Of all the places where I keep my books (shelves, tables, baskets, bags, piles; my husband would say mostly piles), I only have one small set of bookshelves that are untouched by small hands. (My sons love to play a game called bookstore, where they stack as many books as possible onto the treadmill/conveyer belt, "scan" them, then stack them in teetering piles on a nearby bench. They have yet to learn how to return books to the proper place in the proper alignment. I'm sure they will learn this skill in preschool.) The books in my smallest bookcase are still organized by category, from short stories, collections, and plays to biographies and autobiographies.
Today, taking a cue from Brendan, I searched the depths of this bookcase in an attempt to find something to read (other than TFLW). For some reason, it's taken me 20 years to see the humor of what I rediscovered this morning:
This is the high school English Literature award I received in my senior year. Instead of trophies, our school awarded books related to the field of study, selected by the teachers with the recipient in mind. My book, chosen with care by the Head of the English Department was...
Judging from the dog earred pages, I've read it more than once. Good luck at college, Kerry!
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