I have always loved to read. As I kid, I spent hours with books, getting lost in the stories. I read and re-read my favorites–like 101 Dalmatians and The Black Stallion–making book covers for them when they started to get tattered. I longed for a book that would never end.

One of my most memorable summers was before my junior year in high school; I spent much of it folded into the big yellow chair in the living room of my childhood home, working through the summer reading list of American classics for my English class.

My husband is a reader too, and we spent sweet hours reading Tolkien and Lewis aloud to each other while we were dating. When children joined the family, reading was a mainstay of family time. All the kids loved to have books read to them until they could read for themselves. One of my girls would follow me around with books, asking me to “read it, read it.”

Sometimes I read to one child, snuggled up on my lap, other times I would sit in the middle of all of them for a group story, reading books like Dr. Seuss and The Bernstein Bears over and over. We went to the library weekly, coming home laden with new titles. We kept library books in a special basket so they wouldn’t be spread through the house. It helped a little, but I was always short a few, and had to search under beds, in cupboards and through the toy box to find the wayward volumes. We paid plenty of late fines and a few replacement fees; I considered it a good investment in the community library.

We have sweet memories of reading favorite chapter books aloud when the children were a little older. My husband read the Chronicles of Narnia to the four girls at bedtime, and they couldn’t wait to get their pajamas on, get in bed and hear about the next adventure in Aslan’s country. I read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series to the kids, loving the story as much as they did. I was often biting back tears as I read about Ma and Pa and the girls making their terrifying and amazing trek in a covered wagon, little Jack the dog running underneath. We still talk about the amazing feast Almanzo’s mother made in Farmer Boy.

My youngest son was a capable reader, but didn’t like reading on his own when he was in third grade. Concerned that he was missing out, his big brother picked books that they both enjoyed and spent hours reading aloud to him. Once the reluctant reader discovered the Harry Potter books, he took off,  reading independently as fast as he could to find out what would happen next at Hogwarts.  I cherish the memory of my two little boys, laying on their bunk bed, engrossed in a story together.

All the kids loved the JK Rowling books. When a new one came out, I bought a single hardback copy for the family. The oldest had first dibs, and would pass it down to the next in line when she finished, until everyone had their turn. They were so engrossed in the story that they would read day and night, often finishing the 800-page tomes within 24 hours. Not every kid was so motivated; one of my daughters just finished the beloved series a year or so ago–and we were so glad she could finally join us in discussing the finer points of the plot.

Reading aloud was replaced with books on CD when we took long car trips. I like to squeeze in a classic when I have a captive audience, so we enjoyed Hemingway, Twain, Dickens, Melville and the Bronte sisters, among others, together in the car. One summer, we listened to The Hobbit on the way to Wyoming. Most of the passengers enjoyed it, but one of my daughters would immediately fall asleep every time we started the book. She tried to listen, but could not stay awake.  I think the timeless words worked their way into her subconscious anyway.

We don’t read or listen to books together as much anymore, but we still love to share favorites. My oldest daughter and I have a joint Kindle account, and enjoy dipping into each other’s electronic reading lists. When someone in the family reads a novel they love, they share it with the rest of us, eagerly tracking progress so we can discuss it.

We may not live in the same house, but we can be–literally–on the same page.

Reading and sharing stories, discussing the events and ideas in books, and tracing the themes in our own lives has been a way for our family to stay connected through all the changes of growing up. My dream of a book that never ends may not come true, but our shared love of reading satisfies some of that longing for a story that goes on and on.