At a lunch and good conversation at the Flint House on Scott Street, the new General Manager of the Fort Frances Times extended an invitation that genuinely meant something to me. Alongside my usual columns on Canadian culture, history, music and art (and the occasional attempt at humour), he asked whether I might consider writing weekly book reviews for our community paper.
I’ve been thinking about that ever since.
When I trace my passion for reading to its genesis, it begins with quirks. There were stories read aloud by Mom, books always within sight at home, Motley Crüe cassette liner notes studied like sacred texts and a teetering tower of Archie and Jughead double digests that practically qualified as a doctoral level collection. But what truly turned reading from pastime into passion was something bigger than my own household.
It was a program called Book It!
For those who may (or may not) remember, Book It! was a reading incentive program for elementary students. Meet your monthly goal, receive a certificate from your teacher, have your parents sign off, and march proudly into Pizza Hut to redeem your reward. It was your own personal pan pizza, as well as a holographic button, and maybe a bookmark and a bit of swag. Literacy, apparently, pairs nicely with mozzarella and swagger.
But pizza? Really?
This was an era when Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Spaceballs, Problem Child 2, A Nightmare on Elm Street 4, the Noid, Jeff Spicoli in his history class and Kevin McCallister from his limo in New York City had us convinced that pizza was not merely food but an overwhelming cultural force. Offering it as an incentive was less bribery and bookends than strategic alignment with the zeitgeist.
Beyond reflecting on Great Moments in Pizza Pop Culture, I honestly thought that quicksand, ninjas and the Bermuda Triangle would have been much more serious threats as an adult than they have proven to be.
I digress.
Here’s what I’ve realized in retrospect; it wasn’t just the pizza.
It was the shared pursuit.
Knowing classmates were also cracking open books, logging pages and chasing goals created something communal. We weren’t reading alone in our rooms. Rather, we were participating in a collective effort. The classroom became a quiet league of explorers. Each certificate marked another journey completed. Another mind stretched. The immediate reward may have been edible. However, the habit that formed was permanent.
Somewhere between the grease-stained certificate and the holographic button, our world grew another voracious reader.
Reading matters because it is how a community remembers. Imagines, Dialogues with itself. Stories carry memory across generations. Cautionary tales. Shared myths. Hard-earned wisdom. inconvenient truths. A library is not merely a building with shelves; it is a civic memory bank. An imagination warehouse. The quiet engine room of democracy.
When we read, we enter conversations that began long before we arrived and will continue after we leave. We sharpen empathy. We practice perspective-taking. We learn nuance in an age that rewards outrage. Whether it’s a paperback from the Fort Frances Public Library, a Kindle glowing at midnight, an audiobook on Highway 11, or even a celebrity-narrated app accompanying your commute, the format matters less than the act itself. Reading—in any form—is participation in the long human project of meaning-making.
Which brings me back to that lunch conversation.
I have gratefully accepted the invitation from The Times. Beginning next week, I will publish my first book review.
But I’d like to add one small twist.
At the end of each review, I will announce the following week’s book that I’m committing to reading and writing about in the following paper. My friends, consider this an open invitation. Read along if you can. Borrow it. Download it. Listen to it. Skim it. Wrestle with it. Agree or disagree. The goal is not uniformity of opinion—it is shared engagement.
What kind of book. It may be new. It may not. It may be uplifting. It might be mind blowing. It might be well known. It might not. Most importantly, it will be.
Perhaps, over time, this evolves into something resembling a Borderland Book Club — informal, inclusive, curious. A town thinking together.
So here is our first selection:
Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind, written by Yuval Noah Harari.
It seems fitting to begin with a book that asks how we came to be who we are. As societies. As storytellers. As believers in shared myths. As partners in collective projects.
Pizza may or may not have greased the wheels back then. The invitation now is simpler—and more enduring.
Let’s read together.
See you next week.
Robert Horton is an educator, author, orator and linguist. He is a member of Rainy River First Nations.
