When I was a kid I was not allowed to be inside the house when the sun was shining. On a farm that included 1,500 chickens, 60 pigs, 30 steers and two cows, and grew corn, wheat, hay and potatoes, and contained peach, pear and apple orchards plus a large truck patch, there was no time to sit around reading. This was made clear to me on any number of occasions.
As a teenager I went to some lengths to sneak reading time. Our tractors all had little toolboxes, and I slipped paperbacks under the tools. I had books stashed away in the chicken houses; I gathered up the eggs as fast as possible, and then took a ten-minute reading break.
I once attempted to read while cultivating corn. In theory it should have worked. The corn rows in our fields above Preacher's Camp were long and straight, and I thought if I could hold the steering wheel steady, I would be able to read, and no one would know. It didn't work. I was able to read just fine, but when I looked back I saw that I had ripped out about 50 yards worth of corn rows.
Years later I was still working a similar theory. On a Sunday morning I was driving on I-80 across the salt flats west of Salt Lake City. That stretch of roadway is as straight as a ruler for mile after mile. I was pulled over by a Utah trooper for weaving. He asked me if I had been drinking, and I assured him I had not. I said maybe I wasn't paying attention because of the monotony of the straight road. He let me off with a warning. What he didn't notice on the floor of the car was the New York Times I had been reading before he pulled me over.
To this day, I'm not convinced I was weaving. I think he may have stopped me because I had California plates and one of those Darwin fishes with the little feet on the back of my car. It was Utah.
Also, in my defense, I have never texted anyone while driving. Actually, I've never texted anyone.