Drank 'til I was Thirsty Again

My husband often says that I was the happiest when I was in college. I worked and went to college part-time. It took me eight years to finish a bachelor's degree at Hollins, and that doesn't count the four years it took me to finish my A.S. degree at Virginia Western Community College.

But I loved the learning. I loved the smell of it, the atmosphere of it, the taste of it. I loved my philosophy class, where I learned about Sisyphus, and I loved my English classes, where I soaked in John Donne and Virginia Wolfe and countless other poets and authors.

Learning has always been my drink of choice.

As a child I was one of those inquisitive youngsters who asked, "why" all the time. My mother told me once I drove her crazy with questions.

"Why is the sky blue?"

"What are clouds?" etc. and I didn't want cheeky answers, either. I wanted real answers, even if I couldn't understand them. "Because God made it that way," was no answer in my book. If I received that answer, that demanded another, "Why would He do that?" inquiry.

By first grade, I was reading the newspaper. Not just the comics, but the entire thing. I remember my grandparents arguing over it one evening as I sat at the dinner table reading the headline news. My grandfather thought I was too young to be looking at the horrors of the day. I imagine they were horrible, too, as we were in the Vietnam War at that time, and the peace movement was all around, and things were unsettled.

Seems like things are always unsettled here in the U.S.A., don't they?

Fortunately, I was taking in some of it, but not all of it. I was too young to understand death or the horrors of war.

I read all the time. My mother once punished me for reading too much. I couldn't help it. I read the papers, the backs of cereal boxes, the True Story and True Romance magazines my mother brought home, the versions of Readers Digest Condensed Books that my parents bought. When I was six years old, I read Bambi. Not the Disney version, the novel by Felix Salten. I sobbed when Bambi's mother died. I think that was when I learned the power of a good story.

By the age of 10, I'd read Wuthering Heights. I envisioned a sour soul mourning the loss of his beloved as he walked across the moors (whatever they were). I devoured not only the classics but also Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys and whatever I could bring home from the school library.

I wish I'd kept a list. It would be quite long. If I added magazines, it would be lengthy indeed.

Learning still draws me. I like to learn new songs on the guitar. I like to learn new skills on the computer. I like to learn about different things and I read many things online. I read The New Yorker, the Atlantic, The New York Times, loads of articles about literary figures, and pretty much anything else that catches my attention.

I've subscribed to several of The Great Courses to continue my learning efforts.

Ted Talks entertain me while I am fixing dinner, courtesy of Alexa.

To learn is to live, if you ask me. When people stop learning, they stop living. Or they're merely automatons, just breathing and going through the motions. I want to be reading something intriguing when I draw in my last breath.

I want to learn and learn and learn, until the learning is all I am.