I was musing the other day about the past, like I usually do, when it occurred to me that I've read only one book this summer. I know there are a lot of folks who feel fortunate to have time to even finish their newspaper's metro section, but given what I used to accomplish not so long ago, one book should have me bowing my head in shame. And I'm wondering if I can even count this book because I didn't quite finish. It was the J. California Cooper book I wrote about in July. It is indeed a good read, but toward the end I was tired of the build-up and was ready for her to start answering some of the questions I'd formed a hundred pages back. I gave up, but I'll dive in again soon. Besides, with my new job and trying to transition to the new environment, the only things I feel like reading when I get home are my own literary creations, news stories on CNN.com, and the threads of my favorite messageboard.
Hold up, I'm such a hypocrite. I just got on Cooper about circling the globe twice in her book, and here I am in the second paragraph of my post and haven't gotten to my point either. So here it is:
In school, teachers would give us summer reading lists so we could prepare for the upcoming school year's English curriculum. The first book I remember reading for a summer break was Summer of My German Soldier by Bette Greene (the best young adult fiction book I've ever read). I still remember how my emotions (and hormones) were all in a frenzy over the forbidden friendship between Patty and Anton. I have so much appreciation for writers in the young adult/juvenile genre. Appealing to this group isn't easy, yet every preteen/teen-targeted book I read when I was that age absolutely enthralled me. Speaking of books I read as a youngster, the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark series by Alvin Schwartz still stands as the most thought-provoking and eerie collection of folklore I've ever read. Check them out, the stories and illustrations are appropriate for anyone who enjoys having their imagination captured.
While I would like to boast of always appreciating books and wonderful stories and all that good stuff, the summers of my earlier years are marked by a dark and embarrassing summer reading secret: I lied to get McDonald's fries and ice cream cones. I feel bad about this. Keep in mind this was years before my literary palate had become refined. My home town's public libraries offered a summer reading incentive program where students would receive coupons for free food and other cool stuff based on the number of books they read that summer. And it was all based on an honor system (i.e., they believed you and your parents would tell the truth). My mother can speak more eloquently on my shameful behavior, but I'll do my best. I would obtain a form from the library and keep it all summer long. When the time approached for kids to turn in their forms filled with the titles of all the books they had read and their guardian's signature of confirmation, I too would proudly stand in line with my form that contained such titles as Mary and the Red Hen, Julie and the Magical Ball, Ms. Clara's Birthday Surprise--all made up by an imaginative little girl named Jennifer, who also had a knack for duplicating her mother's signature.
When I would present my mother with my coupons for free fries and other treats, she would scold me for my actions and look genuinely disappointed in me. And I suspect--don't tell her I said this--she thought that after the lengths I went to and the pure fraud I'd masterminded, all for a prize of small fries, that the guilt would eat away at me. She was wrong.
The crispy and salty potatos would taste so good as we pulled away from the drive thru, the deviousness of it all serving as a cool drink to wash it all down.
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