It was not a simple thing to learn, but it was probably the most important part of my development. I struggled through first and second grades with reading. My mother, bless her heart, is (and was then) an avid reader who could devour a thick novel in a matter of days, if not hours, worked tirelessly with me on word recognition, phonics, and reading. I had a pile of books which she generously read to me, pointing out words I might know, might recognize. We had flash cards. Toward the end of second grade, a couple of “light bulb moments” occurred and reading became a little easier. I was moved up from the second reading group to the first reading group. I had been pulling double duty all year, doing the work for both groups. I wasn’t quite good enough to be the first reading group, but the second group was too easy. My liminal status granted me the rare opportunity of getting double the reading practice, but it also left me a little breathless as well, swapping time between both groups. Mrs. Jensen, my second grade teacher, was a little exasperated by my lack of obvious progress. I didn’t read well out loud, which was the pedagogic technique at the time (1967). Of course, I didn’t understand that reading and reading out loud had nothing to do with one another. My reading comprehension was fine, but my performance in reading circle was mediocre. By third grade (and with lots of practice at home with lots of trips to the local library) my reading was getting lots better, and by fourth grade the mystery was solved. Since then I’ve read a book or two, learned to read another language, and I’ve even written a book, so Mrs. Jensen’s fears about my possible illiteracy were unfounded. Reading has been a great pleasure during these fifty-three years. I haven’t read everything, but I enjoy a good mystery, ironic social commentary, comedy or anything that is just a little off-beat or strange. I’m not a great fan of thick Victorian novels, but some people love them. I have no favorite book to read, and I seldom re-read a book. Poetry is like eating candy. A well-written essay is a feast for the mind. Short stories are like eating potato chips. I’m always willing to give a good avaunt-guard writer the chance to thrill me. “Waiting for Godot” is a tour de force in existential thought. I read all the time. Sometimes I have to read things that don’t thrill me–part of the job–but then again, that’s also a part of what makes reading great: wading through the junk and dross to get to the gems. Loving reading and doing lots of it has brought me success and vocation, and I thank Mrs. Jensen and my mother for their energy, their concerns, and their dedication. It worked. I’m literate.