Summertime is reading time. I inherited it from my mother.
When I was growing up, back in the seventies, my mother liked 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, "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 sticks out most in my memory was Herman Wouk's The Winds of War - one just can't forget a novel as big as that lying around the house for weeks on end - Mother did seem to enjoy it.
One tranquil summer afternoon, sprinklers swishing and lawnmowers humming in the distance, mother put her swimsuit on, spread a blanket onto the grass, and set down to sunbathe and finish The Winds of War.
Hours passed as she read obsessively and my 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, (thusly named due to an uncanny resemblance to the deacon of our church) gnawing and slobbering on her tattered paperback ... 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. For the first time in my life, I felt sorry for my mother. "Whatever will you do?" I remember asking. 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 a blouse on, some flip flops, and scurried my younger brother and sister and I into the car, 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, where she picked up The Winds Of War, read the very last page, then gently placed it back upon the rack, turned and strutted back out the door again.
Three elderly townsmen stared, jaws agape, at this spectacle they had just witnessed.
And moments later, as the wheels of our Ford station wagon eased away, Mother proudly proclaimed, "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 for reading and books. 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.
Anyone have any other suggestions?