Hasta el libro

I suddenly recalled tonight, as I was hanging up the phone with my father, that I don't end conversations with "good-bye" or its variations. At this point it's not a conscious thing, nor, as far as I can tell, noticeable, but it certainly was when I was younger. Not a choice so much as a compulsion. I *couldn't* end things with a final ending. Perhaps it was the influence of those (apocryphal?) stories about languages with no word for "good-bye" or perhaps it was something I came to on my own. But I couldn't do it. I remember phone conversations in fourth grade, when I started using the phone on my own, ending with "good-bye" followed by "see you". Always the "see you". Always. Nor could I be the first to hang up the phone.

I think it's a Death Thing. Maybe that's a stretch but it seems to fit the pattern. I didn't, and don't, like good-byes. Or finality. When my brothers and I would tell stories to each other at night, mine often (almost always? always?) ended with "to be continued..." (We'll ignore the painful knock-knock joke I embedded that in.) My favorite (or at least most frequently read) books, having achieved literacy, were serials: Trixie Belden, Nancy Drew, the Bobbsey Twins, the Secret Seven, Danny Dunn, the Baby-Sitters Club, the Hardy Boys, the Oz books, Anne of Green Gables, Madeleine L'Engle's books, Bruno and Boots. It held through tween years and teen years: the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy trilogy, the Belgariad and Mallorean, the Pern books, Jean M. Auel's series. And not only did I prefer books with recurring characters, I was a chronic rereader of my favorites of these. At some point in highschool, I realized I'd read the Belgariad series of five books at least ten times through.

Not only was my reading series serial, but my reading of books in general didn't abide well with ending points. I often "chainread" books, starting the next one almost before I'd closed the cover of the last one. For years, this meant that I'd read into the wee small hours of the morning, stopping only when I couldn't keep my eyes open or when the first chirps of birds told me that it wouldn't stay night forever. The directive I'd give myself, "one more chapter," was useless because one more chapter never came. And this wasn't a matter of gripping adventure and page-turners; these were books that, often, I could practically recite from memory. Two book nights weren't uncommon and three books nights were not unheardof.

I turned to reading after death rather like some would turn to alcohol in the same position. And perhaps I would've turned to alcohol if it'd been a more easily acceptable and accessible escape for a six year old. But books were widely available and the messages I received about reading them mostly encouraging. I wasn't an early reader by any means, but I spent no time dallying with picture books once I had learned to read and was introduced to chapter books (notably Trixie Belden). By the end of first grade, my book limit at the school library was twice that of my classmates and my choices were word-heavy (in comparison).

To be continued...