My parents used to read out loud to us kids a lot. What a treasure of memories. Speaking of treasures. My mom read us this one book called Treasures of the Snow. Near the end, of course, the tension builds, one of the children breaks a leg and nearly dies on a mountain top. There was skiing and cold and fear. Maybe snowshoes. My older sister and I couldn't stand the wait. The chapter ending left us hanging from a literary cliff. So she and I sneaked the book, hid away, and she read the ending to me. The children were saved. No one died. At least I don't remember anyone dying. World order was restored. Our curiosity was assuaged. We no longer had to agonize over the story events and bite our nails while waiting for our mom to collect us all together again for another reading session. It was a book whose ending needed to be devoured. After all we were hungry. Whew. I don't know which of us leaked out that we'd read the ending to my mom but we got in trouble. Big trouble. Now I realize it was because we ruined the fun for my mom. At that time, when my sister and I were finishing off the book our actions seemed totally justified. Having read aloud to my younger brothers and knowing the joy of suspense and relating a story I can truly say, "Sorry, Mom." Since that time having also discovered many more books with hooks and tension I can say, "Oh man, what a book." I'm sure somehow that book helped shape my childhood. I know for a fact that because my parents read to us so often that I have to this day a love for literature, words, stories, language and above all Books.
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