I still remember the books from my childhood.
That children’s encyclopedia with King Tut on the front. I used to constantly read through the facts in that battered old book.
The Bouncing Buffalo, where an antique buffalo’s head comes to life, bringing excitement to two children (less creepier than it sounds, I promise).
I remember this wonderful hardback collection that I cannot remember the name of (it’s really frustrating) of various fairy tales and children’s stories, all narrated by bears. I remember the hardback cover becoming tattered and falling off at the hinges because of the number of times I’d reread.
Not to mention Jacqueline Wilson, Roald Dahl, and J.K. Rowling. My childhood was a flurry of make-believe games fueled by words.
I adored books.
Then I grew up, became a teenager, and my reading habits changed. I read less frequently, and only what seemed to be the popular books. I still read and reread…
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