I come from a bookish family. As avid readers themselves, my parents always encouraged and supported the reading habits of me and my sisters, from reading Robert Munsch and Dr. Seuss books to us when we were small children, to buying us a seemingly endless supply of Baby-Sitters’ Club books as we got a bit older, to understanding that I’m currently in need of a new or bigger bookshelf because the two I have just can’t contain my ever-growing library. (And yes, I take out tons of book from the Toronto Public Library as well, but I’m still a compulsive book buyer. Buying a new book is one of the sure-fire ways to turn my frown upside down.)
And while I’ve never thought that the book-loving nature of my family was particularly unique, I still love hearing stories about other families like us. As such, I recently read an excellent post on book blog Vulpes Libris, in which writer Chris Harding shared stories about her “bookish family”. Here’s the opening paragraph:
I come from a bookish family. My maternal grandmother ran away from her Norwegian home and arrived in England in 1915, accompanied only by a trunk full of books. It must be a hereditary trait because I never travel without a book – and nor do my mother, my daughters or my brother and his family. Other people pack clothes and suncream for their holidays: we pack books. And while on vacation we don’t buy souvenirs: we buy books.
You can read the rest of the post over on Vulpes Libris, and once you have, come back and tell me your own bookish family stories, won’t you?