By Vicki Bahr 
One of the greatest gifts my mother gave me was a love of reading, and she did it in the most wonderful way—by example.
Friday afternoons when I was dropped off by the school bus, I remember walking into a quiet house and knowing instinctively where Mom would be: in the bedroom, sitting comfortably on the floor, the dustrag and a bottle of furniture oil lying next to her, a book in her hand and tears on her cheeks.
Friday was the day Mom dusted, and she saved dusting the bookcase my grandfather had made her for a high school graduation present for last as a reward for finishing the dreaded housecleaning chore. Grandpa cut the wood for the bookcase and stained it out in the garage so she wouldn’t know of the present, sanding each of the pieces by hand and curving the end pieces just a bit to create little nooks for Mom’s favorite books or knickknacks.
I don’t remember ever seeing any other creations of his; I don’t think woodworking ranked highly on his list of hobbies, but my mother, the older of the two daughters, certainly ranked highly on his list of favorite people, and he was very proud that she loved to read just as much as he loved to fish.
Over the years, my mother filled the long, sturdy, two-shelved bookcase with hardbound books that were so tightly packed into the spaces that it was difficult to remove one without almost hearing a sigh of relief as the other books expanded just a bit into the welcome space.
And on Friday afternoons, Mom would create a welcoming scene, sitting on the bedroom floor, her hair pulled back with a fabric headband, smiling as tears ran down her cheeks and she solemnly turned each page.
“Oh, Vicki, is it that time already? I was just finishing up my dusting, and, well, you know . . . Not yet, but when you’re older, you have to read The Citadel. It’s such a wonderful book.” They always were—no matter which title had captured her on any particular Friday afternoon, and the walnut-stained bookcase was always shining because she wouldn’t allow herself to read until the Friday afternoon chores were completed.
Even when Mom was 90, living in the memory ward of an assisted living center, she loved looking through her 1940s yearbooks and regaling all of us with stories of her high school friends and teachers, always wanting a book in her hands or tucked into a pocket of her wheelchair where one of us could find it and read to her.
Her favorite gifts to us daughters, her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren over the years were always books, front pages inscribed with beautiful handwritten notes, dated and simply signed Mom or Grandma, and every one of us still has those memories of her tucked away on our own bookshelves.
My grandfather’s graduation gift to his “Shirley Louise” is gone, but her love of reading and the particular care and respect she taught all of us for books and the adventures they offer have never wavered.
Each time I write a newspaper column or a magazine article or a website piece, I thank my mother for gifting me with her love of books and the wonders that reading can bring on an afternoon when all the chores are done and the imagination of a great story awaits. I can’t thank you enough, Mom.
by Shannon Whitmore 
by Emily Stelter 
by Mary Reding Shonka 
