I FOUND THE MEANING OF LIFE IN A HALF PRICE BOOK STORE BY DARLENE KWARTA

When I was a little girl, my best friend's mom would brag about what a gifted reader her daughter, Emily, was.

"She started reading when she was four years old and hasn't stopped since! She's in second grade and reading at a fifth-grade level! I have to take her books away from her when she goes to bed or she'll read all night." Then her mom would smile, tousle her hair, and give Emily an "I'm so proud of you" look.

Then there was my mom.

"My Jenny loves to read, too. Fact is, she was born with a book in her hand, and let me tell you, boy did that hurt!" She'd slap her knee and yell, "I'm laughin' so hard gonna pee my pants!" Never did get a "So proud of you" look. Did get a lot of sympathetic looks from other kids' parents, though.

Mom's education ended at the beginning of fifth grade when her dad died. She quit school and stayed home to take care of her little sisters so that her mother could get a job to support the family.

"Weren't much of a student anyway, so it weren't so bad," she'd tell people about that time in her life. "I was plenty busy." She was too busy to be lonely. Too busy to be a kid.

When Mom turned fifteen and her sisters could take care of themselves, she got a job at a diner in our small Southern town. She quickly learned that telling a somewhat inappropriate knee-slapping joke was an easy way to get big tips from the farmers who came in every day for their morning coffee and to discuss their crops and livestock. At seventeen, she met my dad, a young farmer who came to the diner every morning, and who saw something precious in her that not many people saw. I know that I didn't for many years.

He told me that when he proposed, she looked him straight in the eye and said, "I ain't smart, and I ain't pretty. I can't read worth a damn, and I won't be able to help our kids with homework, but I'll be the finest damn wife you could ever ask for."

"Don't worry, Annie, I'll teach our kids to read," Dad answered. They got married two months later, and I was born a year after that. I was the only child they ever had.

Mom was a great wife, just as she had promised, but as I grew up, I began to think that maybe she had been "mommed-out" by raising her sisters for so long. Maybe she hadn't really wanted kids - maybe I was an "oops baby." She shied away from activities that involved my friends and their moms. She tried to be a part of the group, but she just didn't fit in. Gradually I went to Brownies and church classes with my friends and their mothers, and Mom stayed home.

Rather than come straight home after school, I started going to the library, spending my time sitting on a beanbag chair, dreaming of all the places I'd go to when I grew up. Mom was never part of those dreams. When I'd finally get home, she would ask me questions about what I had been reading. At first, I gave her one or two-word answers. "You know, stuff." But she never gave up asking, and eventually, we'd start having actual conversations.

"So, you're learning about France....la de da...sounds pretty fancy shmancy. Hope you get to go there someday, parlaying them words and eating soo-flays. Do you think they used to call it "Gay Paree" because there are lots of gay guys there?" It took me months to learn that she was being silly on purpose, mispronouncing words to make me laugh. And then, ever so slowly, we started laughing and joking together. Sometimes she'd meet me at the library after school, and we'd check out books to take home and read together. We became friends, and I couldn't seem to remember why I hadn't seen what my dad had when they first met. Maybe I didn't try very hard to remember back then.

Years later, when I talked about going away to college rather than a local community college, she encouraged me to "Get away from here and meet city folks who talk good English. But girl, I'll sure miss ya." So I went.

Long after I had graduated and moved to Chicago, I realized how much I missed the times Mom and I had spent together, but I regretted the times I avoided her when I was younger. I also realized that I had often been ashamed because she wasn't like the other moms. I had wasted so many opportunities. I started to feel bad, and very guilty. Those feelings stayed with me a long time.

Some people would start seeing a therapist, but as always, I took myself and my problems to a small used book store down the street where they didn't care if you drank coffee or sat and read books that you never ended up buying. I started walking up and down the Self Help book aisle, looking for books that would help me deal with all my regrets and sadness. But nothing seemed to help. Not the experts. Not the best-selling authors. Not even Oprah.

Frustrated, I wandered over to the Children's Books aisle and found the answers I was looking for. I opened one book after another, realizing that Mom and I had often talked about the same ideas. "Oh, the places you will go, honey (Paris!!!) About a Christmas bell that only special people could hear (just like you can, baby girl.") special shoes that could always take me home ("where you will always be welcome,") a mystery train that could bring you to magical places ("you love adventures".) Or a tree that, like a mother, loved a child so much it would give up its life to make a child happy.

Thank goodness for Mom, for Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, and for a small used book store just down the street, where they let you drink coffee and read books you don't have to buy.