If you ever spent a day or two in our house, chances are you’d hear me or, even more likely, Wife shout exuberantly, “smiley.”

Whoever shouted “smiley” just finished another book.

About ten years ago, a friend of mine posted on Facebook that she had read 139 books that year. (Or 239, or 421, I don’t really remember, but it seemed like a huge number to me.) For someone who considered himself a reader, it was a wake-up call. Even though I’ve always read books, I’m not saying that I was reading a lot at that time, but I had always held on to that image of myself as a real bookworm who can’t hear or see anything when he’s enthralled by a story.

I thought back at my year and had to admit to myself that I had read—maybe—twenty books. Maybe fifteen. Well, ten, at least!

Not one willing to feel ashamed of myself, I concocted a plan for the entire family.

“Let’s try to read 200 books, in total, the four of us, next year,” I said.

Wife stood right by my side, as she always does, and created a system for our project—as she always does.

The system was simple, yet effective. We hung a large calendar on the kitchen wall, and every time we began a book, we wrote the title on the calendar, and once we finished the book, we got to draw a small smiley face in the square.

I learned to read when I was very young and can’t even remember a time when I couldn’t read. My reading was a great point of pride to my parents, and they love to tell the legend of Risto learning to read. (Just as it was for Wife and me when Son learned to read before he was four.)

The short version is that one day I just read.

In the longer version, my path to reading goes via a pillow with a TV brand’s name on it and me pestering Mom and Dad about the letters, to comic books, to reading.

Anyway, books became my pals.

My Grandma had the Pippi Longstocking books, which I read at her house one summer, and when I was in isolation in a hospital, I read Astrid Lindgren’s Emil books. One Christmas my aunt gave me The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, which I read many, many times without realizing it was the first in a series, not to mention all the Christian allegories.

I graduated to detective stories. All kinds, from The Famous Five to The Five Find-Outers and Dog to The Secret Seven … well, all of Enid Blyton’s series. I, too, wanted to wear sneakers and solve mysteries like the kids in her books. Just last week, I picked up onion rings from a frying pan, just like Fatty did in the books. I was just like The Three Investigators—even though I had not won the use of a Cadillac or had access to Alfred Hitchcock like those three kids.

My friendship with, even admiration of, Hercule Poirot has lasted decades. Since the day I saw Mom’s Agatha Christie books on the bookshelf. There were also a few James Bond novels, and I remember the glamorous cover of Goldfinger.

Over the years, the books have changed, as have I, but they’ve always opened doors and new worlds to me. Tarzan took me to the African jungles—together with The Phantom—and Robin Hood to Sherwood. When I had a science fiction period, Isaac Asimov was my guide to other galaxies. As was Douglas Adams.

In my 20s, the numbers did dwindle. I only read the hits: Bonfire of the Vanities, The Firm, The Beach. You get the idea.

Just enough to keep the idea of my being a reader alive.

I got the family excited, and we all started reading right away. And we did make the goal, 200 books, largely thanks to Wife and Son, who picked up the slack behind Daughter and me. (We were busy playing and coaching soccer and bandy and ringette.)

Years passed, and the challenge quietly became a family tradition. Wife and I even went on a reading retreat for a long weekend once.

Today, I read (!) an article titled “The End of Reading Is Here,” and it made me sad. Not the mere fact that fewer than half of Americans read even one book in 2025, and that only 38% read any fiction, but that they’ll miss out on so much fun.

These days, there are apps for tracking all the books we read, and we don’t count the books we read.

But whenever I hear that shout, or get a “smiley” text from Son, I do smile.

And get back to my book so that I can fire off my text soon.