Perhaps one of the most time-honored traditions is the summer reading list, and my prep school was probably the number one upholder of this tradition. My school was determined, no matter what, to keep the summer reading list as strong an institution as homeroom and lousy cafeteria lunches.

Each year come June, I would receive two sheets of paper: a letter from the headmaster, and a form with seven numbered dotted lines and a blank at the top for one's name, date and homeroom teacher. The letter was really a rah-rah sort of message filled with inspiring, profound phrases on the importance of reading. In it were also a few handy suggestions on how to best squeeze in the time for reading during those fun-packed days of summer. One such tip urged us to schedule a half hour to read before going to bed each night (after brushing our teeth, of course).

Each summer, this list was my faithful companion--or rather my albatross--never leaving my side. I even conscientiously taped it to the inside lid of my trunk and brought it with me to camp along with my baseball glove and tennis racket. Every day when I opened my trunk in a vain attempt to find a clean T-shirt and shorts, I found that list staring me in the face, daring me to read the required seven books and fill in each of those seven blanks on the page.

And each day I put off reading. No matter where I was, though--running from second to third base on the softball field, being yelled at by my tentmates to get seconds on chicken wingdings--that list was always on the back of my mind. Even now, long after my days as a camper, I still, for the life of me, cannot read in the summer. Oh, sure, I put away a few books or plays, but I cannot really read. I cannot truly achieve the feeling that I never ever want to leave my cozy chair until I finish the book to which my eyes are glued.

I blame that damned list for my problem--for making approach summer reading as a responsibility and a chore, rather than as the pleasure it should be. I also blame summer. Let's face it--summer is not a very interesting season. It's the time of year when trash novels are most popular because they can be whipped through in an afternoon at the beach.

In summer it's also always hot outside. It's unpleasant to be outdoors and depressing to be inside, staring at the beautiful day outside. These are hardly the kind of conditions that encourage curling up with a tremendous novel. For that, one needs a touch of serenity, a kind of contentment with the world and a feeling that everything is just right.

I get that feeling in the middle of winter, inside, protected from the biting cold and warmed by the lamp overhead and the writing of some great author. Then reading is not a chore, but a joy.

Maybe that explains why I never could manage to read those seven books and chose instead to put down fake titles on the sheet.