Books. Everybody values them differently. It is true that there are those who hold little or no respect for books. Even among the educated, there are many who do not enjoy reading. In the fast pace of today’s world, some might feel they have no time to read. Others find movies and television much more enjoyable and easier to understand. "Each to his own," as the saying goes. To me I would rather sit with a book and read for the two hours or more that others would spend in the movie house. Although they have been few and far between, there have been days in my life that I have spent entirely buried in a book. To those who might wonder or suggest that such an activity is a waste of time (I suspect such individuals have never tried it), I would like to share the following story.

My favorite thing to do in life is to go somewhere that I have never been before. There is something about the unfamiliar that attracts me. Now, one must understand that this is not the result of my current circumstances. I am not in a rut or tired of living the "rat race," nor do I feel bored with my lifestyle. I have a good job and my family is a treasure beyond price. I live in a good neighborhood and I enjoy many good relationships with people whom I call friends. I feel secure in the knowledge that most days I can come home and find my wife happy to see me and my daughter excited to be held by her daddy.

I enjoy my possessions and the arrangement of my home. My car runs well and I can afford to keep it running. We are not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but we are doing fine. We have no unassailable debts or unreasonable bills to pay. We live comfortably within our means.

This is not to say we have no goals, or lack a desire to improve our lot. Just the opposite-like most people we have dreams and goals that we strive for and work each day to fulfill. To put it simply, we try to stretch ourselves while not running faster than we are able.

Yet, I yearn to explore the unknown. I have not traveled far in my life. The extent of my travels has been contained to Western North America. They go from Alberta to Mexico and from Utah to California. Although I have not gone far, I have always enjoyed the feeling of entering a new city. The mode of travel is irrelevant, for it is being there that is important to me, and not the journey.

Several years ago I traveled to Arizona for a much-needed vacation. I had been there before but I was hoping to see some old friends and renew our relationships. Three days before I was to fly home I decided to travel out to California to see the ocean (I had never seen it before). I left in the middle of the night, with a map and a few directions from a friend. The American Interstate system is remarkable it its ability to get you where you are going. It took me ten hours and the trip was almost a straight line from Phoenix to the foothills of the Rockies just east of San Diego. I realized that I was not the least bit bored or tired during the long drive.

Each mile I was soaking up the view passing by my car at 70 miles per hour. I was being chased by the sun as I raced west to the finish line called the Pacific Ocean. It occurred to me that this was uncharted territory. As the countryside opened up around me I reveled in the experience. Here was new land for me to discover. I stopped only once after I had crossed the state line to make a promised call home, and then I sped on to my destination. As the flat land turned into low hills and the road began to wind its way through the valleys and ridges, I felt on top of the world. I decided I would not stop until I had dipped my foot in the ocean.

A few hours later, I did just that. Surprisingly, the experience was not what I thought it would be. In truth, I found being in the ocean did not move me as much as seeing it. As the sun went down I found some cliffs on which I could simply sit and watch. As the sun melted into the water, I came to realize something. I was free. At that moment I had no responsibilities. I knew no one. There was nowhere else I had to be. It did not occur to me to check my watch until the sky was dark. As I finally returned to my car, I came to another realization. I had hardly (if at all) looked at my watch all day.

I was in San Diego, California, for one whole day and the only indication of time passing was the sun. I had shopped, had lunch, and sat on the beach. I swam in the ocean. I visited the Mormon temple built here. Yet through all this, I was not concerned with what time it was. If you were to ask anyone who knows me, I dislike not knowing the time. To put it simply, I very much believe in being organized. Knowing the time is a big part of this. So the fact that I never felt the need to look at my watch was significant. I have given much thought to how I felt that day. Of course, my life came rushing back to me as I realized I had less then twelve hours to catch a plane in Phoenix, Arizona. Only ten hours' drive from the very spot in which I was standing.

Neither the drive back to Phoenix nor the flight home is significant to this story. Except to note the contrast between the day I spent in San Diego, and the day I spent coming home. In point of fact, I felt like I was leaving home. That day in San Diego was not the first time I had felt this way, but I had never before recognized it for what it was. I was home.

For some time I thought that I would like to live in Southern California, or maybe in Arizona, another place in which I had this feeling. But I soon realized another truth about my experience. It was not where I was that mattered. I was most at home exploring that which was new to me. I simply enjoy going somewhere I have never been before.

Which brings me to the point of this story, and the reason I enjoy the written word so much. Every new book or story I read is like a journey to a new destination. Even when I study my history books, I feel like I have gone somewhere, although perhaps not new, yet to a place I have never been before.

We need to escape from our everyday lives now and then. When we read stories (fictitious or not) we explore the unknown. We both learn and enjoy as the words describe the adventure and our imagination adds the color and emotions.

The greatest aspect about all of this is the endurance of the story. I can read a book written by Julius Caesar more than two thousand years ago. There are records that go back 10,000 years and yet we can read many of them and experience what is described much the same as the first person to read them. Although each tale has an ending, the story of the written word is never-ending. As long we have books and keep producing them there will always be some place new to discover.