I blame my parents completely for my addiction to books. My house was overflowing with them. For treats Mom would take us to The Intimate Book Shop and let us pick four or five books of our choosing. How I loved that store. I wish it still existed, but this post isn't about the takeover of local book stores, so we won't talk about that.
Each summer we took road trips-either out West to see our family or up the East Coast on camping adventures. And along the way Mom or one of my older siblings would read to us. Lots of Roald Dahl (isn't he wonderful?). I distinctly remember my mom reading Danny the Champion of the World and being so engrossed in the story that the car trip flew by as I was busy poaching pheasants and out smarting the town's nasty rich guy, what was his name? What a dream to live in a caravan with a father whose eyes smiled.
So, it's not surprising that growing up when I wasn't romping in the woods behind our house, catching crawfish in the creek, or flying on my bike, I would be reading in my room. "Hibernating" my mom called it.