My father never read to me.
In all defense, I should tell you that my mother never did, either. I was raised in a different era, where there were precious few hovering parents, or parents who felt they had to handhold a child much past their toddlerhood.
Parenting was done with a cigarette in one hand and finger pointed solidly toward the door, telling us to go outside and play – and reminding us to be home when the streetlights came on.
My mother wasn’t much of a reader. She was too busy seeing to three kids and a house and a husband who never so much as poured his own cup of coffee when she was around. When she did read, it was the bible, or a book about the bible, or a book about people who wanted to tell you about the bible.
Dad, on the other hand, read all the time. He’d get home from work around 4pm when he worked the day shift, and after a short nap, the evening news and dinner, he spent the rest of the evening comfortably tuning us out on the corner of the couch. Continue reading