It's a trait I inherited from my mother.
Mother used to sunbathe and read paperback novels while my younger siblings and I splashed about in a kiddie pool in the backyard.
Mother was a compulsive reader. And every time she finished a book she would proudly proclaim, "Now that was the best book I have ever read." Until she finished another book then that would become the best book she had ever read.
Of all the books Mother ever read, the one that stands out most in my memory is Herman Wouk's The Winds of War. You just don't forget a novel as as big as that lying about for weeks on end.
One tranquil summer afternoon, sprinklers swishing and lawnmowers humming in the distance, mother put her swimsuit on, spread a blanket onto the lawn, and sat down to sunbathe and finish The Winds of War.
Hours passed while my younger brother and sister and I frolicked about. Until finally, down to the very last page, mother got up for just a moment - as many avid readers do, in order to give reverence and pause before finishing a good book - and returned to find our beagle, Deacon, gnawing and slobbering all over her tattered paperback and the very last page was missing.
This was bad, I remember thinking to myself. Up until that point in time Old Yeller had been the longest book I had ever read and it seemed like a tome. I couldn't imagine what it must have felt like to read something so long as this and not be able to finish the very last page. "Whatever will you do?" I remember asking my mother. We had no money to buy a new book and the library was closed. And lord knew no one else in our nonliterary circle of friends had this atrociously long novel lying about.
But mother was a sly one. Swiftly she threw on a blouse and some flip flops and scurried my younger brother and sister and I into a finned station wagon, and nary a word, drove like a mad woman down to the local drugstore, where she strutted in, sunburned, bare-legged and resolute, three soggy kids in tow, straight toward a spinning rack of books, picked up The Winds Of War, read the very last page, paused, then gently placed it back upon the rack and turned and strutted back out the door again.
Three elderly townsmen stared, jaws agape, at this spectacle they had witnessed. And as the car eased from the curb, mother blissfully proclaimed, "Now that was the best book I have ever read."
I was impressed with my mother that day and never forgot The Winds of War. And years later, during a late night game of Trivial Pursuit, before my husband's drunken college buddy could slur the words out of his mouth, I knew the answer to "Who wrote The Winds of War?"
It is rare moments like these when I cherish my kooky, crafty mother the most. She didn't give me much, but she instilled in me a love of reading and for that I will be eternally grateful.
So what's on your summer reading list?
Nothing so long as The Winds Of War, I hope.
I am needing some ideas.
These are the books I have read so far.