�԰�����

�԰����� magazine’s resident bookworm, Coleen Grissom, Ph.D., died this past January. Grissom worked at �԰����� for more than 70 years, nearly half the age of the institution itself. Her literature selections first appeared in �԰����� magazine in 2010, and soon she was writing a regular column for our readers. Though she retired in 2019, Grissom continued to recommend, with her trademark wit and gruff commentary, books to our readers up until her death. Grissom’s Lit Picks column was one of the most-read sections of the magazine (second only to Class Notes), a testament to her deep-seated impact on the Tiger community.

For the final Lit Picks column of �԰����� magazine, we wouldn’t dare try to speak on behalf of Grissom. Instead, we excerpted a portion of her 2007 speech for Gemini Ink’s Autograph Series, which was published in Grissom’s 2008 A Novel Approach to Life (). The template for the speech, Grissom explains, came from a “last lecture” series at �԰����� in which professors deliver the lecture they would want to give if they knew it would be the last one they’d ever make.

I have absolutely no memory of being read to—I cannot conjure up a single moment of lying in bed or sitting in a parent’s lap having a story read to me. But, I remember reading: slouched in a huge fabric-covered armchair with both legs flung over the side, totally absorbed in a story, and, thank God for dentists, sucking on a lemon half.

Memories of my mother’s admonition that “if you don’t quit reading so much, Coleen, no boy is ever going to like you” do ring occasionally in my ears, but also to this day I credit my ability to read rapidly and read with concentration no matter what’s going on around me to my mother’s regularly letting me “just finish this chapter” before setting the table for lunch (at noon) or supper (at five o’clock) and to our home’s being a noisy, active one well before there was television. I learned long before there were iPods to “tune out” and to focus. Useful skills.

Looking at my love of reading from a psychological perspective, I realize that this could easily be labeled “escapism,” but I don’t recall a need to escape. Certainly, I grew up in a sexist, racist, postdepression, world-war time in East Texas, but I think I had a happy childhood. I loved athletics and starred in and was captain of many softball and basketball teams. Thanks to my daddy, I could throw a mean, highly effective spit ball, striking out many batters; I was a strong, fast runner, and, unlike many of my female peers, I had absolutely no hesitancy about sliding into the base. I have the scars to prove this—as do some pitiful souls who tried to stop my big feet. (Similarly, in basketball, I was the only girl to wear knee pads and still have the original knees to prove it. Yes, always eccentric.)

I don’t think I became a bookworm because I was unhappy, but somehow I did, in fact, fall in love with reading, and, surely, influences upon me were my mother’s constant perusal of all Readers Digest Condensed books, Good Housekeeping and Ladies Home Journal, and Daddy’s Business Week and daily newspapers. Sitting and reading in the big, open “family room” is a vision I clearly have of all the Grissom family on weekends and in evenings, when I wasn’t outside playing “piggy want a whistle” and “kick the can.” Thus, reading became important to me, and so let me tell you more than you could possibly want to know about ways in which reading has shaped my life.

The thesis of my remarks is simple (remember, I’m a teacher by trade): One should make reading an integral part of one’s life. One should do this in spite of the joys, challenges, and attractions of tempting television and films, of cocktail parties and athletic competitions.

Reading, I believe, helps me be more observant, more attentive to detail, more aware of what engages and interests me—even more analytical—more able to explore “whys” of my life. I have found and continue to find in reading some suggestions about the importance of self-awareness, self-acceptance, and self-reliance. I find the importance of developing a faith in something bigger than ourselves—about the basic dignity and goodness of all humankind—about the truths, so clearly evident and repeated throughout the history of fine literature.

Let me close this presentation with a carefully selected few of my other favorite quotations—ones that guide my life, and, if I were in charge of the world, would contribute to guiding yours.

E. B. White: “Wilbur never forgot Charlotte . . . she was in a class by herself. It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both.”

Katharine Graham: “To love what you do and feel that it matters— how could anything be more fun?”

John Hoyt: “Figure out what you care about and live a life that shows it.”

And, finally, two from Kurt Vonnegut: “Hello babies. Welcome to earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about
a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies: God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.”

And dear Vonnegut in his last book, A Man Without a Country, advises us with these words: “And, I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’”

Good Lord Almighty—or, as my mother would have preferred, “Goodness Gracious, sakes alive”—how can one not choose a novel approach to life when great fiction’s full of stuff like this?

Godspeed.
��