When I do lectures, I often do an activity (based on the research of Dr. Alfred Tatum) that asks participants to consider the books they’ve loved in childhood. I’ve done this activity several times now, so I am usually well rehearsed on what I say. But recently, I’ve had to move my books, which became a big project as I considered each one in an attempt to weed. Amongst the piles of books is a small collection of the books I’ve loved from childhood. They are well worn. Well loved. Well read. When I look at them, they fill me with the nostalgia of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, white bread and my old bedroom. I have memories of reading these books at my leisure on those days when I was home sick. My mom would bring me soup and I would just read. These stories were my comfort. They were my first binge watch. Books that I could open up and jump into no matter what chapter. Books with worlds I liked to visit again and again. Tossing these books aren’t even a consideration. Nor is giving them away. These are my books.
I’m going to share a few of these fun reads over the next couple of days, but first I ask, which books from childhood still fill you with wonder? Send me a note and let me know.