I'm proud to be an Okie from Muskogee

I dutifully read all the assigned books in middle and high school—I was a diligent student and always did my homework. But I never read for pleasure. It just didn't occur to me, and it wasn't a tradition in my home.

The summer after my freshman year in college, I decided I wanted to be a well-read person. I wanted to read all the classics. I'm not sure why this idea got into my head, but I was determined to spend the summer becoming literary.

I met with a friend who I considered to be very smart and asked him for suggestions. He named dozens of books off the top of his head and highly recommended The Grapes of Wrath as his all-time favorite. I figured that was as good a place as any to start.

The book was all he'd promised. It was the best book I'd ever read, and I'd done it of my own volition. I was on my way to becoming the bookish type.

I went home to visit my parents later that summer. Over dinner my first night back, I excitedly told them all about the book—the story about the Joad family traveling to California to work in the orchards, the injustice of farm labor, and the sad lives of migrant workers. Had they read it? Could I lend it to them?

My father looked at me, mildly amused. Being a Texas cowboy, he never really knew what to make of his city girl who wanted nothing more than to be smart and sophisticated.

"Well Deary," he had a sweet way of saying that even though he was getting ready to put me in my place. "I don't need to read a book about going to Californ-i-a to pick fruit. I know that story pretty well."

He went on to tell me some family history I hadn't heard—had never asked. His father packed up the family and drove from Oklahoma to California as one of the last waves of dust bowl farmers to head west.

My dad was about three years old when they left. He remembered the orchards and the beautiful central valley. He was old enough to remember the journey back to Oklahoma when his family returned to the farm several years later. My grandparents were one of the lucky few to be able to reclaim their land and start over.

I'll never forget that conversation with my dad. I knew he'd grown up pretty poor, but it was something we didn't discuss as a family. His athletic scholarship to play football got him through college and on to a different life than his parents, including a nice house in Dallas where I grew up.

I'm amazed, looking back, that my first step into reading as an adult had such a profound effect on my view of my family and my upbringing. I would have learned more about my Dad's history eventually,  as I got older and more thoughtful. Instead I read one of the most memorable books of all time, opening my mind to the power of storytelling, and got a jolt of family history.

Not a bad first step.