A word of thanks

My mother likes to say that I inherited my love of books from her, partly because she worked at the Denver Public Library until shortly before I was born.

I think my love of books does come from my mom — not so much because she worked at the DPL, but because she taught me to value the books and the riches that they hold.

When I was a young boy, I used to love lying in bed at night and listening to Mom read me a bedtime story as she sat in my rocking chair. Sometimes I tried reading my own book at the same time, hiding it under the bedclothes and devouring it in snatches while pretending to pay attention to Mom. If she caught me reading another book, she'd stop and ask me to repeat what she'd just read. If I succeeded, she'd go back to reading the story. If I failed, I got a scolding, and the story ended for the night.

Mom loved reading, too, and the shelf above her bed was always piled high with library books — usually hardback mystery novels or books on European history, with a few paperbacks mixed in for variety. I sometimes tried reading a few pages, but they were usually too deep for me.

When you grow up around books the way I did, you learn to cherish them — not just as a source of entertainment, but as a treasure chest of language. You learn to take pleasure in a well-turned phrase or an apt description, and you never grow tired of repeating that shiver of delight when you encounter them.

Above all, you learn that books , even the badly written ones, open doors to worlds of imagination and discovery you had never dreamed of before. And you learn that your favorite books are almost like your best friends — endlessly entertaining and full of wisdom.

I believe that teaching someone to read and to love reading is one of the greatest gifts one person can give another. Every day, I thank my mom for sharing that love with me. It's a gift that never grows old.

Thank you, Mom.