My early life, too far back for memories, was captured on my father’s box brownie camera. As I grew older my imagination, just like that old camera, snapped more moments of my life. When I conjure up those memory shots I don’t see the little person standing by my mother in leggings and a woolen coat or sitting on my father’s knee. I see hands holding books. And I realize how much of my childhood I remember through books that, for one reason or another, were important to me.