There are certain memories that feel like they belong to an entire generation.
For some people, it’s Saturday morning cartoons.
For others, it’s riding bikes until the streetlights came on.
For me, it’s Reading Rainbow.
Even now, all these years later, I can hear LeVar Burton’s voice and immediately feel myself relax. There was something comforting about that show. Something safe. The music, the stories, the excitement of discovering new books—it all felt like an invitation into a bigger world.
I loved books long before I understood why.
One of my earliest and happiest book memories is a worn paperback called A Horse to Love.
I found it at a school book fair when I was a child. It wasn’t shiny and new. In fact, it looked well-loved. Some of the pages were wrinkled, as though someone had spilled coffee on them years before. Most children would probably have reached for the pristine copy.
I wanted that one.
There was something about holding it that felt comforting.
I brought it home, read it, and fell completely in love with the story.
I still have that same copy today.
Every once in a while, when life feels heavy or lonely, I pull it off the shelf and read it again.
Some books never stop being home.
Books were everywhere in my childhood.
My mom took us to the library regularly. I haunted used bookstores. At one point there was a bookstore near my bus stop that allowed customers to trade books back in for store credit. I loved it so much that I would sometimes get off the bus early just so I could browse the shelves before going home.
I always had a book with me.
By sixth grade, it had become part of my identity.
There was another student in my class who read constantly, and after we finished our assignments we would sit in the back of the classroom with books hidden under our desks. Before long another reader joined us and we unintentionally formed a tiny little book club while the rest of the class worked through the day’s lesson.
Looking back, I realize books have been one of the great loves of my life.
Not just reading.
Books.
The smell of them.
The weight of them.
The promise of them.
The possibility that somewhere inside those pages was a world I hadn’t discovered yet.
And that brings me back to another childhood memory: Pizza Hut’s Book-It program.
If you grew up when I did, you probably remember it.
Read books.
Get your card stamped.
Earn a personal pan pizza.
Simple.
Brilliant.
Magical.
Recently, I found myself thinking about Book-It again.
Not because I wanted a pizza.
Because I missed the joy of it.
The playfulness.
The celebration of reading.
The simple delight of rewarding yourself for something you already loved.
So I’ve decided to play Book-It again.
I found an app that lets you create digital punch cards and made one for myself.
Every time I finish a book, I get a punch.
When I reach ten punches, I get a reward.
Not a pizza this time.
An Uber ride to Asian Garden, a pot of tea, a bowl of wonton soup, and a solo lunch date with my Kindle.
And the funny thing is that a few years ago I probably would have talked myself out of doing something like this.
I would have thought it was silly.
Childish.
Unnecessary.
Now?
I think life gives us too few reasons to celebrate the things that bring us joy.
So I’m playing Book-It again.
Not because I need motivation to read.
I’ve never needed motivation to read.
I’m doing it because reading has brought me comfort, adventure, wonder, and companionship for most of my life.
Maybe this little punch card is simply a way of saying thank you.
To books.
To stories.
To the little girl who always had a paperback tucked under her arm.
And to the grown woman who is finally learning that she doesn’t need anyone’s permission to enjoy herself.
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