I am a reader. As such, I have my favorite “spots” in which to indulge my need to escape and relax. Each night, I crawl under the bed covers and grab my latest read. I typically don’t turn out the light until my feet have warmed up, and I’ve read several chapters. My husband of 17 years puts up with me and my books as I put up with his collection of car magazines. All’s fair in love and reading. Some of my most beloved spots for reading remain in my past. My childhood friend Roxanne and I shared a love for Nancy Drew books. During summer afternoons, we would descend into her basement where the linoleum floor provided a refreshing contrast to the afternoon heat. There we devoured those Carolyn Keene mysteries. I can still picture Roxanne’s mother coming down the stairs carrying a basket of laundry and hearing the rhythm of the family’s washing machine in action. I hope Roxanne has remained dedicated to reading. Over at my house — a mobile home too small for a family of five — the choices of prime reading spots were limited. A walnut tree in the side yard was a good place, until ants or other little creepy crawlies would tickle my legs. An overstuffed chair in the dining room also provided comfortable arrangements, but little privacy. I remember the feeling of freedom in being old enough to walk from the Cooperstown section of Derry Township where we lived, to Adams Memorial Library, a distance of about 1.5 miles one way to load up on Nancy Drew, biographies of historical people, and L. Frank Baum books. I was petrified the first time I asked the foreboding Miss Sara McComb, library director for years, if I could take out more than the allotted number of books. She must have seen some eagerness or desperation in my eyes. She reluctantly agreed as she handed back my library card. I still remember my library number that was used to identify me just in case I turned out to be some book defiler. It was A3540. Today, the library uses a high-tech bar code-type swiping system. It’s just not the same as having that cardboard card with the personalized number at the top and the due dates stamped in the little squares. Study halls at school served as great reading times. Instead of boning up on math or science, two classes which my brain could never process, I would finish up a biography on Clara Barton or begin a new Mignon Eberhart murder mystery. But it was in the kitchen beside the stove that proved to be the most memorable spot to read. Once the supper dishes were washed and put away and the stove still retained some heat from baked bread, I would sit on the floor, quite content, and read. It was an extremely small kitchen but serviceable for providing a bit of privacy once my dad had gotten his evening coffee. News about the war in Vietnam served as a background hum to my adventures in the Land of Oz, the most beloved books of my childhood. L. Frank Baum wrote 19 Oz books, the first being “The Wizard of Oz.” Although Dorothy Gale wasn’t a major character in some of the Oz books, she traveled over the rainbow quite often to visit. It was in those books where I met the Patchwork Girl, Tik-Tok, Jack Pumpkinhead, the Glass Cat and an assortment of Tottenhots, giants and witches. The characters were magical, the writing marvelous. I was no longer in my kitchen but swept away. It was perfect. As an adult, my reading tastes changed. Histories fill my shelves as does the occasional mystery or bestseller. And I have had numerous reading spots that were pleasant enough, but not quite the epitome of perfection. But once I chance upon it, you can be sure I won’t let it go.

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