Nostalgic Memories of a Blue Eyed Bookworm

Living in an influential world, most children begin reading in their early years, and cease when they find out that it’s no longer “cool.” My case is exceptionally different. My parents agree that my interest in books let them know early on that I would grow to be an avid reader. I’m not sure that I recall my preschool or elementary teachers teaching me the skill more than my parents themselves.  I remember laying down every night with my father and letting him fill my mind with the amazing world of childhood fiction.

Dad says I began picking up on words by the time I was two, and at three I could read and comprehend simple sentences. While other children were outside playing, I was covering my bright blue eyes with a book.  Some may have  theorized that these actions cautioned what was certain to be an unsocial child, but in complete truth, I’ve grown up to be something of a social butterfly. I for one believe that the relationships I used to have and still have with fictional characters have somehow given me insight into communicating and understanding people in general.

When I began school, my kindergarten teacher was amazed with the ability I had to read. She started to separate my work from the rest of the class, until at the end of the year I had progressed to the equivalent of a 3^rd grader. Administrators discussed allowing me to skip ahead a year, but my parents argued that I should have the full experience of learning. I secretly wish that they would’ve gone through with it, just because I’d have the chance to get through school even faster.

In 2^nd grade, I read my first Harry Potter novel. Teachers were so amazed that they announced my name over the intercom, encouraging other students to attempt to reach the level I was on. To me, this was a bit extravagant. All I knew was that reading was simple, and that must’ve meant that everyone could do it! Now, of course, I realize that I was far ahead of my peers.

The Hobbit quickly became the book I always begged my father to read with me before bed. I loved it so much that after it was over, I shed a few tears and simply stated that I was “done with books.” Around this time, I was forced to grow up through experience. In effect, I had to have something to keep my mind on to sustain my sanity. At ten, my emotional maturity was higher than most teens, and that meant that my attitude was sky rocketing. I remember wanting nothing more than to be in my room with a book, even if that meant pushing my parents away with rolling eyes and whispered words. Reading was an escape that helped rid my mind of reality.

As I reflect on my past of heavy reading, I truly appreciate my parents for preparing me for the future. I still to this day am always engrossed with a good book. No matter what’s going on in my life, I always have an alternative world I can quickly transport to. Reading always has been and always will be an enormous part of my life.