I grew up directly across the street from my grandparents. They lived in an old farmhouse on what used to be the dairy farm for which our street was named. Every Friday night, my mom would pack my little red “I’m going to Grandma’s” suitcase and my dad would walk me to the end of our driveway.
From there, I would beat feet fast as I could to avoid the werewolves I was sure were stationed in the shadow of each of their huge trees.
But as soon as I hit the light from their front porch, I knew I was safe because Grandpa was there waiting on me. He’d take me inside to where Grandma was slicing apples and “popping corn”. We would pass our evenings in various ways, but the nights always ended up in exactly the same way.
We would trudge up the stairs to the bedrooms, Grandpa taking the spare so I could sleep with Grandma. We’d watch the 10:00 news only through the weather report, then we’d shut the TV off and Grandma would read to me.
I can still feel the fabric of her nightgown under my cheek as I rested my head on her belly so I could follow along. We read through the Little House on the Prairie series more times than I can count. Which was quite a feat, because we only read one chapter a night. Even when I begged for just one more, she would laugh and remind me that we would have next Friday to read the next chapter.
I’ve been an avid reader ever since.
There is just something about an old book, isn’t there?
The creak of the bindings protesting as you open their pages for the first time in what has likely been decades.
The musty smell of the old pages, still holding on to their secrets.
The comfort they give off at a glance, the escape they provide when given the chance.
I still love nothing more than an hour curled up with a good book. My methods have changed with the times, which provides the true luxury of having an entire library at my fingertips.
But somehow it just doesn’t have the same appeal, does it?