially divine in nature because they live on through our memory. If this is true, then I have worshipped at the altar of those memories… of an old porch where two readers shared afternoons through the seasons, encircled in the incense of pipe tobacco and printer’s ink and a deep love of reading… a blueprint of the reader I was to become, during those rainy afternoons in a special nook.