WHY I READ

Like millions of Americans who started school in the years following World War II, I learned to read with Dick, Jane, Sally, Father and Mother, the ideal American family.

From the first day in the one-room Shady Nook schoolhouse on Greenwood Valley in the Ozarks, printed words have been magic to me. I was amazed when Mrs. Rayfield, the teacher responsible for nearly 60 students in eight grades, told me and the other 15 first-graders that the word on the first page of the red paperback reader was "Look."

Something inside my brain clicked. I realized for the first time that if there was something printed on a page that stood for "Look," then there were probably other things that could be printed to stand for everything else.

"Look. See Dick. See Dick run."

Wow! the possibilities were endless.

It wasn't too long after the wonderful revelation that I was with my mother in Toney's Drug Store in my favorite hometown on a Saturday afternoon after grocery shopping. In addition to prescriptions, Toney's had a counter with a row of stools where you could sit while Sheila or one of the other girls behind the counter dispensed cherry Cokes, grilled cheese sandwiches and malts. There were booths in the back. Down the other side of the drug store were the cosmetics. At the very back of the drug store was a rack of comics. They were fun to look at even if you couldn't read yet. In the center of the store was a long row of display counters with toys and what-nots and goodness knows-what-all.

And books. Toney's sold books. I decided I needed to own a book.

The only book I remember at the time in our farmhouse was the Bible. Every house I knew had a Bible, usually in plain view. Some were a little dustier than others.

But I wanted a book of my own.

The one that caught my fancy at Toney's was Robert Louis Stevenson's "A Child's Garden of Verses." I can't tell you why. I certainly was no budding poet. But that book became an obsession.

My mother told me that I could buy the book -- as soon as I saved enough. My allowance was generous for those days: a quarter a week. There were lots of things to spend a quarter on. For example, I could go to the Saturday matinee at Jefferies Theatre and buy a ticket, a Hershey bar and a Coke and still have money left over after the cartoon, newsreel, previews of coming attractions, serial and movie to go the Ben Franklin dime store where it would take up to an hour to choose just the right assortment of penny candy.

Now my financial priorities were being dealt a serious blow. To buy that book, I would either have to give up the matinee or the dime-store candy. Or hope for a generous relative to stick a dollar bill inside my next birthday card. But, heck, you only have one birthday a year. It could take FOREVER to save enough to buy that book.

You know what? I soon had enough money in my pocket. My mother and I went to Toney's. My heart raced, imagining that I had waited too long. Maybe the book was already sold. Was I too late?

What a sign of relief when we went to the book display, and there it was. The glorious book of verses. I didn't know until years later that my mother had asked the clerk to keep the book until I had the cash.

I read those poems over and over. I'm not good at memorization, but when I hear snatches of Stevenson's wonderful words, I immediately recognize the source, and I recall the very first book I ever owned.

Soon, my mother had me signed up for a library card at the public library, which had two medium-length shelves of juvenile literature. I would check out seven or eight books every Saturday while we were in town. Mrs. Berryman, the librarian, had a way of arching her eyebrow as she stamped the checkout cards. It was her way of letting me know she was skeptical that I read all of the books I checked out.

But I did.

I read all the juvenile books. I started looking in the adult bookshelves. Mrs. Berryman shooed me away, striving to protect my innocent mind from adult themes and situations. Fortunately, my mother again intervened, assuring Mrs. Berryman she would take full responsibility for any corruption that might occur as a result of my reading adult books.

There was no television, and after doing chores in the evening the darkness outside vanished as the books illuminated my imagination until it was bedtime.

I remember my mother decided at one point to read a chapter from a book every evening after we were ready for bed. I'll never forget the book, or the story. It was Mark Twain's "The Prince and the Pauper." The characters were so real to me. I had no concept of fiction.

At Shady Nook schoolhouse, the "library" consisted of a metal storage cabinet with four or five shelves loaded with reading material for beginners to soon-to-be-high-school-students. The lowest shelf was filled with a set of World Book reference volumes. I would spend hours of idle time reading from A to Z. I still enjoy doing that.

Because Shady Nook School turned into Shady Nook Baptist Church on Sundays, the metal cabinet also contained several books aimed at furthering the salvation of the nearby farm families.

There was a whole set of mystery stories for youngsters about the Sugar Creek boys. Remember them? They were sort of a cross between the Hardy boys and a plucky Sunday school class. They were always getting into moral scrapes that could only be solved by getting saved. I don't recall that the books ever explained why a bunch of boys from obviously good families got into so much trouble in the first place.

The lessons of those books provided a solid foundation for making sound choices in situations where good and evil or right and wrong were the only options.

Today, of course, the school would be barred from having such books around. Too bad for today's young readers.

I am a big fan of historical novels. Maybe that's the influence of that story about the prince who trades places with the poor kid from the slums. Recently, I've been reading a lot of books about Irish history, thanks to being a Sullivan. American history is only a speck on the calendar compared to Irish history.

Perhaps it is because of the Sugar Creek boys that I am to this day an avid reader of mysteries. Give me an hour or two before dinner, and I'll gladly turn a Nancy Drew mystery into an appetizer.

Nowadays I go to a bookstore and shop at the remainders table -- you know, where the books that don't sell very well are marked down to next to nothing. I buy 20 books at a time at those bargain prices.

The nice folks at the bookstore cash register gladly ring up the sale. I've noticed, though, that they usually have one arched eyebrow.

What does that mean, exactly?