I read. I’m not a fast reader, but I read. It’s how I prefer to spend my time. I read when eating lunch. I read in bed at night. When Ron and I get to spend some quiet time together, we’re often reading. I create spaces in my house that are a series of chairs and reading lamps. I have stacks of books plus emergency back-up books.
My Mom used to do this, too. Yeah, I’m admitting to a Mom similarity. She would go to the library and get a stack of 5 or 6 books at a time and work her way through them. I’m not nearly that bad. I max out at 4. Most of the time.
I don’t read anything with any redeeming quality, though. Mom would get all kinds of books, but mostly mysteries. Oh crap, there’s another one. I get mysteries. Oh man, I’m my Mom! But wait, I don’t get any philosophy. She used to get Jung and Kant and Nietzsche and those dudes, too. (Isn’t it always dudes?)
Today, I’ve planned my errands around the library’s hours. With all the community infrastructure budgetary cutbacks, that’s a consideration. Gone are the days when I could just pop in any old time. Sometimes they’re closed. I recently went to a local branch 3 days in a row and they were closed all 3 days. I’d even checked the hours online and it didn’t matter. Furlough days.
These are the mundanities that make for a sane life. Thinking about library hours balances things out. It’s a refuge of peace, just like it used to be for my Mom. She can’t read anymore.
Susan Scot Fry
Update… A clarification. My Mom can see. She just can’t comprehend the words anymore. Dementia.