I guess my mother was always smarter than me. Which, of course, is something anyone who knew the two of us wouldn’t hesitate to nod in agreement with.

Like most kids, I loved my mother (she passed a few years back) and tried my best not to cross her.

Yet, it just dawned on me today that she had a mean streak at times.

For my entire life I’ve given her credit for instilling a love for literature in me at any early age, but that wasn’t her intent at all. Her goal was to keep me sedate and quiet, not rambunctiously out of control which was my natural bent.

And so the English teacher/librarian tricked me into reading the novel “Kenilworth” at age 10, promising a reward of 25 cents once I turned the final page.

I did read that book day after day sitting on the living room couch, and now remember cherishing the moment in time when I conquered the sucker and retrieved my reward.

Maybe the ends justify the means, as I have developed a strong liking for fine literature, but Mom’s selection of “Kenilworth” for me to read bordered on abuse. Seriously. “Kenilworth” was published in 1821, written by a dude named Sir Walter Scott, and is a romance novel set in Year 1575.

To my way of thinking, Mom gave no thought to my early wants, but instead passed along a book for me to read that met her interests in fine art.

To this day, I never have met another person who’s read “Kenilworth.” Of course, the question “Have you read Kenilworth?” never has been posed within my earshot. Even sitting on a stool in the LT, where important matters of all ilk are discussed, and the term “Kenilworth” never has been voiced in my presence.

I later graduated and began reading books of my own selection. When I first read a novel penned by D.H. Lawrence, I determined he was my favorite author. Anyone who knows the language so well he can create words not found in dictionaries and be 100 percent understood earned my undying respect. However, although I never tired of being the only person county-wide to say D.H. Lawrence was my favorite author, the fact I would begin to read subsequent works of his in later years and find them too tedious to complete finally forced me, grudgingly, to admit that maybe D.H. Lawrence wasn’t my favorite author. To seal that deal, at one point in time I recklessly stated online that my favorite author was D.H. Lawrence and knew a change must be forthcoming.

Good grief. That was classified information. Don’t some banks and other important institutions ask who your favorite author is as verification of your identity?

I not only changed who my favorite author was because D.H. no longer fit the bill, but also to prevent pilfering from my bank account. Too, I became more sophisticated in the science of passwording because, in answer to the question about my favorite movie, I misspelled the name of the movie. Well, in truth, I didn’t know how to spell the name of the movie at the time I entered my password, but it does add a level of complexity to anyone trying to hack into my bank account.

Today, John Grisham is my favorite author, but not on my bank password. I stuck another name on there to confuse the unscrupulous.

And if I ever remember what name I fabricated, I’ll be able to access my money.

Jabberwock II columnist Rocky Wilson is a reporter for the Chieftain.