When I was a kid, back in the olden days, there was no Internet.  Cell phones hadn’t been invented yet, though Agent 86 in “Get Smart” had a phone in his shoe (Google it, kids).  Television programming came to us through only three network channels – ABC, CBS, NBC – and a couple of UHF channels where you could watch bowling or really old movies on a Saturday afternoon.  No cable.  And I distinctly remember the day we went to the appliance store and bought our first color TV.  My mother was so excited she couldn’t contain herself.

To my younger readers, this might sound like a dystopian existence, devoid of any joy.  To my contemporaries, I imagine it’s a mixed bag.  On the one hand, we love all the conveniences we now have.  On the other hand, life was simpler back then, and we didn’t have to worry about a 24-hour news cycle that had to fill every moment of every day across a thousand news platforms with sound bites and claptrap (love that old word) marked by sensationalism and scandal.

But I digress.

We didn’t know any different back then, so we made it work.  We played outdoors (regardless of the weather), used our imaginations to create fantasy worlds, could make an adventure that lasted all day out of climbing a tree, and figured out how to entertain ourselves.

And then, for me, there were books.  Anyone who knows me knows how much I love to read.  I once left my electronic reading device at a friend’s house and turned around when I was almost home to retrieve it.  My friend said, “You leave things here all the time and have NEVER returned.  I think if you left your kid here you would call and tell me to keep him until morning.”  I like to think that’s not true and I would return for my child, but….

We moved a lot when I was a kid, and I lived in four states by the time I was 14.  Always the new kid in school, and pretty insecure, I crawled into the pages of books to find friends, belonging, and adventure.  Two memories I have of regular opportunities to feed my love of the written word to this day fill my heart with bliss.

Library Day at school happened once every two weeks.  On that day, our class would march down the hallway, in single file and silently (of course – we had nuns), to the tiny school library, which was really just a classroom that had been outfitted with shelves and a few study tables.  We were instructed that we could take out as many books as our grade:  3^rd grade, three book; 4^th grade, four books; and so on.  I remember trying to persuade the librarian that I could read more than four books in two weeks and could I please take out one more because I just couldn’t leave it behind and what if it’s not there when I return in two weeks.  That might be the only time in my childhood when I ever had the courage to debate an adult.  (Those who know me now would find that hard to believe, but I had to train myself to be as disagreeable as I’ve become as a middle aged woman).

The rest of the school day on Library Day would be interminable for me.  I just wanted to go home and start reading.  Usually, I would finish the books long before the two weeks had ended, so I would re-read them and wait impatiently for the next time I could visit my favorite place in the school.

The other opportunity to keep my book addiction going came only once or twice a year, and it arrived in the form of a little paper catalog – the Scholastic Books order form.

I don’t know if they still do this in schools, but Scholastic Books would ship these little brochures, printed on very inexpensive paper, exhibiting the books appropriate for our grade and reading level.  Fiction and non-fiction books would parade across the pages, tempting children like me who wanted ALL the books.  I would rush home from the bus stop on that day, catalog clutched in my sweaty little hand, and circle every book I wanted, which was a lot of books.

I remember my parents telling me to try to control myself and understand that I could not have all the books.  So I would play the dutiful daughter and narrow down my wish list, though it was a tremendous struggle, one over which I agonized greatly – and failed.  I never actually managed to present a reasonable list to my parents.  It was always too long and too expensive.  Funny thing, though, I never remember them telling me “no.”  They never told me to cut the list further or that I was asking for too much.  They just wrote the check.  My parents had their challenges and my childhood was bumpy but, when it came to reading, my mom and dad were generous souls.  And for that I am very grateful.

Once the Scholastic Books order was placed, it would be weeks before it would arrive, but when it did… I was the happiest kid in the world.  Until I’d read all the books I received – twice – and wanted more.

I hope Scholastic Books still does come to classrooms, and that all children – and adults too, for that matter – have access to a library.  Books tell us that everything is possible and free us to seek our potential.  Reading unlocks the doors to understanding ourselves and making our tomorrow just a little better than it is today.