My Reading Life

“Just one more chapter, Mom, please.”

“I don’t know, it is getting kind of late” she said indecisively.

“Pretty please!”  I put all of the wheedle I could into the words, looking at her with mournful, pleading eyes.

“Okay, just one more, but then I really need to start working on supper.”

I relaxed. Settling  back down into the couch, my cheek leaning against my mother’s arm, my eyes following her wonderful mother voice on the page as she started the next chapter.

“Now began the happiest time that Caspian had ever known…”

If, like Peter Pan, I try and find my Happy Thought, I think this memory would be a tight contender. 

In my childhood home, there were books in every room.  If one of my family couldn’t be found, we were probably in a corner, up a tree or in the bathroom deep into a book, and unable to rouse themselves from the world we were currently inhabiting. 

At two minutes from our bedtime you would find my brother and I tearing around the house in the grip of terror.  Fear oozed out of us, as we strode swiftly around the house. (“No running in the house, boys!”)  Brush teeth, wash hands, last sip of water, (“Don’t drink too much or you’ll wet the bed!”), kiss mom goodnight, “Night, I love you, see you in the morning”, then walk quickly around the corner into the kitchen.  By this time our beds were in sight, it was the home stretch, the seconds were ticking down…only a few left, we started to run (“I said no running boys”) and just as the last seconds of sand trickled to the bottom of the hourglass of our bedtime, we would throw back the covers and flop into bed.  Ha HA!  Victory!  If we had not made it in time, even one second past our bedtime, we would have to immediately turn off our light, and in despair lay awake wishing that we had made it.  When we did make it, which was most of the time due to the motivation that we had, we could stay awake as long as we wanted.  You see, Gary and I were, and still are, insatiable bookworms.  During the day, we led fairly uneventful lives, but long into the night, we did everything there was to do between the pages of a book.  Save the fair damsels in distress, slay the dragons and all that.  We were tireless until the book was done or 2am, whichever came first.

In the mornings, if there was no pressing obligation, I would sleepily turn over in bed, and remember where I had left off in the story I was reading.  I would feel around for the book, sometimes crumpled up under me. Having fought sleep the night before, trying to get to a stopping place in the story, which never comes in a good book until the end, if then. I would lay progressively flatter in bed, finally completely prone, with my head turned sideways on the pillow, my thumb propping the book open, suddenly waking back up to read a few more lines, only to drop off to sleep again.  In that state, the book would often be eased off the bed by my restless sleeping arm, to drop loudly to the floor.  Sometimes this would wake me enough to rouse me to read a few more pages, but sometimes I would only open my eyes, see that the light was still on, and close my eyes again until morning. I wonder how much electricity was wasted by this tradition.

Daytime meant snatches of the story read while on the toilet, “David, are you reading on the toilet?”

“Ummm.  Kind of.”

“You have work to do.”

Snatches of stories read while reading in the back seat of the car while fighting off motion sickness. “David, you always get sick when you read in the car.  Are you sure you want to read right now?

“Ummm. What? Oh, yeah, I think I’ll be okay this time.”

“Right.”

Sneaking off on a lazy Saturday afternoon to climb up into the tall spreading tree in our yard with a blue Hardy Boy mystery tucked into my beltline. I would lodge myself in the crotch of a big branch to read blissfully until I heard “David, where are you?” drifting from our back door.

It was rather glorious to be sick.  Not stomach sick, because nothing could make that better, but sick with a low-grade cold.  Enough to keep me home from school, but not enough to make me miserable.  That meant a whole golden day lying tucked into our hideously green couch with a book.  Sweet, indulgent luxury.  Hours of silence, with the homey sounds of my mother cleaning and cooking, and occasionally bringing me mugs of hot tea, or something else motherly. 

At dinner time around our kitchen table, you would have heard this, “David…David…David! Would you please pass the tuna casserole?  David?  Gary…Gary…GARY!! TELL DAVID TO PASS THE CASSEROLE!” 

Me, looking up from my book, “Oh, sorry Mom, were you talking to me?” 

Eventually mom put an end to the tradition of general table time reading.  We weren’t having “family time.”  At the time, I thought it was an outrage only a few notches below Nero’s persecution of the Christians.

Now I am married.  Working.  And there is a not a lot of extra time.  I have had, out of necessity, to institute reading out loud to my wife.  And my brothers wife, I have heard, wakes up occasionally in the wee hours of the morning and finds my brother, like the bibliophile that he is, reading a good book while sitting (I am not making this up) on the toilet.  Man does not live by bread alone, but by every good book that he can lay his hands on. 

This is a truth universally accepted. 

I still have the same drive to read as I did when I was a boy, but I just don’t have the time.  My love finds a way to express itself in the form of buying books.  Book shelves are now my universal answer for any interior decorating situation.  “A book shelf might look good there.”  An empty surface is a book laying opportunity.  Baskets of books and magazines tucked here and there.  A new shelving unit in the bathroom…one shelf dedicated to a tasteful selection of books.  An office is just an opportunity for many more bookshelves. 

I also express my need by actually reading, but unfortunately the snatches of time that I can find don’t match the size of the desire, so I usually end up having 12 books that I am currently reading, but never finishing.  Only to start a new book that seems interesting. 

One recent triumph was actually finishing a book called “Eats, Shoots and Leaves” about the history and decay of punctuation.  This was my “Bathroom Book” for almost a year.  A few pages once or twice a day add up over time, and being in the bathroom is a regular experience for me.  Sorry about that, I don’t usually do punny things like that, because I don’t really think they are punny…I mean funny.

I am hopeful that I will live to be old enough to once again have the luxury of time to read, and finish all these books that I am starting in my middle age.  I may have to plan a mid-life crisis and become a writer, or something.

What is the name for the realization that you aren’t going to be able to read all the books that you want to before you die?

I have one glorious reading related dream still in front of me.  Reading all my favorite books to my children.  Introducing them to Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy.  To Dirk and Al.  To Almonzo and Laura.  Grandma Doudle. Harry, Hermione and Ron.

I can hardly wait!

My Brother, My Hero

      “Are you guys ready?” My dad mouthed the words through the pane of glass between us.

Gary and I looked at each other, and shrugged, and started delicately pounding on the bottom of the 4’x4’x1/4” glass window with the rubber butts of our Estwing hammers. Is it possible to “delicately pound”? We were trying.

My dad, my brother and I were working on a window replacement job. It was on the historic Ravenel house. Dad was outside standing on the top of an extension ladder, looking in the second floor window that we needed to remove. On either side of his ladder was another ladder. The plan was: Gary and I would ever so gently ease the window out of the casing by tapping on it with the butts of our hammers, which were handled with soft-ish rubber. Dad, balancing on the top of the ladder, would ease his fingers under the window as it edged out of the casing, and then Gary and I would run down the flight of stairs, out the door, and around the house, and sprint up the ladders on either side of Dad, and then all three of us would slide the window down the front face of the ladders to the ground. (To any OSHA official reading this: Just Kidding!)

This sounds like a ludicrous plan, perhaps, but we had already successfully executed it with about 6 other windows, so we were feeling pretty secure.

As Gary and I continued to tap gingerly along the base of the window, we heard a tiny brittle sound, and looked at the bottom edge of the glass. There was a miniscule crack in the glass. Gary and I looked at each other, and then glanced out at Dad, who was staring at the defect.

Hmmm…

Nothing more happened, so we collectively shrugged our shoulders, and Gary and I resumed our activity.

Tap…tap…taptap…tap…taptaptap…tap

Tap

Abruptly, 16 square feet of ¼” thick plate glass disassembled itself into exploding shards. As I fell backwards in shock and survival, I saw two snapshot pictures in front of me.

My dad, hammer in hand, reaching through the rain of glass, trying to hook the hammer claw over the window frame, and missing as he reeled backward, losing his balance at the top of the ladder.

My brother, wading into the killing glass that I had shied away from and grabbing my dad’s arm, pulling him back into balance just before he fell backwards to the ground.

And then silence, as the glass window that was, crunched under Gary’s feet.

And that day, my brother became a hero to me.

My One Attempted Felony

I didn’t want to kill anyone, but I didn’t want to be killed either. 

Earlier that afternoon, I got off the school bus, walked down our driveway, and climbed up the back steps of our house, opening the door, and noticed that all the lights were off inside.

“Hello!  Mom?  Dad?  Where is everybody?  Gary?”  My voice echoed.

I dropped my book bag on the floor.  The floor creaked.  The air was chilled in the house. Apparently no one had been tending the fire. 

“Hello?”  A silent, darkening house was my answer as I flipped on the kitchen lights, and looked for a note.  There wasn’t one.

Quietly, I walked through the house, looking for signs that might have been left for me, but everything was normal.  Fleeting thoughts of the Rapture passed through my mind, but there were no empty clothing laying rumpled on the ground.

Outside, it was getting dark early.  Winter-time early.  I had just gotten home from school, but already it was dusky out.  I walked outside and called. 

“Dad!”  My shout only echoed off the hills across our pasture.

I looked toward the barn, but there were no lights on.  Only the bwauking of the hens and lowing of the cows.

I went back inside.

“Well”, I thought, “they must be getting home soon.  They would have left a note if they were going to be gone long.”

I fidgeted.  The windows got dark, and I waited.  We had no phone, so I couldn’t call anyone to try and find my family.  So I waited.  An hour passed.  Then another.  I tried to read, but fear and concern kept interrupting my thoughts.  What if something has happened to my parents and brother?  How could I find out.  I am just sitting here, doing nothing, and they might all be in the hospital.  Or dead.

I jumped up, and wandered around the house, turning all the lights on, then sat down to think. 

The quietness was broken by an indistinct sound outside.  The gravel at the end of our driveway crunched.  I jumped up, and ran toward the living room.  I knelt down beside the window that looked out toward the road, and slowly peaked through the curtain.

A car was sitting at the end of our driveway!

“Oh MAN, what do I do?”  I snuck away from the window, and ran toward my Dad’s closet.  I opened the door, and reached through his coats to the back corner until I felt the leather of his padded rifle sheath.  I reached in, and slid out the 22 gauge rifle.  I stood on tiptoe, reaching up, my fingers feeling along the top shelf until I found the box of ammunition.

My hands shook as I fingered the shells into the chamber, and locked the gun.  I hesitated, then slid the safety to the OFF position.

Bending at the wasted, I scurried toward the living room window, and slowly peeked out through the curtain again.  There, still, were the headlights of the car shining through the dark at the end of the driveway.

My breath was coming in gasps.  What do I do next?  I peaked again.  Still there.  Man!  I could feel my heart beating, and the blood rushing in my ears.

Then I heard the gravel crunch again.  Looking out I saw the car slowly turning into our driveway!

“Oh God.  Please help me!”

The car drove around our driveway and out of site of the living room window.

I crawled through the family room, and into the kitchen, lying on the floor under the window, when I heard the car stop right outside the window, just a few feet away.  The muffled sound of the car engine idled. 

I could not look out, because there were no curtains.  The kitchen light was on and it was dark outside so the murderer in the car would see me clearly if I peeked out the window.  They would probably get a shot off before I could aim my gun.  They were probably waiting for me to pop my head into sight to they could blow it off.

My heart was beating so hard.  I can not believe this is happening!  I had read so many adventure stories, but that was not the same as having killers sitting only feet away, and nobody at home.

I took a deep breath, tried to calm my shaking arms, and made my decision.  Fearfully standing up,  in full view of the criminals in the car outside,  I quickly lifted my dad’s 22 rifle to my shoulder, and sighted down the barrel ready to pull the trigger, but hoping I wouldn’t have to.  I didn’t want to kill anyone, but I didn’t want to be killed either. 

Outside the window, the tires of the car spun, throwing gravel as the car accelerated away from our house, and around our big circular driveway.  “Thank you God!” my breath coming in short, sobbing gasps as I ran through the house to watch the killers drive away. 

Peeking again through the living room window, I saw the car drive up the road toward the top of the driveway, and stop again, the gravel crunching, and my heart stopping.  “Oh Lord, they really are going to kill me!  Where are Mom and Dad?  Where is Gary?”

I heard the car door open, and saw the shadow of a man walk around the car from the passenger door, and Gary shouted, “David!  Put that gun down you retard!  I am going to tell Dad you pointed the gun at me!”

My brother has since forgiven me for being willing to shoot first and ask questions later, but I will never forget the relief I felt as I heard my brother threatening to kill me.

Citation: Me

Dad’s Study

          My dad’s study was a small low-ceilinged room filled with shelves, a desk, a chair, and a filing cabinet.  I don’t know why this seemed like such a mysterious, awe-inspiring room to me.  I do remember that for some reason we weren’t allowed to go in there by ourselves, again an opportunity for young lads to reveal their depravity. 

I remember going in there to ask dad a question, or bring him a mug of coffee from my mother, and furtively glancing around at the interesting looking shelves, or glancing into an opened drawer.  There were things that now seem normal, but to my young eyes looked like treasures.  An old SLR camera with a strange, Japanese name on it.  A pair of binoculars.  Marbles.  A kaleidoscope.  Books with unfamiliar titles.

The desk drawers were similarly enchanting.  Little cubbies for push pins and paperclips.  Many pens: fountain, ball and calligraphy.  Nibs and erasers.  The smell of those erasers, the type that are the consistency of rubbery chewing gum that you could stretch and pull apart, and then mash back together…smelling of graphite and rubber. 

That smell.  It almost magically pulls me back through time.  If I close my eyes and tune out the sounds of my own children, one making sweet sounds on the couch while she endures a full-body cast following hip surgery…the other downstairs shouting at the top of his lungs, pretending something.  If I could just close my eyes, and focus on the smell of the eraser that I have in my hand, I could once again be the little boy whose parents are outside in the garden with my brother.  I came in to “go to the bathroom” and while in the quite, cool house, I casually walked through the junk room and quietly pushed aside the green accordion door until I could slip into Dad’s office.  The quiet sliding of the desk drawer.  The clink of small metal objects as I sifted my fingers through my Dad’s possessions.  The smooth friction of the binocular focus knob as I looked through them out the small window toward the barn.  The bright circus of the kaleidoscope pointed out the window toward the bright sunlight.  The furtive putting back of everything, hopeful that Dad wouldn’t notice, and then breathlessly slipping out through the green accordion door and shutting it, having no idea I was creating an intense memory to be forgotten for 30 years, and then recaptured by the man I was to become, now with a growing volume of grey hairs myself, looking down at the twisted grey eraser on my desk, wishing I could become half the man, half the husband and father that my Dad was and is.

I look up and, hearing again the sounds of my own house, remember the 30 years that have come and gone and with a half-sad smile let the little boy that I was walk out of the quiet, cool house, into the bright sun and across the stream to help my family tend the garden.

2005 Mens basketball championship

6 years ago today, UNC-Chapel Hill won the Men's Basketball Championship.  By a very strange confluence of events, ending in my son's 9 week NICU hospital stay, we ended up living in Chapel Hill during March Madness.  It was an eye-opening experience.  Previously, I had been almost completely unaware of college basketball, but during our stay in the NICU, we couldn't miss the fact that most people wore light blue and white, and were constantly talking about "the game" from the night before.

My wife and I got caught up in it.  Watching the games was a way to momentarily escape from the dreadful realities of what was happening to our little tiny son.

As it happened, I didn't watch the final game.  Andrew had died only hours before, and I wasn't up to it, to put it mildly.

But, over the last four years, the Tarheels basketball team has been a delightful way of remembering our time in Chapel Hill, and remembering our son.

I was hoping for a repeat of their win with Sean May, and later, Tyler Hansborough, but sadly their March Madness 2011 career only carried them to the Elite Eight.

So here is a short video playing the highlights of the 2005 game, from that memorable day of days in my life:

Kayak Memories...

I'm looking forward to my sons getting old enough to take out on the river. In the mean time, my boats collect dust.

Dropping into Hell Hole

Holding my breath

Just hanging out.

Double Trouble on the Ocoee River

"The waterfall was about 40' tall, I guess."

Been eaten by the hole.  I'm in there someplace.

About to be eaten again.