I’m not exactly sure where I saw this question, but I’ve been thinking about it for a few weeks now. And if truth be told I didn’t have to dig deep for the answer.
I could have chosen good ole Dr. Seuss, but he didn’t really make me a reader. He did spark my interest in reading. I could site Clifford the Big Red Dog or The Berenstain Bears or Curious George or any number of books I devoured, but none of them made me a reader. The book that me me a reader without a shadow of a doubt was Judy Blume’s Iggie’s House.
Iggie’s house just wasn’t the same. Iggie was gone, moved to Tokyo. And there was Winnie, cracking her gum on Grove Street, where she’d always lived, with no more best friend and two weeks left of summer. Continue reading