My Evolution as a Reader

According to my mother, I was a late-talker. Once I started, I did not stop.

My next communications obstacle was a delay in reading that I realized after moving to a new school system where the students were far ahead in reading skills. In my first-grade class in Sturgis, Mich., we read Dick and Jane books. (“See Spot run. Run, run, run.”) We moved across the state line just after the start of the school year. I do not recall being traumatized by the move at all – if I was anything like my adult self, I was excited about the change. But I do recall feeling a bit ignorant when I realized my new classmates were more advanced in reading.

To complicate my transition, I became sick not long after our move. I recall little about my symptoms other than that I had abdominal pain, a widespread rash, and a high fever. I was hospitalized and diagnosed with Henoch-Schönlein purpura (HSP), a disorder that causes inflammation of the small blood vessels. My smalltown doctor – not meant to be derogatory; he was a doctor in a small town – had only seen one other case of HSP in an elderly Amish man. Altogether I missed about six weeks of first grade between the hospitalization and at-home recovery.

Perhaps I was inspired by a desire to overcome boredom, or perhaps I had developed a drive to be better. I started reading and reading and reading. When I finally returned to school, I certainly had some catching up to do, but I was moved to the most advanced reading class, which was held in the second-grade classroom.

I continued to read material well beyond my grade level. I recall in third grade that I enjoyed fiction novels. Some adults remarked that I was reading some of the same books they were. Again, I found myself moving into the next grade classroom for reading class.

One of my favorite genres was the anecdotal humor shared by author Erma Bombeck. I was still in elementary school when my Grandma Lila let me read her book, “If Life is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits?” I was hooked! I aspired to be like Erma.

As I aged, my motivation for reading changed. In my freshman year of high school, we read Romeo and Juliet. The words were beautiful and the story intriguing, but I had developed a bit of a stubborn streak and had little desire to read what I was required to read. I was fortunate in that I was a skilled test-taker, and thank goodness, because it was not until after I took the final exam over the reading material that I took the initiative to finish reading it.

The tradition of a heavy-reading sophomore English class was something that I eagerly anticipated. Imagine my disappointment when I found myself in what I could only describe as a slacker English class. Despite my bad reading habits the prior year, I had flourished under the guidance of my strict teacher. My tenth-grade teacher, well, he was something else.

Instead of reading the classics, we watched films. “Of Mice and Men” is one I recall. While the movie was certainly engaging, we only supplemented it with reading excerpts from the book. “The Scarlet Letter” was one that we watched also, in film strip form. (For you younger folks, picture a PowerPoint or Slides presentation with no video clips or movement … basically still shots with voiceover. Click. Click. Click.) And sometimes the teacher read to us – tenth graders. That was not my expectation. Driven by the hunger for what I really needed, I read “The Catcher in the Rye” and “The Good Earth” that year. On my own time.

I do not remember reading much voluntarily after that point. Life happened. I was busy with high school, extracurricular activities, and part-time jobs. My time in undergraduate school, studying journalism at Franklin College, was also busy, of course. I married my high school sweetheart just before the start of my sophomore year, and continued to occupy any time outside of classes with homework and studying; photographing sporting events; and writing and editing for the school newspaper; all on top of doing my part to maintain our household. Reading for pleasure no longer fit in my schedule.

As a fan of the Indianapolis Colts, my hometown team, I treated myself to reading coach Tony Dungy’s “Quiet Strength” during a time when I was unemployed. I may have purchased it while I still worked, but I never read a page until my downtime. Before I could finish the book, I realized I felt guilty for spending time reading when I needed to find a job. I came close but never finished the book.

I can think of only a few books I finished since graduating from college. I have several with dog-eared pages that mark my stopping point from years ago. Others I purchased are still untouched. I feel “less than” and incomplete for not having finished them.

Now, as I enjoy the early season of my retirement from a large healthcare organization and contemplate my next move, instead of taking the opportunity to read, I have chosen to revive my latent skill: writing. I have so much to say. Where do I begin?