In the houses where my family lived as I was growing up, books abounded. Loads of them filled the shelves in our living room and many others resided in the bedrooms of our parents and those of my siblings and me.

My father was a newspaper man–reporter, columnist, and editor– and took it as part of his work to read widely. Buying the latest books was made easy for him, thanks to Victor, a fellow who regularly came around the offices of Boston newspapers and sold the books at a reduced price.

My mother loved books, too. She had majored in English in college, and she never lost her taste for Victorian writers like Tennyson, Browning and Dickens. And I still have a well-worn volume that my father gave her before their marriage, an anthology entitled The New Poetry. Among the poets included were T. S. Eliot, D.H. Lawrence, and Wallace Stevens.

As the oldest of six children, I could hardly escape book addiction. An early favorite was The Little Engine That Could. Later on, I was a fan of the Hardy boys, and (more durably) Tom Sawyer. Richard Halliburton’s Books of Marvels were special sources of vicarious travel and adventure.

In high school, my ignorance of math and science was balanced by an enthusiasm for reading that served me well. The curriculum featured Scott, Hawthorne, Thomas Hardy. Fortunately, I could supplement these selections with forays into my father’s ever-increasing library.

In my schooldays, home television did not exist. That meant that I was free from the permanent temptation of small-screen addiction. I did love the movie screen, which on Saturday afternoons brought me the adventures of Andy Hardy, plus liberal doses of Jimmy Cagney in what is now known as film noir.

We all liked radio shows, an activity compatible with reading. On December 7, 1941, I was the family member listening to the radio when the program was interrupted by news of the attack on Pearl Harbor.

In late life, I continue to love both television and radio. Those who badmouth TV receive very little sympathy from me because this medium has shown me unforgettable news events, such as Neil Armstrong’s walking on the moon. Also the televised sports events and the dramas I have watched through the years have given me much pleasure and inspiration.

But television and more recent visual media have drawn many of America’s children away from reading. This upsets me.  Many families, I realize, cannot afford to buy books.  However, our country’s towns and cities have excellent libraries that make good books available to people of all ages.

Greater Boston residents are especially fortunate. We have access to the Minuteman Library Network, which provides reading matter from dozens of municipal libraries.  If the book we want is not in our library, it can be found for us elsewhere.

Many of my age peers use this service.  We make a practice of getting interesting books and using our leisure hours to read them.

My concern is more with the youth of our communities.  Too many of them are deprived of reading books that could enhance their lives. And it would likely prepare them for doing better in school and getting prepared for good jobs.

I recognize that reading comes now in a variety of forms. Some people enjoy reading from tablets rather than from conventional books. They may be reading more than I know.

My middle-class upbringing is not necessarily the model for the way every young person can or should rise toward maturity.  I recognize and welcome new ways of growing up.  But access to reading is fundamental to life in the modern world. My hope is that more young people will benefit from it.