About halfway up the stairs I could see the little space between his bedroom door and the hall floor.
Bill said he’d just put the kids to bed, so I expected darkness, but no, that bedroom definitely had a light on.
I opened the door and he rolled quickly to a sitting position, grinning when he saw me.
“How’s the book?” I asked.
He’s reading the fourth Harry Potter book now. He figures he’ll probably finish the final book some time during the fifth grade. That sounds about right.
I feel unspeakably happy when I see him curled up in a chair or lying on the couch or outside on one of the deck chairs, immersed in the wizarding world. Not because it’s the wizarding world, but because it’s books. My boy loves to read.
I was like that. Still am, actually. I would bring home two dozen books from the library at a time when I was a kid. My best friend and I would bike over to the Peace Dale Library – a gorgeous old stone building that smelled gloriously of wood and books and brittle leather bindings. Our library cards were cardstock with little metal pieces attached that had our member number on them. When we checked books out, that little number would get stamped onto the book card, which they kept on file so they could send out overdue reminders if necessary.
Now, the library has been modernized. It still looks the same, still a beautiful old building. But inside…it’s too bright, it’s carpeted, there are computers and the library cards are plastic.
I know, things change. But still…that old library had character. You had to tiptoe around because the floors creaked and, you know, it’s a library so you’re supposed to be quiet. Being quiet was way more of an adventure with the creaky old wooden floors. The narrow staircases. The heavy doors.
Anyway, back to my son.
One of his friends told him “reading is boring!” the other day. I think this was more an attempt to get Alex to put the book down and play than any well constructed argument, but regardless, I was almost giddy when Alex stuck to his guns – and his book.