I was trolling today's SOL posts on the challenge sponsored by Two Writing Teachers when a comment brought back memories of how I struggled with reading.
I not only didn't love to read, I fought it. Not because reading was difficult for me, my Mother taught me to read verses from the Bible before I was 5. But somewhere along the way I lost interest. In elementary school my test scores were good, but grades on report cards always expressed my lack of effort, "Patricia must work harder". I didn't think I knew how to work harder. Mom and I studied geography and math every night. But with each move to a new district, I struggled.
Finally we settled in one area and a 6th grade teacher recognized my abilities and encouraged me to read by sharing Robinson Crusoe in comic style. That summer I remember reading "Gone with the Wind" as I lay on a blanket under a tree in our backyard. Read and cry, read more and cry more. That got me hooked on books for a time again. It wasn't until high school literature class when we studies O'Henry and Ray Bradbury that I loved reading again. When I attended college much later reading about Van Gogh, children's literature and education psychology sparked my desire to read.
Still, I quickly finish a book if I'm engrossed, but I might keep another one lying around, struggle through and finally give up.
I shared books with my son as soon as he was born. He mouthed words trying to read and told me one day he had a problem because he struggled and could not yet read at age 2. Now that he is married, I share books with Grand Nieces and Nephews. I visit classrooms and read nature books aloud to children of all ages. I love children's picture books and hope to write a good one someday.
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