Me, the (Very) Young Reader
I don’t think I’ve talked much about this, even on the air, but I learned to read at a very young age.
I was four (4) years old and was with my dad in Madison, and we were walking into the Chevy dealership when I looked up over the door, pointed and said “Your Authorized Dealer.”
Now this really surprised my dad. Really surprised him.
He and my mother had been wondering, because I was picking up the books my brother and I had (Little Golden Books, probably) and reciting the words.
Mom thought I had memorized the books, but when an aunt and uncle came from California, my uncle Henry, who was a pastor, said “I’m going to spend some time with him.” He came away after a while and told my mother I was, indeed, reading.
Fast-forward a couple of years to kindergarten, when I read to my classmates, and on to first grade, where I found out many years later they weren’t really sure what to do with me while my classmates were learning to read.
You can only send a first grader to read to the second- and third graders so many times, and everybody gets tired of it. I know I did.
So I either used an alternative book and workbook, to keep me busy, or played with blocks in the corner. That also was not a good idea.
I tell you this not to brag, but rather just to explain what I feel is the importance of reading. I’ve had my nose in a book or magazine ever since.
And I still don’t know exactly how I learned to read at such a young age. My mother’s theory is probably the most plausible. Before I was born, my brother, two years older, was always wanting to be read to.
So Mom used to say I was being read to even when I was in the womb.
Anyway, thanks, Mom and Dad.