Where and When Do You Read?

Whether you hold a solid book in your hands or flick your finger across a screen, finding a time and place for reading, often isn’t easy. Although in theory I have more time to peruse material, with no  9 to 5 job, so could slip in reading time whenever I felt like, reality is quite different. In actuality, when I worked in Jersey City and commuted on the subway from Queens, I had more reading time than before or since. 45 minutes both ways meant I went through a couple of  books a week during a reading streak. Naturally, commuting wasn’t thrilling and I’d have preferred not to do it, especially after the very spot I traveled through was blown up during the first attack on the World Trade Center, one hour after I passed by. But if it has to be done, reading is the only way to keep from imagining various torturous ways to kill your fellow annoying passengers.

Now, even if I desperately want to sit and finish a read, I don’t do it. Mostly out of guilt. The guilt from the feeling I should be occupied with other things–cleaning, or cleaning, doing wash, or cleaning. I usually read only before I fall asleep, or if I wake up unable to sleep, or when I wake up in the morning. Notice it all depends on my sleeping pattern? This would change if I had what narrators on the House and Garden network call a ‘soaker tub’. Then I’d be wrinkled and prune-like after hours and hours floating in a pomegranate bath oil laden tub, finishing up a Ruth Rendell or the latest from Elaine Viets. In my teens I’d hang out in the tub reading until my mother was about to send a search party looking for me. But the tub has seen better days, mostly in the 1970s, and the yellow fiberglass isn’t appealing any more. There’s also a porch in the back which has nice lounge chairs. But whoever designed the bunker didn’t take into account heat or cold, so the only seasons one can bear to be out there is the slice between winter and summer loosely called Spring, and the other sliver of time between sweltering heat of summer, and the frozen tundra of winter, called Autumn.  If I find myself available within those time frames, I attempt to relax, reclined, and ready for a good tale. Inevitably there will be interruptions of varying types, from phone calls, dogs peeing, or my mother asking why I’m not cleaning.

The living room area of this late 50s/early 60s home is one long space, broken up by three different sets of stairs, two down, one up. With a bay window, plus 1 on each wall, it’s difficult to create any kind of logical seating arrangement, so I decided to split it up into two distinct spaces, one dedicated to books. A nice stuffed chair, a reading lamp, and thee tried repeatedly to concentrate on the written word, but a television at a volume that could break the sound barrier, and my mother’s commentary during each program proved too distracting. I have debated faking working at my computer and instead smuggling in a paperback and grabbing a couple of paragraphs while no one was looking, but the chair at my desk is just uncomfortable enough to keep me awake to write, but far too uncomfortable to read in. So that leaves the other part of the living room with an extended seat, sort of a chair and ottoman as one, as the designated spot for idyllic reading. But even with no TV or running dialog, it’s a no go. The dogs clammer to jump up and be seated next to me, which takes the dexterity and flexibility of a circus acrobat to fulfill their desires. And just at the point of turning a page, one or both jump down, and almost immediately want back up, and I go through the routine again.

I never leave home without a book, doesn’t matter if I’m driving with no stops before my destination–you never know if you’ll hit a stand still traffic jam, and need something to kill time. That goes double for any kind of appointment–doctor, lawyer, dentist, psychiatrist–they make you wait for eternity with nothing more stimulating to read then Your Health magazines, or Car and Driver. You know you made a mistake in not bringing a book when you spot the only copy of People and dive for it, losing out to an octogenarian with a walker. If you go to the DMV without at least 3 volumes stuffed in your carry all bag, you are a complete loser.

There is a teeny weeny pond within a garden area in the back yard, where my grandmother’s classic metal chairs beckon during warm summer days. Grabbing a cold beverage, some snack foods, and a good read, I head for the blue one, plop down, forgetting it’s a rocker, and fly backwards, drink spilled down my shorts, bowl of pretzels floating on the pond scum, and my book lost among the black eyed susans. If all goes better, and I make it to the red chair without incident, the mosquitos, ants, flies, bees, and various other pieces of nature, drive me back indoors to wait until dark, when settled down under sheets, I can finally relax and open to page one, and find I am too damn exhausted from my previous attempts at trying to read.