I learnt how to read when I was six, and after that I shortly became a book worm. I was the kind of kid who constantly ended up reading all night, and then had trouble staying awake in school. 
I think I got this from my mother. My mom only went seven years in school, at 14 she started to work, and that was that when it came to education. But she loved to read (she still reads every day) and encouraged us kids, in her own ways to do the same. I never remember her actually telling us to read though, or nagging us about that we should. She just read herself and to us and thus showed that it was a nice thing. She gave us books, and never said a word if they went un-read, and so there was never any pressure. I don’t know if this was a conscious plan to get us to read, I don’t think it was. It’s just the way she is.
One of my earliest memories is the many visits to the neighbouring village where the school library were open to the public in the evenings. It was so exciting to choose and borrow books there together with my mom. After we had our books we went to see grandma, who lived nearby, and got milk and home baked cinnamon buns. Books were a usual gift for birthdays and Christmas as well. And even after I learned to read by myself I loved the moments when us kids snuggled up with her in her bed, and she would read H. C. Andersen’s stories to us from six large books of his collected works. Books were definitely connected with all sorts of good stuff for me.
I think it helped too that there weren’t really that much to distract you from reading when I grew up. Of course you played with your friends a lot, but there were only the two state channels on TV, there were of course no computers or Internet the way there is today, no video games, and even when the VCR came we couldn’t afford to get one until several years later. So, what to do when bored, but read! Not that I ever felt that I missed out on anything.
Well, in most ways I was like most little kids, but in some ways I guess I was rather precocious. I was never satisfied with only reading just my kid’s and youth’s books I got as gifts. I did love them, but I wanted to read everything. I rummaged through my mother’s bookshelf as well. I ploughed through my grandfather’s old books. And whenever our teacher took us to visit the big city library, I could never be made to stay in the kid’s section only. So, I read a lot of stuff that I suppose was not meant for my eyes.
My mom never stopped me from doing this. She never ever chose for me, and never said I couldn’t read this or that, never said I couldn’t touch her books. I am not sure if maybe she was being a bit irresponsible, or if she wasn’t that much aware of that I actually read so much grown up literature. And even if she maybe should have checked it up more, today I am nothing but grateful to her for not doing that. Yes, I read stuff that wasn’t meant for a kid my age, but I can’t see that it affected me badly in any way. I had, and still have, a very close relationship with my mother, and never had a problem coming to her with my problems, fears and thoughts. Had something I read affected me really badly I would have run to her crying about it, but I can’t remember that I ever did.
Well I did learn a lot. Much went over my head, I guess, but much knowledge did stick as well. I learnt that the world is not always a nice place, but I didn’t exactly grow up in fairy tale idyll anyway (even if I had, all in all, a nice enough childhood) so I knew that already, and it didn’t freak me out. I remember reading things about what went on in the world and then becoming angry because they had said nothing about this in school. I felt they were fooling us. For example, I read a lot about North American natives and their situation, and then I went to look in our history book in school, and discovered there were only two; I say two, sentences in several chapters of the history of the USA about them. I brought this up in history class, quite agitated by all the horrible atrocities I had read about, and was finally taken aside by the teacher who explained, quite annoyed, that there was simply no time to learn about every little thing, and that I should not question so much. This was in the fifth or the sixth grade, so I was 11 or 12 at the time. It was not like they tried to censor things in school, at least I don’t think so, I remember we learnt quite in depth about the Holocaust, for example. But they did pick and choose from the knowledge, and so, yes, there were a lot of things I got to understand from reading books that weren’t meant for me, that I would otherwise have missed out on.
I would love to hear about your stories of what books meant to you when you grew up. Was it something fun, maybe even magical, or was it maybe something that presented a difficulty for you, and you have bad memories connected to books and reading?
And what do you all think about kids and reading? Should kids (up to 13 years of age, I guess is the age group I am referring to here) get to read what they want, within reasonable limits, or should their reading be monitored rather strictly? I am not out to find out what is the absolute wrong, or right thing to do here, but your personal opinion. Should there be a strict age limit between kid’s and youth’s books on one hand, and grown up’s books on the other? Or is this something that you would want to decide on an individual basis? Some children are more mature and can handle different things than other kids the same age after all. I do speak from the perspective of one who is just remembering her own childhood here; I have no children of my own. So, what do you think, you who do have kids?
I think I got this from my mother. My mom only went seven years in school, at 14 she started to work, and that was that when it came to education. But she loved to read (she still reads every day) and encouraged us kids, in her own ways to do the same. I never remember her actually telling us to read though, or nagging us about that we should. She just read herself and to us and thus showed that it was a nice thing. She gave us books, and never said a word if they went un-read, and so there was never any pressure. I don’t know if this was a conscious plan to get us to read, I don’t think it was. It’s just the way she is.
One of my earliest memories is the many visits to the neighbouring village where the school library were open to the public in the evenings. It was so exciting to choose and borrow books there together with my mom. After we had our books we went to see grandma, who lived nearby, and got milk and home baked cinnamon buns. Books were a usual gift for birthdays and Christmas as well. And even after I learned to read by myself I loved the moments when us kids snuggled up with her in her bed, and she would read H. C. Andersen’s stories to us from six large books of his collected works. Books were definitely connected with all sorts of good stuff for me.
I think it helped too that there weren’t really that much to distract you from reading when I grew up. Of course you played with your friends a lot, but there were only the two state channels on TV, there were of course no computers or Internet the way there is today, no video games, and even when the VCR came we couldn’t afford to get one until several years later. So, what to do when bored, but read! Not that I ever felt that I missed out on anything.
Well, in most ways I was like most little kids, but in some ways I guess I was rather precocious. I was never satisfied with only reading just my kid’s and youth’s books I got as gifts. I did love them, but I wanted to read everything. I rummaged through my mother’s bookshelf as well. I ploughed through my grandfather’s old books. And whenever our teacher took us to visit the big city library, I could never be made to stay in the kid’s section only. So, I read a lot of stuff that I suppose was not meant for my eyes.
My mom never stopped me from doing this. She never ever chose for me, and never said I couldn’t read this or that, never said I couldn’t touch her books. I am not sure if maybe she was being a bit irresponsible, or if she wasn’t that much aware of that I actually read so much grown up literature. And even if she maybe should have checked it up more, today I am nothing but grateful to her for not doing that. Yes, I read stuff that wasn’t meant for a kid my age, but I can’t see that it affected me badly in any way. I had, and still have, a very close relationship with my mother, and never had a problem coming to her with my problems, fears and thoughts. Had something I read affected me really badly I would have run to her crying about it, but I can’t remember that I ever did.
Well I did learn a lot. Much went over my head, I guess, but much knowledge did stick as well. I learnt that the world is not always a nice place, but I didn’t exactly grow up in fairy tale idyll anyway (even if I had, all in all, a nice enough childhood) so I knew that already, and it didn’t freak me out. I remember reading things about what went on in the world and then becoming angry because they had said nothing about this in school. I felt they were fooling us. For example, I read a lot about North American natives and their situation, and then I went to look in our history book in school, and discovered there were only two; I say two, sentences in several chapters of the history of the USA about them. I brought this up in history class, quite agitated by all the horrible atrocities I had read about, and was finally taken aside by the teacher who explained, quite annoyed, that there was simply no time to learn about every little thing, and that I should not question so much. This was in the fifth or the sixth grade, so I was 11 or 12 at the time. It was not like they tried to censor things in school, at least I don’t think so, I remember we learnt quite in depth about the Holocaust, for example. But they did pick and choose from the knowledge, and so, yes, there were a lot of things I got to understand from reading books that weren’t meant for me, that I would otherwise have missed out on.
I would love to hear about your stories of what books meant to you when you grew up. Was it something fun, maybe even magical, or was it maybe something that presented a difficulty for you, and you have bad memories connected to books and reading?
And what do you all think about kids and reading? Should kids (up to 13 years of age, I guess is the age group I am referring to here) get to read what they want, within reasonable limits, or should their reading be monitored rather strictly? I am not out to find out what is the absolute wrong, or right thing to do here, but your personal opinion. Should there be a strict age limit between kid’s and youth’s books on one hand, and grown up’s books on the other? Or is this something that you would want to decide on an individual basis? Some children are more mature and can handle different things than other kids the same age after all. I do speak from the perspective of one who is just remembering her own childhood here; I have no children of my own. So, what do you think, you who do have kids?
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About 95 % of all the books were completely soaked in the stinky water and we had to throw them away. That was sad. 
