I can’t remember what it was like not to know how to read. Throughout the past twelve years, reading has been an activity that has given me so much happiness. Getting sucked into a story, becoming fully immersed in the setting with characters I love is my favorite thing to do on a rainy day, a sunny day, any day really. Visiting different worlds has helped me to better figure out my own.

My love for reading brought me closer to my Grandma Thea. Once I hit the age of nine, she shared with me her favorite book series from her childhood: Nancy Drew. Ready for another sleepover at her house, I opened the door to the warm guest room I always slept in, and my eyes were drawn to the shiny, yellow hardcovers on the nightstand. The covers were beautiful, adorned with paintings of a determined young sleuth. I opened the book on top; the first in the series and the writing was something completely different than what I was used to. The letters were imperfect, runny, and small. Typed by a typewriter. These letters made me feel sophisticated.

From then on, every conversation I had with my grandma revolved around Nancy Drew: from her 1930s fashion to her clever mind always thinking ahead, and to her funny best friends. I could tell my grandma enjoyed our talks as they reminded her of the times when she was young, reading the very same books.

Along with the stories of Nancy’s adventures, I also gained an understanding of my grandmother’s story. She painted a clear picture in my mind, pictures of her reading under large, shady trees during the summer, and in front of a stone fireplace in the winter. This gave me such a good understanding of who my grandma was when she was young: somebody just like me. It’s easy to forget that grandparents were young once too. So many years set apart the two childhoods.

By reading Nancy Drew, my grandma and I shared so many laughs and thought-provoking conversations, like there was no difference in age at all. Every birthday and every Christmas, I received one or two more pieces of Nancy’s story. Inside every cover, my grandma put a purple stamp of a dog. This symbolizes that my grandma not only gave me Nancy’s stories, but she also gave me her own.