I suppose the kindle or nook or ibook could be considered a stack of books being lightly hauled from destination to destination by those who love to use them. Not of that ilk myself, I tend to enclose a book of some sort, hardcover, paperback, pulp fiction, doesn’t matter what form, so long as it’s not a machine. I have one in a bag made especially for the written word, coincidently called a ‘book bag.’ Or, if thin and compact enough, I stuff one in whatever purse I am forced to bring with me in order to fit into society’s expectations of what women are supposed to have as paraphernalia. I used to manage without even a wallet, just keys and some ID, but that was back in the day when I didn’t need all the makeup to try to mitigate the ravages of age. When I say I take it with me everywhere, I’m not just whistling Dixie, as my dad used to say, why, I never asked. I travel to a friend’s house on a suggested 65 mile an hour road–no one looks at the speed as a law, they careen at a mere 80 miles per, and I’m aware that I’m probably not going to be able to glance down and finish a chapter on that route, nonetheless, a book is at hand, just in case one of those speeding cars crashes into the median or flips off an overpass and traffic is brought to a halt. I won’t worry about hours stuck in a morass of aluminum and gas fumes, I’ll be following clues proving once again, the butler didn’t do it.
Waiting to be ushered into the MRI to scan the nonexistent tumor they thought was in my pea brain head, I held on to my comfort read for dear life, as my grandmother used to say. That one I do understand. I went through that day in a foggy daze, helped along by characters in much worse straights than I, someone was killing them off one by one, and they had no idea which of them would be next. After that little trauma, my husband and I were at a luxurious bed and breakfast. Most people wouldn’t be nose in book during the two quiet days alone with their spouse. I, on the other hand, soaked in the jacuzzi, my companion one of my Best 100 Mysteries of All Time. I vaguely heard my husband’s voice asking when I was getting out–and I snapped at him that I didn’t have much more to read–which was a slight understatement. I finally finished but not before my skin looked like a Shar Pei.
I cannot under any circumstance travel in the car without at least 2 books to chose from–usually 3 or 4, just in case. In case of what, I’ve never figured out, because I do tend to stick to the book I’m on unless it turns out to be beyond boring, then I’l grab the next one in line. 3 titles would have to really suck for me to need that 4th one, but you just cannot be too careful when it comes to reading material. Even if the trip is only an hour, or for that matter, a hop to the supermarket–my husband has been known to spend inordinate amounts of time searching out the best sliced cheese–so I get in quality reading time in the comfort of the freezing car. Sometimes trying to hunker down and delve into a book is harder than it looks–the husband decides he wants to chit chat, or he blasts the radio because I won’t chit chat, or the movement of the car starts making me ill. Reading in the car is a more recent treat–I suffer from motion sickness and could never even look up from reading material while moving without feeling wretched. Since age set in and my eyesight changed, I’m able to wile away the boring highway miles the way I had only dreamed possible in my youth. I suppose age is good for something after all.
So what’s my point? I don’t have one really. Just thought I’d share.
