Seems as if the entire family has been dragging with its current affliction this past week. Every spring we catch a cold, every one of us, usually in descending order, so that by the time the youngest gets it, mom and dad are shot.
Even Wolf is not immune; he called last night to say he felt crummy. I told him to go to bed with his favorite book. That's what we do when we are sick. Given the current status of the family, reading is about all we feel like doing round about 7 or 8 p.m.
Reading is slightly less than an addiction in my family. Growing up, I was the kid who finished books in hours, not days, and my best friend and I had contests to see who could acquire the most stars for books read in elementary school. While some people comforted themselves with favorite movies, I buried myself, my sorrows and sicknesses in written words.
Even today, when feeling a bit low, I pull out books I have saved from my own childhood and read them to my youngest, who is perhaps too young to truly understand the plot line, but sticks with me for the sake of someone to read to him.
Henry Huggins, Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, Laura Ingalls; they are all there as I remember, and still just as good.
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