Old books

The funny thing about not having a job is how your sense of time gets completely thrown off. That great dividing line separating weekdays from weekends essentially disappears, and every day becomes like Saturday. Except that most of my friends, who do have 9-5's, are only available 2 of those Saturdays a week.

This leaves me with a great deal of time to catch up on things. Like television. The internet. Sleep. And books. Lovely, wonderful treasure troves of knowledge they are.

What is it about reading that makes it feel more honorable than watching TV? I suppose you could argue that it takes more imagination to dream up the universe presented to you in a book than to watch it on television, but really, you're spending time you could be doing something else, immersed in a story. Or, on those rare occasions when you're feeling particularly ambitious, perhaps educating yourself. Which I have routinely said I was going to do since I came home, and especially since my study materials finally arrived from Japan, but somehow have managed to avoid.

I was looking at the pile of books I have on the floor of my bedroom this morning. A smattering of travel stories, books on philosophy, science, religion, quite a few sci-fi adventures, and one humble, beat-up, old novel that is by far my favorite of all of them.

Anybody who has read "All Creatures Great and Small" by James Herriot knows it's a classic. Humorous, witty, charming, and well-written, it's the semi-autobiographical story of how he started out as a vet in northwestern England. It's one of only a few books that I find I can read more than once. Usually, once I've finished a story, I feel no need to pick it up again. In fact, I'm a big fan of passing books along once you've finished them, so you can share with others the types of things you're interested in. But this book, is different. I've read it more times than I can count over the years. It never fails to amuse me. And what's really amazing to me, is that I prefer to read the exact same book that I've been reading since I was a child.

I first picked this one out of my grandmother's modest library, one summer day in my childhood. I can't remember how old I was at the time, maybe 11 or 12. I was the only grandkid at the cabin that day, and I was bored. So I started a book. I can't remember exactly how I ended up with it, but it might have been that I didn't manage to finish it before it was time to go back to Colorado. At any rate, I ended up with her 1973 copy, which I kept. My mom eventually bought a newer one so that I could send the original back to the its owner, but for some reason, I didn't want to part with it. So, Gramma got a new book and I ended up with this one.

The cover is literally held together with a piece of scotch tape, slowly disintegrating after years of use. It's been my travel book on many trips, making it's way, stuffed into bags and pockets, from country to country over several different continents. The pages are worn, the paper is old and faded, and you have to be careful when you read it not to tear them.

And still, it's my favorite. Perhaps because we have this long history together. Certainly because it's a good story. And very likely because inside the front cover, hiding unassumingly in the top-left corner, and almost completely obscured by the battered condition of the paper, sits her name. Neva Peterson.

Of all the things I inherited from my grandmother, save perhaps for a fabulous turquoise ring, this is my favorite. 13 years she's been gone, and I still have that connection. Through one beat-up, humble, and fantastically entertaining old book. That will have to fall to unrecoverable pieces before I'll ever part with it.