“Our dogs look just like the Bobbsey twins,” I announced while admiring our two standard poodles cuddled on their beds.
“Who?” my husband asked.
“The Bobbsey twins. Did you ever read the Bobbsey twins books when you were growing up,” I asked.
“No,” he replied.
“How about the Nancy Drew or Hardy boys’ mysteries?” I asked.
“A couple,” he said.
“What about the Childcraft series?” I pursued.
“Can we stop this, please?” he asked. “I played sports outside, but I don’t think I read as much as you did.”
“Maybe New Jersey’s ice-cold winters or hot, humid summers played a role,” I responded. “I played outside a lot, too, but I spent hours and hours inside reading. I would even read while watching television.
“In the summer I’d walk down the street to the Hillside Public Library and borrow a stack of books. Two weeks later I’d return them and borrow another stack. Reading was my great joy. I’d read before bed, on rainy days, or when no one was available to play. I kept myself entertained.
“When my parents commissioned my bedroom furniture, they made sure to include two bookshelves for my book collection. I could enter my room and discover entire new worlds inside my books.
“But our best books were stored in the attic. We owned leather-bound copies of classic authors: Shakespeare, Dickens, Mark Twain and more. Going up to the attic became a special treat. I could just sit among the beautiful books and skim through them until told to come downstairs. Sadly, the books were sold, along with my piano, bedroom furniture, and many other treasures when my father lost my mother’s family fortune.”
“Maybe that’s why you became a writer,” my husband noted.
“I think it is,” I answered. “I’ve always loved good books.”