When the Apple doesn't fall far from the Tree

I grew up in a house full of books. I didn't really understand what that meant until later, when through a friendship I would pay a visit, an overnight even, only to discover that my very delightful friend lived in a house where literary materials were in short supply, and there was no 1929 Britannica or the complete works of Trollope or Dickens laying around. I had parents who read daily, devoured the printed word, and as a result I am one of 5 offspring who are all readers as well. So when a book captivates me, I am done in. The whole day becomes a measured study of when will I get a chance to read my new favorite thing, the book which is holding me in its thrall?  And how do I stave off the finish, in which case I will no longer have the pleasure of the writer's voice in my head. In that moment I'll reflect on all the readers that have preceded me, savoring  the rapture of the written word.  For a solitary activity, it doesn't get much better than this.