What I Did On My Summer Vacation
Dear Internet,
When I was a child, there was NOTHING I loved more than to be left the Hell alone to read. My best friend in those days was my best friend because he liked the same thing. We took turns going to each other's house and we'd just read. I think we were the only kids who wanted to be left in peace to read.
In those days (or, as my inner cynic says, "When I was happy.") I was a ferociously voracious reader. Gluttonous, even.
SoFla's rainy season is during the summer, and by 10am there was a better than even chance of a downpour. So, by 9am, I had pedaled my Chopper ovah to our public library and was comfy and cozy in a wingback chair with a HUGE stack of books. At around 1pm, I'd sneak off to the bound periodicals and have a secretive lunch. (Something crumb-free)
I'd read books on geography, history, science, travel, literature, magic, cooking, film, sports, wildlife. It was a bad week indeed when I couldn't polish off 3-4 books. Amazing that in 1975 parents would let an 11 year old boy schlep out on his bike alone to stay out (and out of touch) for 6-7 hours straight, every day, for three months. TFBIM would have an aneurysm if I so much as suggested we let NOS try this. "Some lunatic could kidnap him, he could get run over, he could get hit with lightning, he could be sick, he could ditch the library and run off with hoodlum friends looking for hussies and malt liquor." The number of legitimate causes for worry in the scenario is limited only by her mood.
Still. I am glad I got to spend untold hours with books, learning all manner of strange and useless factoids. After all, if I hadn't, TSMP(oppy)M would have nothing about which to converse with me. As it is, we have been known to burn HOURS discussing the Moorish system of urban development over several drinks, nearly blowing off the lovely and gracious Poppy. This is the problem when you have two over-read guys of basically the same age getting together with alcohol. You start ruminating over the caliphate system, and next thing you know, you're hot-footing across town.
In this regard my parents were very lucky. I was a self-contained kid. I required no entertainment, no supervision...just books and a comfortable place to sit. As opposed to us. NOS is, as I type, playing some GameBoy game and giving me running commentary...and has been for the last 45 minutes. NTS...well, let's just say he can go from WonderChild to Stitch in picoseconds.
Also, TFBIM comes from one of those appalling families that does all sorts of things together. During the summer, they'd picnic, or go to the beach or go outside for reasons which have been inadequately explained to me. Something to do with fresh air. How something hot and humid can be fresh is beyond me, but they are an odd bunch.
The whole scheme I had built up came crashing down 3 summers later when I discovered that girls were--contrary to my previously held opinion--wonderful. That left me in a quandary. I was too young to do anything except still loiter at the library, but too old to really give it the undivided attention it required.
So I started reading books on How To Make Sense of Women. A lot of these books pretty much had no business being in a public library, let alone accessible to a 14 year old whose brain was floating in pure, Hi-Octane, unfiltered testosterone. Some, like the classic Esquire's Guide To What Every Young Man Should Know still repay inspection. But I digress.
By the time I was 16 I was mad, bad, and dangerous to know.
But I still polished off a book or two a week.
-J.
When I was a child, there was NOTHING I loved more than to be left the Hell alone to read. My best friend in those days was my best friend because he liked the same thing. We took turns going to each other's house and we'd just read. I think we were the only kids who wanted to be left in peace to read.
In those days (or, as my inner cynic says, "When I was happy.") I was a ferociously voracious reader. Gluttonous, even.
SoFla's rainy season is during the summer, and by 10am there was a better than even chance of a downpour. So, by 9am, I had pedaled my Chopper ovah to our public library and was comfy and cozy in a wingback chair with a HUGE stack of books. At around 1pm, I'd sneak off to the bound periodicals and have a secretive lunch. (Something crumb-free)
I'd read books on geography, history, science, travel, literature, magic, cooking, film, sports, wildlife. It was a bad week indeed when I couldn't polish off 3-4 books. Amazing that in 1975 parents would let an 11 year old boy schlep out on his bike alone to stay out (and out of touch) for 6-7 hours straight, every day, for three months. TFBIM would have an aneurysm if I so much as suggested we let NOS try this. "Some lunatic could kidnap him, he could get run over, he could get hit with lightning, he could be sick, he could ditch the library and run off with hoodlum friends looking for hussies and malt liquor." The number of legitimate causes for worry in the scenario is limited only by her mood.
Still. I am glad I got to spend untold hours with books, learning all manner of strange and useless factoids. After all, if I hadn't, TSMP(oppy)M would have nothing about which to converse with me. As it is, we have been known to burn HOURS discussing the Moorish system of urban development over several drinks, nearly blowing off the lovely and gracious Poppy. This is the problem when you have two over-read guys of basically the same age getting together with alcohol. You start ruminating over the caliphate system, and next thing you know, you're hot-footing across town.
In this regard my parents were very lucky. I was a self-contained kid. I required no entertainment, no supervision...just books and a comfortable place to sit. As opposed to us. NOS is, as I type, playing some GameBoy game and giving me running commentary...and has been for the last 45 minutes. NTS...well, let's just say he can go from WonderChild to Stitch in picoseconds.
Also, TFBIM comes from one of those appalling families that does all sorts of things together. During the summer, they'd picnic, or go to the beach or go outside for reasons which have been inadequately explained to me. Something to do with fresh air. How something hot and humid can be fresh is beyond me, but they are an odd bunch.
The whole scheme I had built up came crashing down 3 summers later when I discovered that girls were--contrary to my previously held opinion--wonderful. That left me in a quandary. I was too young to do anything except still loiter at the library, but too old to really give it the undivided attention it required.
So I started reading books on How To Make Sense of Women. A lot of these books pretty much had no business being in a public library, let alone accessible to a 14 year old whose brain was floating in pure, Hi-Octane, unfiltered testosterone. Some, like the classic Esquire's Guide To What Every Young Man Should Know still repay inspection. But I digress.
By the time I was 16 I was mad, bad, and dangerous to know.
But I still polished off a book or two a week.
-J.
Comments
So I started reading my grandma's True Story magazines.
Guess how I learned about the birds and the bees!
I used to read a book a day. Now? Not so much.
We didn't have those at our library. I looked.
-J.
I remember I stayed home from the beach one day when I was seven because I wanted to read. At dinner my father asked me what I found to do with myself, staying home all day:
Poppy: I read a novel.
Poppy's Pop: Really--which one?
Poppy: Doctor Doolittle.
A "novel," forsooth. See, I was full of myself even way back then.
Badge, I found those eventually, even condescending to the malt liquor on occasion. In fact, due to the malt liquor, I wasn't able to wear white when I finally went into the brewpub.
Oy, the shame.
-J.
Yeah, I had a few of those eye-opening, "whoa!" sorts of reads. Warped me for life, they did.
-J.
For a prize, you got a book. Coals to Newcastle in my house, but I think I still have a couple of them.
-J.