Storytime

If you know me at all, you know of my deep, abiding love for books and for reading.  We Foxes are a clan of readers (sorry Dad, if it's genetic, it came down on the maternal side).  No doubt my love affair with books all started with someone reading to me.

Some of the very best hours of my childhood were spent in the basement of the Old Hickory Library, sprawled out on the cool, tiled floor, eyes half-closed, entranced, listening to well-written tale told by a sweet library lady in a perfect storytime voice.

I had the most interesting lunch today in Cubeville.

Today, as I sat and ate soup and cookies with a new friend (food prepared and shared by said new friend), another employee in the building (and friend of hers) read a story to us.  Yes, read to us.  Out loud.

She read a sweet story that she had written about a family cat.  I'm a good southern redneck; I don't even much care for cats. We rednecks are dog people.  Until the Nashville flood swept them away, I had every "I Hate Cat" book ever published.

I sat at the lunch table, leaned back in my chair, faint smile on my face, eyes half-closed, mesmerized not only by the fascinating tale about their feline friend, but also by the reader's perfect "storytime" voice.  It was a well-written and well-spoken story.  About a cat.  Unbelievable.  I absolutely loved it.