“When I have a little money, I buy books; and if I have any left, I buy food and clothes.” -Desiderius Erasmus Roterodamus

I come from a family of readers. Both of my parents for as long as I can remember have always kept plenty of books in their homes, cars, campers, etc. My grandparents encouraged us all (my grandpa in particular always had a couple of stories going at any given time, which is probably why I do as well). We didn’t have a lot of money growing up, but my mom would always save a little bit so we could go to book fairs and library fundraiser sales. We made library runs at least once a week, and everybody had their own card before they were ten.

Thankfully, this preoccupation with the written word stayed strong as we got older. When I started dating, guys who weren’t into books were a deal breaker (which made the aforementioned Grandpa very happy). When I finished college and moved out on my own, I didn’t bother ordering cable because I knew the money (and time) would be better spent at the local used bookstores. I picked myself out a two-bedroom apartment so our ever-growing collection could have a room of their own (later, when Scott and I started talking about having kids, his biggest concern was whether we’d have to give up our library room to house the child. I said of course not, that’s what play pens are for). 

Even our cats love books, although for decidedly different reasons: