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| (photo source: thersic) |
I went to my grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving weekend. I spent more of my childhood there than at my own parent’s house. Truthfully, she was more of parent to me that my own. I am thankful for having such a caring individual in my life. Too bad her own daughter couldn’t have learned to be more like her.
I went my old “room” which still looks the same as it did when I left for college ten years ago. Grandma says that she keeps it that way to remind her of our days together. Sometimes, I wish I were that young girl again.
The white bookshelf still sits in the corner of the room It’s big and the shelves strain from the weight of books I amassed during my childhood. The first shelf holds those books that were most dear to me. I thought they’d be damaged or at least extremely dusty.
To my surprise there they were, still in pristine condition: Nancy Drew, my old friend. I missed her more than I realized. Each book, with their yellow spines and beautiful covers, still fill me with anticipation of all the adventures they contain. Grandma dusted them regularly; she knew I’d want them someday.
She was right. I always be grateful to Nancy Drew, she taught me to love reading and the magic of opening a book. They were a gateway to a world beyond my small town, where I could go anywhere and be anybody. I learned so many things about myself, others, and the world.
And I always be grateful to my grandmother, who taught me how to love.
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