In the summer of 1951, I was eight years old. I loved being outdoors: Playing baseball, riding my bike and going to the City Park swimming pool. My mother (always “Moo” to me) thought it might be a good idea if I spent a little more time indoors or, to be more precise, a lot of time indoors reading books. She majored in English at Wellesley and went on to write radio scripts in NYC, edit articles at Life magazine and create greeting cards under the pseudonym Marianne Potter. She offered to pay me 25 cents for every 100 pages I read that summer. Her ploy worked. I read and read and read — mainly Freddy the Pig stories, Hardy Boy mysteries and biographies of historical figures. And then I’d spend my hard-earned reading money on popsicles, Jujy Fruits, Three Musketeers Bars and other goodies at the store down the street.

Moo’s shrewd investment paid off. Reading remains one of my biggest joys.

High school introduced me to Shakespeare and Chaucer and Dickinson. And, of course, to the steamier side of life with “Peyton Place,” a must-read for all randy teenagers back in the day.

In college I read about love amidst war (“Farewell to Arms”), social justice (“Grapes of Wrath” and “Great Expectations”) and vengefulness (“Moby Dick”).

My reading time grew scarce after family and work responsibilities took precedence. But I always managed to read The New York Times, Time and Sports Illustrated. Moo often called to tell me about her latest favorite author who I absolutely must read: Ivan Doig, Larry McMurtry, Maeve Binchy, Wallace Stegner and Virginia Woolf. Sometimes I’d heed her advice and read a book; always I mentally filed away the recommended author’s name for later use.

For the last 30 years, I’ve spent a lot of time indoors — and often outdoors — reading all manner of books and magazines. If I’m going on a two-week vacation I’ll take along six or seven books. I haven’t bought an electronic reader yet, but I did read “The Longest Day” on my wife’s IPad after visiting the beaches of Normandy a few years ago. (Great read!)

Whenever a new author or book series creates some buzz, I’ll have a read to see what all the fuss is about. Stephen King. The Harry Potter series. John Grisham. Steig Larsson. I’m not into formula mystery books, which some writers crank out like popcorn or romance novels (ditto). I understand that there’s even a software program which you can use to “write” your own romance novel! And let’s just say my brief bookstore perusal of “Fifty Shades of Grade” proves that there’s a sucker born every minute.

What do I like to read? Okay, here’s a partial list of some of my favorite books over the years: “Angle of Repose” (Wallace Stegner); “Drinking the Rain” (Alix Kates Shulman); “Prince of Tides” (Pat Conroy); “Lonesome Dove” (Larry McMurtry); “Cold Mountain” (Charles Frazier); “Short Stories” (Alice Munro); “A Private Battle” (Cornelius Ryan and Kathryn Morgan Ryan); “Map of the World” (Jane Hamilton); “Water for Elephants” (Sara Gruen); “The Life of Pi” (Yann Martel); “The Shipping News” (E. Annie Proulx); “Bird by Bird” (Annie Lamott); “The Invention of Wings” (Sue Monk Kidd); and “Best American Short Stories” (any year).

I could never finish “Ulysses” by James Joyce, but I enjoyed “The Dubliners,” his short story collection. I treasured James Michener’s “Hawaii” after visiting Hawaii, but most of his other books are too dense and research-laden for my taste. I did, however, enjoy reading Michener’s autobiography “The World is My Home,” which he wrote at age 85! In my view, Stephen King’s best book is “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft.”

“The End of Your Life Book Club,” which came out in 2013, held special meaning for me. Will Schwalbe wrote about the “book club” he and his mother Mary Anne Schwalbe formed to meet while she was undergoing cancer treatments. The book cites several books they both loved, and I have pasted that list on my wall.

Right now I’m plowing through “An American Tragedy” by Theodore Dreiser, a book ranked as one of America’s top 100 novels. At 874 pages (and small print), this book is not exactly a beach read. But it’s worth the effort so far, even though I’m not getting paid 25 cents for each one hundred pages. I wonder if Moo read it. I bet she did.

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David Treadwell is a writer who lives in Brunswick. He can be reached at dtreadw575@aol.com.