I'm always jealous of spontaneous readers. My dad taught me when I was 3 or 4. I can't remember not being able to read, but one of my earliest memories is of him teaching me to read with flashcards. They sometimes used books as a reward -- I remember getting Little Golden Books for being good in the grocery store, for example. (They're both readers, my mom more than my dad; I grew up going to the library with mom almost every week.) I was never discouraged from reading, probably because they were pretty happy with any activity that kept me quiet and out of their hair. Reading at the dinner table, though, was Not Done.

I remember the Pizza Hut thing, but I don't think my classes ever participated -- I might have been a year or so too old. I was in the summer reading club at the library; I won when I was six, and got a silver dollar and a bunch of candy.

My parents did the flashcard thing too, but what can you expect with two teachers? Mostly, though, I remember them doing that with my brother.

So I read the Sports page to him. He was so surprised that he yelled for my Mom, so that she would witness it and not think it was an illness-induced hallucination.

Heh. I had a similar experience: my mother was bragging to her uncle that I was already reading at age 3. He figured I'd probably just memorized the stories they'd read to me hundreds of times, so he sat me down with the newspaper and asked me to read it to him. So I did.

I come from a family of readers. My dad's an editor and my mom's an author [edit: and before that, a librarian!], and there are books in every room and on every available surface in both my house and my parents' house. The only time I was told to stop reading as a child was when we were on vacation somewhere cool (Ecuador, or Barbados, say) and I never even looked out the window of the car, being so intent on the book I was reading. Oh, and we weren't supposed to read at the dinner table either, although sometimes I'd try to sneak it.

My dad's an engineer. I have no idea where he came up with the flashcard thing. I should ask him someday.

I never even looked out the window of the car, being so intent on the book I was reading.

You could read in the car? That was the one place where I was not allowed to read, largely because it always made me carsick. (Still does, in fact.)

Heh. I had a similar experience: my mother was bragging to her uncle that I was already reading at age 3. He figured I'd probably just memorized the stories they'd read to me hundreds of times, so he sat me down with the newspaper and asked me to read it to him. So I did.

3? Damn, and my mom brags that I was reading the newspaper at 7.

You could read in the car?

Yeah, I've never had a problem with it, luckily. How else do you survive long road trips? When I was in Australia last year and I was planning on taking the train from Perth to Melbourne--a 3-day trip--I went out a few weeks before I left and bought myself several books I was really looking forward to reading, and didn't let myself start them until I was on the train. That way, I was actually looking forward to the trip instead of dreading it.

Kate P. is totally me. Except for me, it's the Pre-Drive Trip to the Library.

I never had any motion sickness as a kid (and a good thing too, because 18-hour car trips were an annual thing in my family), but somewhere in adolescence, my inner ears became absurdly oversensitive. Now, if I take half a Dramamine, I can read on a train (or in a car, but these days, if I'm in a car, I'm usually driving).

Oh man, I'm remembering summers when I was in my pre-teen years. My 3 sisters (all younger) and I would be home alone and more often than not we'd all wind up in the living room, sprawled on the furniture, still in pjs, each us us with a book in her hand. It was one of those things where you're so comfortable and into your book that you forget there are other people around but at the same time I still knew they were there. I remember so much closeness even though we didn't talk at all. I can't quite find the words, but it was very special. We don't all get along that well anymore. Oh, nostalgia.