Great Books.

 
Besides reminding me that my affinity for large fountain drinks is actually a genetic one, my visit home has also been good for a few other things . . .

For instance, I spent some time this evening in Dad's study looking at his books with him.

I have always loved his library, but this current version is "library-lite".

My dad's library is wholly responsible for my life-long obsession with all things words

 

My love affair began in the big house where his library contained floor-to-ceiling shelves, an exotic hidden wet bar, a lighted Geochron on the wall showing a map of the world in its current relation to the sun, a plush wig-hair rug, a leather couch with a very particular "library-like" smell, and nearly every National Geographic magazine that had been published in his lifetime.

 The library was the room with the 3 small arched windows 

I spent hours there -- trespassing --  looking at his books and reading things that were far beyond my young comprehension, ranging from off-color limericks to the world's great literature. I believe I may or may not have wrecked a few very old copies of Dickens and Hawthorne...I noticed they failed to make the cut in this latest incarnation of his collection.  (Sorry, Dad.  I was too young to handle them properly but if it helps, they had a profound effect on me). 

Tonight he began our conversation by confiding that his books make him feel terribly guilty. I could not imagine how that would be the case, but he explained that he feels bad about all the beautiful and worthwhile books he owns that he has not read.  He said that reading has now become something of a chore for him -- his eyes don't like to work so hard and it has become much easier to watch TV.

This made me sad because one of my dad's defining characteristics has always been that he not only read the dictionary and the complete Encyclopedia Britannica as a young boy -- just because that's the kind of nerdy thing he enjoyed doing -- but also managed to retain a whole lot of it.

The conversation made me think about how things change, and how our relationship to them changes as well.  And feel sad, but feel glad I'm here.  And also fortunate to visit a few of these old mutual friends with him -- even the ones with which we are not as well acquainted as we'd like to be.  Just seeing their wise, familiar faces has value. And feel a little guilty about the ones I have not read myself, but pretty glad for the ones I have.





And realize that time is not to be wasted and that words matter, the ones on the page and especially the ones we share with the people we love.

Thanks, Dad . . . lucky me.