House of Books

Yesterday I visited my grandparents' house in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. They live in a farmhouse that is over a century old with two barns, an enormous vegetable garden, eight cats, a couple kittens and two very enthusiastic dogs. This was my first real visit in about 10 years.
In this house the walls are made of books, the fire roars in winter, and art covers all spaces where books are not. Floors creak and there are gravestones holding up the water pump in the basement. And not a thing had changed since my last visit when I was thirteen years old--except my grandparents themselves. My grandaddy is frail, in his own world. My grandmamma is concerned with feeding us. Both are intelligent, sharp witted and adore each other. I see my father and his five siblings growing up in this house, curling up in the many corners with blankets to read, painting in the dining room, sewing in the hallway.
Growing up, there was an extremely strong emphasis placed on reading. For every birthday and Christmas we were given books...on my fifth grade birthday I received a first edition copy of Wuthering Heights.
Oddly, I never thought about the connection between my grandparents and my love of reading.

Driving in the car with my aunt later that evening we were discussing a new person in our family. She said to me, "I am concerned about him because he does not read books." I laughed. How strange! A lack of reading is a major character flaw? And yet, I kind of agree. After all, people who don't read don't seem to hold my attention for long.