Books were there at the beginning.

My life really began when I discovered there was a world beyond my small New England town. That world began in our downtown library.

The few volumes on my mother’s bookshelves at home didn’t offer much. Her popular fiction and murder mysteries weren’t for me.

By the time I was in fourth grade, I realized I HAD to have a library card. My mother’s signature was required. She agreed it was a great idea, but weeks passed before she could get there during the library’s open hours, which conflicted with her work hours. In the meantime, I just headed downtown after school, and occupied the warmest corner in the Children’s Room. Waiting… and reading.

When I finally got my little yellow card, it was my ticket to other places, other kinds of kids, and other ways of life. Nancy Drew was so clever; Heidi had the grandfather I didn’t; Pinocchio made me think about the convenient little fibs I told my mother; the Wind in the Willows made me aware of the animal world at my feet.

My daydreaming habit already bugged Mom. After a few months with my library card, she had to break through my fantasizing before she could talk to me. I was in Never Never Land.

Books became my closest friends. The rotten boys in my neighborhood were not my enemies, but we weren’t buddies either, because I was the only girl. Many days after school it was easier to get into a book than into their baseball game.

Every winter, our apartment was cold thanks to our heat-miser landlord. After I put my mittens on the radiator, and tucked my boots underneath, I sat beside the warmish coils with a book. Looking back, I spent a lot of time sitting on the floor while I read.

The six years I went away to summer camp, we had mandatory daily nap time – an hour after lunch. A counselor sat in a chair monitoring our behavior. We were supposed to close our eyes for the first half hour. Many kids went gratefully to sleep. After a couple weeks of that torture, I figured out a way to read. I used my method for the next five years: I put the book on the floor under the head of my cot, and scooched to the top of the bed on my stomach. Only my nose and eyes hung over the pillow, facing down. I turned the pages with the eraser end of a pencil. I needed to read.

Every writer I know has always been a voracious reader. As a kid, I read everything that came my way. I loved the Sunday newspaper, naturally beginning with the funnies – Mutt & Jeff, the Katzenjammer Kids, and oh, be still my heart, Prince Valiant. Human interest articles were next, eventually followed by real news.

I think my fascination with medicine began while sitting in the bathroom, reading the contents of all the bottles and jars. Acetylsalicylic acid – aspirin – was a challenge. I gradually taught myself how to pronounce its seven syllables so it rolled off my tongue. Camphor, eucalyptus, and menthol were in Vick’s Vapo-Rub, but I didn’t know what they were. I just read everything.

Wheaties boxes, Campbell’s soup cans … there was a lot of text in the kitchen. Every new box of the big Shredded Wheat had stories printed on its cardboard dividers. I read the instructions on my mother’s pressure cooker and was instantly terrified. I have never used one.

As an adult, I always have a book. It became really important after I became a stewardess for American Airlines. Our down-time between flights was often spent in darkened crew lounges filled with recliners. The recliners were filled with pilots and stewardesses – some sleeping. And the air was filled with afternoon soap operas. After a few months of that nonsense, I figured out that earplugs and a flashlight would enable my reading habit.

I always have four or five new books waiting in my stack, in addition to the one or two I’m actively reading. But I have a problem. I have never been able to reward myself with daytime reading. Since I always have work to do, it doesn’t feel right to sit down, in the middle of the day, to read a book. I’m hoping someday soon to get over the guilt.

In the meantime, I may have found a loophole to daytime reading. I’m putting together a book of my columns. I’m finding that reading, choosing, editing and re-reading is actual work. Middle of the day work.

When the book finally makes it to the printer, I might award myself some occasional Wednesdays and Fridays, in the middle of the day. This reader needs to read.

The End.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com