Mother read compulsively. And every time she finished a book she would proudly proclaim, "This is the best book I have ever read." Until she read another book, and then that became 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. It was a tome. Even as a young girl I remember thinking this was an unusually long book and recall it lying about the house for weeks on end.
One late summer afternoon with sprinklers swishing and lawnmowers humming in the distance, mother put her swimsuit on, spread a blanket onto the lawn and laid down to finish The Winds of War. Hours passed and right before finishing the last few pages, she got up for a quick break and left the book lying open face on the lawn, pages fluttering in the breeze. When she returned, she found our beagle slobbering and chewing on the book, the very last page missing.
This was bad, I remember thinking to myself. Up until that point in time, Old Yeller had been the longest book I had read and it seemed like the Oxford English Dictionary. I couldn't imagine what it must have felt like to read a book this long and not be able to finish the last page. For the first time in my life, I felt sorry for 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 had this atrociously long novel lying about. "Whatever will you do?" I remember asking my mother. But mother was a sly one. Swiftly she threw on a white blouse and some flip flops, loaded my brother, sister and me into the station wagon and without saying a word, drove like a mad woman to the downtown drugstore. Where in the door she strutted, red faced and bare legged, three soggy kids in tow, straight toward a spinning rack of books, picked up The Winds Of War, read the very last page, then gently placed it back upon the rack, turned and strutted out the door. Three elderly men stared, jaws agape, at the spectacle they had just witnessed. And I was impressed with my mother that day and never forgot The Winds of War.
Years later, during a late night college game of Trivial Pursuit, before my husbands drunken 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 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?
