Thankful for books, the gateway to everything….

It’s November 22, 2018 as I write this, Thanksgiving Day.  There’s a lot of negatives social media has brought to our existences.  No, I’m not a Luddite, and those of you who have made the most unfortunate mistake of becoming my Facebook friend know that I most definitely engage in social media….and you’re probably the worse for it!  The purpose of today’s blog is not to condemn social media; social critics far more eloquent than me could fill pages upon pages (do those even exist in the blogosphere?) with social critiques.  Rather, I’m going to cite a rather good trend as the jumping off point for today’s opine.

If there is one certainty in social media, it’s the copycat effect.  You know you’ve seen it.  You see a friend share something, you like it, and you then in turn do the same.  We’re all guilty of it.  Be it a meme, a tweet, or some sort of game, you know your timeline is congested with multiple friends sharing with you the same thing, over and over.  Sure, it’s annoying, but every now and then, there’s  trend that makes you think…you know there’s something there.  Call it the “50 Million Elvis…err, Facebook Friends Can’t Be Wrong!”

And one of those trends that I’m sure you’ve recently been inundated with are the “Things to be Thankful” for.  There are different varieties this phenomenon travels in.  Weeks ago, you may have encountered friends counting down to today with “30 Days of Giving Thanks” or something similar.  Basically, each day it’s a different status with something/someone you want to shown appreciation for.   It can range from family, hobbies, pets, friends, country, faith….whatever you choose.

And then there is the other variety that, if you are like me, is populating your Facebook today.  It’s the status you craft on Thanksgiving, where you list all the things you are thankful for.  Rather than take 30 days, you condense everything for which you are grateful to into one status, one space one moment in time….everything you appreciate in this universe in one epitaph.  Pretty daunting, right?  But you know what?  If any of this sounds cynical on my part, then I’m not doing it right.  Sure, there’s a bit of self-indulgence involved; look at me, see how thankful I am!  But friends, we’re talking social media; what about the idiom isn’t self-indulgent?  And in true copy-cat fashion, if it inspires someone else to take a minute and recount what they are grateful for, well, what’s the harm in that?  With the way our world is today, it’s very easy to be a pessimist.  If you told me you can’t bring yourself to smile these days, I wouldn’t correct you.  I’d be sorry for you, but I wouldn’t fault you.  So with that being the state of our lives in late 2018, if you want to take up social media to recount that which you feel thankful for….please carry on.  Shouldn’t we be celebrating being appreciative?  It’s not selfish, it’s not patting yourself on the back….at least not more than anything else on social media.  After all, President Lincoln proclaimed Thanksgiving as a day of giving thanks for all the Almighty Father has given us.  Take away the religious reasons, and our greatest President’s sentiment still bears true.  So to all my friends, fill up my timeline all you wish.  I may not read your statuses, but if you feel the need to list what you appreciate, you’re not wasting my time!

So with that out of the way, it’s time for me to say what I’m thankful for.  I could say I’m thankful to family, friends, God, country, employment, health and so much more.   Technology, transportation, physical fitness.  College basketball and Major League Baseball.  Las Vegas and New England.  Fried chicken and craft beers.  All of that I definitely do appreciate, but I was thinking, is there a better way to sum that up?  This is what I came up with….on this Thanksgiving Day, allow me to say…. I’m thankful for reading.  I know that sounds simple…but being grateful for reading, it’ a way of saying “thank you” to…well, most everyone I’ve ever interacted with.  And more than that, through reading, it’s a way of saying “thank you” to this entire Universe in which we dwell.  Pretty heady stuff, no doubt, but if you’ll stay with me, I’ll try and tie it all together.  Let’s start at the very beginning…or should I say…go to page 1!

Can any of you recall the first time you read?  I know I can’t.  I remember in Kindergarten getting these packets for each letter of the Alphabet.  When you got to, say, “K”, you got a colorful packet with the letter on it, and inside, all kinds of pictures of familiar objects that started with the letter.  Who couldn’t be excited by Kangaroos, Koalas, or Kiwis?  And since a trip to Australia was out of the realm for Kindergarten in the early 1980s, such a packet had to suffice.  I don’t recall if, by the time we finished “Z”, I then knew how to read….but I sure know what letter a zebra starts with, and that place where it lived was called a zoo!

But if I can’t pinpoint a place in time that I actually knew how to read, perhaps the reason is, the act seemed so customary in my childhood.  And this is what I mean when I say being thankful for reading is being thankful for everything.  For growing up in the Anderson household, first in Union, City, CA, and then El Dorado Hills, there was love, there was structure, there was comfort…and there was reading.  There was a daily newspaper in the morning.  There were the Bible devotionals my parents read.  And there was encouragement for my sister and I to read.  An encyclopedia set (this was pre-Wikipedia, you have to remember); a series of Time-Life books about various aspects of the natural world, complete with fascinating photographs; and a collection of comic book versions of great literature were constants in my childhood house.  And I recall my beloved Mother admonishing me to read more.  From the example I was shown by those who raised me, to the constant presence of literature in our house, the message was clear, reading is something important for you.  I don’t know if I enjoyed it; who does enjoy much of what your parents tell you to do, when you’re that age?  But I also knew it was something I was supposed to do.

And it’s not just my parents who set the example to read.  On visits to my paternal grandparents in Whittier, CA, there were frequent visits to the library.  I should also mention my parents stressed that, too.  Having a library card was a big deal.  How many joyless shopping trips with my Mother were made that much more tolerable because a stop at the library was also included?  Like many a young boy, I was fascinated by trains.  An Uncle had a Time-Life book series about the Old West.  Each book dealt with a different aspect: the Outlaws, the Lawmen, the Frontier, the Great Chiefs, the Soldiers, etc.  Well, one book was entitled ‘The Railroads.”  I didn’t know much about the contents; I just knew the pictures of the trains entranced me.  And so, that Uncle broke up his collection to let me have that one volume.  I have no idea how old I was, all I know is, the contents of that book became the first part of a lifelong obsession.  I was too young to first comprehend what this picture meant.

May 10, 1869, the “Wedding of the Rails,” when the Union Pacific and Central Pacific met at Promontory, Utah, uniting the East and West coast by rail.  All I knew was, those locomotives looked mighty cool.  As did contemporary drawings of a steam train going across the prairie, with the brush set ablaze by  the sparks from the locomotive.  Would the flames engulf the train?!  And how terrifying was another contemporary painting (maybe Remington?) of Native American warriors pushing a rail out of its place, while on the horizon is the light of an oncoming train.  What was going to happen?!

Just a few years ago, I finally read that entire book.  It was enjoyable, particularly the vignettes of transcontinental rail travel via a Pullman car.  But by then, I knew the history.  The Big Four of the Central Pacific (Charlie Crocker, Leland Stanford, Mark Hopkins and Collis Potter Huntington) and the Union Pacific’s devious Dr. Thomas C. Durant were as familiar to me as the Gospel writers are to Church historians.  I’ve read numerous books since about how the railroad was built, and had to give up watching the AMC series Hell on Wheels because….well, it just wasn’t historically accurate enough for me.  I’m sure I’ll read more about the Transcontinental Railroad before my days are done; I have Stephen Ambrose’s account on my shelf, just waiting for me to take on.  There’s no story in American history that fascinates me more.  Corporate greed, mistreatment of Native Americans, immigration, lax Government oversight, men of vision, triumph over natural boundaries, and the creation of something that would change the course of American development…it’s all there.  I didn’t know I would later be so captivated by the story when that Uncle gave me the book.  I just knew I liked the trains.  But the point was….a family member encouraged me to read.  And so, when I say I’m grateful for reading, it means I’m grateful for my family.  By encouraging me and setting the example, you opened up a life-long fascination.  And the railroads of the Old West is only one of many examples!

Time-Life’s “The Old West – The Railroads”

From family I jump to friends.  As a child, my best friend was a boy named Scott Wetzell. His parents and my parents were longtime friends, and so, we were always around each other.  When I went off to college, we drifted apart.  We’ve since become re-acquainted on Facebook, and his parents came to my wedding.  But back in elementary days, we were inseparable.  Well, I don’t remember how old I was, but I had to be rather young, and for my birthday, Scott’s parents gave me a book.  This wasn’t just any book, though; this was a book that I have re-read so many times in my life, I’ve lost track.  It’s the book that’s the featured image for this entire blog.  An illustrated version of Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days.  That’s not the cover of the edition I had.  I can’t remember if Phileas Fogg and Passepartout were depicted, but what was was…surprise? A steam train of the Old West!  Well now my attention was piqued!

How obsessed was I by Around the World in Eighty Days?  Well, let’s put it this way; I temporarily stopped playing Star Wars with friends, and instead tried re-enact Fogg’s global wager.   I even tried to replay Passepartout’s experience in a Shanghai opium den…even without knowing what opium was.  But now that I know what opium is, that’s not a bad analogy.  For my love of  Around the World in Eighty Days have never lessened. It’s surely an unkickable addiction, now gripping me for 3 decades.  I think I am now on my fourth paperback copy; they just get worn out from use.  I can’t remember how many times I’ve re-read it, and every time, I’m enthralled.  I can’t give you one specific reason why: could it be the Victorian time period, and the way the world was traveled (elephant across Indians; steam train across the United States, pursued by attacking Sioux)?  Perhaps Phileas Fogg as the unflappable English gentleman?  Or perhaps just the idea of the contest?  All I know is, every time I finish it and the wager is complete, I am both completely satisfied and melancholy.  I find the way Verne ends it so brilliant, with Passepartout discovering they could have made the trip even shorter, but Fogg pointing out, that by skipping India, he would have never met his bride, and gently closing the door on his servant, to get back to his “matrimonial duties.”  And Verne has that perfect final line about how all Fogg had gained from the wager, after all expenses were factored in, was simply the love of a woman who made him happy…”And who wouldn’t make the tour of the world for less than that?”  SO PERFECT!!!

So why the melancholy?  Because this wonderful tale is now over.  I feel the same way when I watch the 1956 Oscar-winning film, which I only noticed in my Grandmother’s VHS collection because I so loved the book.  That was in high school.  Since then, I’ve watched David Niven, Cantinflas and Shirley MacLaine bring the story to life countless times.  I’ve listened to Victor Young’s so wonderfully melodic score more times than I can count; it’s in my Top 10 of Hollywood scores.  They definitely don’t write scores like that anymore, where each cue has its own distinctly singable theme.   And while the film moves slow, to show us the Indian countryside or a train through the Sierras, for me, its worth it, because it’s Verne’s vision of 1873 that I have long loved, in front of my eyes.

So why the melancholy with such a beloved story?  Because I don’t want it to end!  The whole narrative of Around the World in Eighty Days is a contest, and once it’s complete (and completed in such a clever deus ex machina…though Jenny has her doubts that someone as meticulous as Phileas Fogg would make such a mistake), there’s not much more, outside that perfect last line.  But how I so want more!  Verne brought back Captain Nemo, giving him an appearance beyond Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.  But for Fogg and Co., there would be no reprise, and that’s always saddened me.  How perfect was their adventure, how I long for a follow-up.  I’ve thought about a scenario to keep the story going…..but I’m no Jules Verne.  He gave us perfection; why mess with it?

And so what I am thankful for?  I am thankful for books, which were brought to me by friends.  Family friends gave me Around the World in Eighty Days when I was just in elementary school.  Mark and Kathy Wetzell probably had no idea just what that gift would mean.  They probably thought it was something to encourage reading.  Well, it did just that….but it also did so much more.  You see, it was the first book that inspired me, that fired my imagination, the first story with which I fell in love.  Did Mark and Kathy have any idea that in giving me Phileas Fogg, Passepartout, Aouda and Inspector Fix, they were introducing me to companions who would be with me for a lifetime?  I’ve read Around the World as an elementary school kid, an undergrad, and at least 2 times (if not more) in the past 10 years.  My life situations have changed, but Verne and his amazing story hasn’t.  They’re wonderful constants in this crazy world.  And there’s another reason I am grateful for books.  Those well-loved tales that we hold close to our heart; no matter where we are, what we are doing; what our life is, they’re still the same.  Always sharing their story with us, whenever we need them.  And so I give thanks to books and to the friends who give them.

I guess at this point I should mention my wife.  I would not say Jenny’s reading tendencies led me to her.  We had been dating a while before I got a peak at her library.  But here’s what you need to know: I met Jenny after being in Fresno, CA for about four months.  Before that, I had spent two years in a doctoral program at the University of Illinois, and while I did plenty of reading during that time, none of it was for pleasure.  The amount of texts I read…man.  So when I met Jenny and I saw that she was a reader, well, I needed to become a reader too.  In fact, early on in our courtship (which sounds so much cooler than “dating”, doesn’t it?), we traded books!  I leant her Creating Minds, a wonderful treatise by Howard Gardner, where he examines the lives of Freud, Gandhi, Stravinsky, Picasso and Martha Graham, and finds commonalities; and she lent me the The Letters of Abelard and Heloise.  I knew the Medieval legend but not much else.  We didn’t always share each others’ books, but as our relationship continued, I knew that I needed to be reading, to keep up with her!  In fact, we had dates that involved going to book stores, particularly a wonderful used book shop in Whittier.  I even gave Jenny a book for a present for Christmas, Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak.  It’s a book that’s always stayed with me, particularly the enigmatic character of Strelnikov, not to mention the complex relationship of Yuri and Lara.  And when I read Out of Africa and raved about Isaak Dinesen’s (aka Karen Blixen) lyrical, beautiful command of the English language, Jenny made sure to add it to her library.  Sadly her Book Club wasn’t as enthralled; their loss.  I still stand by Out of Africa as one of the most beautiful sounding tomes I’ve ever read.  The point is, since dating is a way of getting to better know each other, why not share books that have mattered to you?  After all, its a way of discovering what moves someone, what speaks to them.

So as you can imagine, when Jenny and I were married, it was more than combining two lives.  Yeah, that’s important.  And we really didn’t combine any furniture; nothing I had was worth anything.  There’s no question, she has better taste than me.  But what we did combine were libraries, and that, my friends, was quite the task.  Our first co-habitation was an apartment, and it was not long before we  found out, we needed more bookshelves.  When we moved to Massachusetts, the most amount of boxes in that U-haul van were filled with books…and you can’t imagine how heavy a bunch of paperbacks can be.  It’s just paper!  Seemed like every wall in 14A Gray Street (the house we rented our first 5 and 1/2 years here) had a bookcase on it.  And Amherst did nothing but increase our library.  Between wonderful local booksellers like Amherst Books and the annual book sale of the League of Women Voters, our personal library kept growing.  Students would ask me how many of the books in our collection I had read; I had to respond, maybe 1/4th, and that’s being generous.  I had been checking out books from the UMass Library when Jenny drew attention to the fact that our own library kept multiplying, and yet I found reading material elsewhere.  Fair point.  And since that conversation, I’ve now restricted my reading to books we own.  But since I keep stumbling upon used book sales, the possibility of me ever catching up….well, that’s not happening any time soon.

It’s hard to overstate Jenny’s impact on my reading habits.  As I mentioned, when we started dating, I wasn’t reading much, at least not for pleasure.  We were together for 3 and 1/2 years before getting married, and this May will be our 10th anniversary.  Since becoming an item (definitely since being married), I can’t think of a time I wasn’t reading a book.  Just off the top of my head, these are some of the books I’ve read since we’ve been an item: Tess of the D’Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy (from her collection); Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens; Life and Fate by Vasily Grossman; The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough; The Power Broker by Robert Caro; London: the Novel by Edward Rutherfurd; Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence (also from her collection); Starship Troopers by Robert Heinlein; James Kaplan’s two-volume biography of Frank Sinatra and so many, many more.  As soon as I’m done with one book, it’s on to another.  I recently have adopted a trend of alternating fiction and non-fiction.  How I choose them is rather haphazard; does the topic speak to me?  It’s not an exact science.

I should  point out, this relationship has been a two-way street.  I’m not the only one doing the reading.  Upon my recommendation, Jenny has read Timothy Zahn’s Heir to the Empire Star Wars trilogy, which I had had since undergrad days.  She also took on David Copperfield, which I’ve long maintained is the perfect novel.  And based on my ravings, she read The Sign of the Rose, Brideshead Revisited and Starship Troopers. I should note, there is a danger here.  I have a predilection for being so excited that Jenny is reading something I like that I can’t hold back.  For example, when she was reading Doctor Zhivago, I kept pestering her about whether she had gotten to Strelnikov’s scenes yet.  What can I say, he’s a fascinating character.  And I think there were some books where I spoiled it for Jenny.  But then again…books have that kind of effect.  And yes, in case you are wondering, I most definitely got Jenny to take a literary tour of the world in 80 days.

I’ve got two examples for you of just how important books are to Jenny’s and my marriage.  A couple years ago, when we were looking for a house to buy, one of the features that led us to 7 Laurel Lane was the built-in bookshelves in the finished basement.  Why, we had our own library, just waiting to be installed.  I do fear, though, that we’re going to run out of space there sooner than later.  And when that happens, do we look for another home?

The other example is the third member of our family, our cat.  After we lost our original cat, Myles, we went to the Dakin Animal Shelter, to find a feline to take his place.  We settled upon a very small, white and grey cat.  It was scared from the moment we brought him home, and to be honest, he’s never really taken to me.  I love him, but he’s not that affectionate in return…at least when I’m not feeding him.  But boy does he love Jenny!  The point of this diatribe is, what is our cat’s name?  I wanted to name him Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson, after the British naval hero.  Jenny, not surprisingly, wanted none of that.  We needed a name that reflected our shared interests.  She’s a nurse: Florence Nightingale?  But the cat is a male.  I’m a band director.  Sousa?  But again, something we shared.  We like to read.  What’s a book we both like?  A-ha!  And so, Gatsby the Catsby was so named.  A fine name for a cat, I do believe.  And since he’s an indoor cat, so far I have heard no rumor of him carrying on an affair with an old money woman across the bay.  Of course he did run away twice….so who knows?

Have you seen my Daisy?

Don’t get me wrong; it’s not as if reading is the reason Jenny and I exist as a couple.  But I will say, there are many great things she has brought to my life, not the least of which is a re-awakening a passion for reading.  If you were a spy in our bedroom (don’t worry; this is G rated!), you’d notice a book on each bed stand.  From Thomas Hardy to David Halberstam, Jim Bouton to Margaret Mitchell, the breadth of my literary undertakings has greatly expanded since Jenny and I became an item, and I don’t see that ending any time soon.  And so, while I am always thankful for our marriage, on this Thanksgiving, I again give thanks to books.  Because while our marriage would still be here without books, it definitely wouldn’t be as rich.  After all, the couple who combines a library combines a life! (I don’t think that’s a real saying….but it sounds good, though, don’t you think?)

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention God.  After all, this is Thanksgiving.  And though it is a Federal Holiday, President Lincoln’s Proclamation mentions Almighty God and Father.  And let us not forget, the Pilgrims were seeking the ability to practice their religion freely Now, that doesn’t mean Thanksgiving has to be religious.  You can absolutely celebrate the Holiday and its full meaning (giving thanks) without having any religious connotations.  And I do think it’s funny that the Catholic Church (of which I practice) has adopted Thanksgiving as part of their Mass schedule.  After all, the Pilgrims had nothing to do with Catholicism.  And true, it’s not a Holy Day of Obligation  But nevertheless, I’ve gotten into the practice that now, I’m always at Thanksgiving Day Mass.  So the point is, for me, Thanksgiving has always had a religious connection.

But rather than give thanks to God, I’m again going to give thanks for books.  It’s easy to start with the Bible, but really, there isn’t another answer.  I don’t recall when I first started reading the Bible.  When I was in elementary school, I went to a Lutheran school, where we learned Bible stories every day.  I’m going to guess my Bible-reading goes back to my time at the University of Illinois.  I had gone through RCIA while I lived in State Center, Iowa, but it was while attending U of I and becoming involved with the Newman Center that I was really challenged to take what I believed seriously.  Regardless of the start date, for many years now, I’ve been reading a chapter of the Bible every day (saving days I go to Mass).  I’m not going to lie, I don’t always get something out of it.  For every Gospel or the Book of Hebrews (which I really like), there are Letters of Paul that just lose me.  And there are the parts of the Old Testament that I, admittedly, skip over.  Maybe someday I’ll regret not knowing the exact measurements by which one constructs a tabernacle, but I guess I’ll just have to answer for that, when the day of reckoning comes.

What I do know is, I’ve read the Bible, cover to cover, at least four times now.  I’ve honestly lost count.  I think this is four or five.  And yes, I do occasionally skip through the Old Testament.  But once I finish Revelation and the world has ended, it’s right back to Genesis.  I may or may not read the footnotes (they’re constant in the Psalms), but I always read the forwards to each Book.  I figure, if I am to profess belief in what the Bible says, I had best read it.  And so, I am thankful for a God that has inspired literature to read.  Again, I am thankful for books.

I’ve tried to read Catholic mystics, and that’s had varying degrees of success.  I read the Catholic Catechism….but don’t remember too much.  I’ve tried saints such as John of the Cross, Teresa of Avila and Saint Augustine…very, very challenging.  The one saint I did enjoy was Josemaria Escriva, and his work The Way.  That’s a collection of 999 suggestions and instructions, on how to be holy in your everday life.  Escriva is an interesting case.  He was a Spanish priest and founded Opus Dei.  You remember Opus Dei, right?  You know, the shadowy group of albino monks out to kill Tom Hanks in The Da Vinci Code?  While that may be all rubbish more likely to be true was Escriva being a supporter of General Franco and Fascist Spain.  Politics aside, Escriva’s maxims are good morals to live by, as they address not the missionary or the priesthood, but each of us in our regular lives.  How can you be a mechanic, a lawyer, a doctor, a bus driver, a parent, a teacher, and bring Christ into that life?  That’s what Escriva is for.

But the Catholic writer that has left the strongest impression on me wasn’t a priest or a mystic.

I honestly don’t know what drew me to Evelyn Waugh and Brideshead Revisited.  I believe the books we read often call to us, rather than we find them.  I stumbled upon Pearl Buck’s The Good Earth by walking the aisles of the Gainesville Public Library and waiting to find a book that appealed to me.  Perhaps that’s how I came across Brideshead.  Whatever the reason, it’s  a book that hit me on so many levels.  A brilliant satire of student life of the upper class of English society.  A depiction of what old money families in Britain were prior to World War II.  A very realistic depiction of a torrid affair between broken people.  A lament for how the tradition of nobility was coming to a close.  But most gripping of all, a commentary on how the candle of faith, not matter how flickering, may not be completely extinguished.  An dying man, who had long before abandoned his role as patriarch of the family, accepts the Sacrament, and the effect this gesture has on everyone else is nothing short of miraculous.  Every character changes their life, and though the book may not have what you might characterize as a happy ending, it is a fitting one.  There is hope, there is satisfaction…and the brilliantly savage satire of Evelyn Waugh now is at peace.

I know Evelyn Waugh is no saint.  He never had a Church office, at least not that I am aware of.  And Brideshead Revisited  is a 20th century novel; it’s not a religious treatise.  In fact, the Catholicism in it is only part of the story.  There’s plenty of antics between Charles Ryder, the very memorable playboy Sebastian Flyte and their associates.  But I have to say, the impact of Lord Marchmain accepting the Sacrament is one of the most profoundly powerful Catholic statements I’ve ever come across, be it in theology or even the Bible.  Waugh is not the Apostle Paul, and I am in no way advocating for Brideshead Revisited  to become part of the Catholic canon.  But it is a reflection of its author, a practicing Catholic, who decided that his professional work should reflect what he believed.  And what a statement he makes!  Outside of the Bible itself, I don’t know of another Catholic work that has so affected me.  I first read Brideshead in 2011, so I’m probably overdo to revisit it.  Just as I re-read the Bible, so to might I look in on Waugh.

And so, while I, of course, give thanks to God, I also give thanks for books, and for the authors the Good Lord has inspired.  Sure, there are the mystics, the body religious, and other commentators who have filled the shelves of Catholic literature. But then there is Evelyn Waugh, a 20th century journalist and novelist.   And just as a dying gesture by one character has a tidal wave of an impact on those around him, so too does the final purpose of Brideshead Revisited.  Satire, surely.  Elegy for the passing of British nobility?  You bet!  Uproariously funny?  Without a doubt.  But also a testament to how faith works, and done in a way more memorable than…. even Saint Paul and his Letters?  Perhaps its blasphemous for me to say….but yes, yes it is.  For all of St. Paul’s explanations, it is the example of grace that Brideshead provides that has had the deepest impact on me.  As a lover of literature, of great novels, and as a Catholic, I am that much richer for having read Brideshead Revisited.  And so again, I am thankful for books.  Whether overtly religious (can’t be much more than the Bible) or maybe tangentially, they still, in their own mysterious way, bring me closer to God.  Perhaps that’s what Waugh was getting at, how God still works, through the everyday.  And so God does, through the books I am thankful for.

And lastly, as an educator, I have to appreciate my profession.  For as I say “thank you” to books, I’m saying thank you to many teachers along the way.  There were three English teachers I recall from high school: Jeff Carr, Geneva Gibson, and Dylan Weston.  And while I may not recall exactly what each taught, I vividly remember the books that left an impression on me.  With Mrs. Weston and Junior English, we took up The Great Gatsby.  You’ve already heard how the title character gave name to my cat.  What you haven’t heard is how I re-read The Great Gatsby every four years.  That began with that junior English class.  It then continued when I had to read the novel for an English class at the University of Iowa.  And from that point on, it was because I just had to read it.  Not because it was assigned, mind you.  But because something in me told me I need to read The Great Gatsby.  Part of it is undoubtedly my love for Jay.  I’ve read The Great Gatsby so I obviously know what’s going to happen.  Yet, every time I open it anew, I keep hoping, this time it’s going to be different.  This time Jay’s going to be okay.  And not okay as Nick Caraway describes him.  Perhaps he and Daisy escape to Canada.  Or his bodyguard takes out George Wilson.  But just as there is no follow-up to Phileas Fogg, so Gatsby never escapes his fate.  And sure enough, I’m always down whenever I get to Gatsby’s death (my apologies to anyone who hasn’t read this).  Or his sad funeral, with no one coming to pay their respects.  Gatsby deserved so much better.

So why am I always re-reading Gatsby?  I don’t know.  I’ve never read anything else by Fitzgerald.  And again, I’m always saddened that things don’t work to the better for Gatsby.  But maybe it’s that whole Tennyson thing about better to have loved and lost, than never loved at all?  But in Gatsby, its not just love, it’s the lifestyle: the car, the mansion, the party, the clothes.  What a life, even if its cut short.  Who among us wouldn’t have loved to be Jay Gatsby, if only for a day?  And maybe that’s why Gatsby continually calls me; the dream of being Gatsby, as beckoning, and as impossible, as the green light at the end of the Buchanan’s dock.

The other literary impression that was first burned on me in high school and still holds its power today was a love for Charles Dickens.  This didn’t catch at first, though.  As freshmen, we read an abridged version of Great Expectations, of which all I remembered was crazy Miss Havisham in her wedding dress, catching fire.  As sophomores, we read Tale of Two Cities and frankly, it bored me.  Junior year was all American authors, but senior year, we circled back to Two Cities. I don’t know what happened, but the second time around made all the difference.  No longer was Tale a slog.  This was an exciting book!  The escape from Paris, with the maid shooting Madame DeFarge?  That was great stuff!  And though I didn’t read any more Dickens after that (I’m pretty sure I didn’t read any in college), I now knew he was a master craftsman, worthy of more respect than a high school sophomore had shown him.

And so we jump from 1991 to 2002, over a decade later.  I’ve since been a college graduate, a high school teacher and now I’m living in Gainesville, working on a Masters.  I knew I wanted to read something in my spare time, and so I visited a book store.  Again, I had nothing in mind; I was waiting for the book to choose me.  And there it was….and I was never the same again.  That book I laid eyes on?  The most perfect novel I’ve ever read, then and now.  Every scene meant something.  Every character served a purpose.  Every plot went somewhere.  Though over 700 pages, it never seemed long.  Every page was building toward something.  This was the work of a Master.  This was the novel in its full glory.  That book that so engrossed me, to the point that today in 2018, I still talk about this transfigurative literary experience?  I’m talking about David Copperfield by Charles Dickens.  I’ve read many books since then, and a few more by Dickens.  I’ve read books that have blown me away: Life and Fate comes to mind, in its sure scope and ability to manage so many story lines.  Gone with the Wind another in how it all ties together.  Or even The Stand, with how random details come to have meaning.  All all great, great works…..but David Copperfield remains in a class by itself.  Has there ever been a character as full, as flawed, as sympathetic, as heroic as Wilkes Micawber?  Is there ever a better vindication anywhere in literature than when it is he that foils Uriah Heep’s plot?  And to see the Micawbers free to start again?  Does it not just grab your heart strings and refuse to let go?  Is it any wonder Micawber was based on Dickens’ own father; I can’t think of a more memorable creation in all of literature.  But why should I be surprised?  After all, it comes from the most perfect novel!

Since that day, I’ve gone onto read Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby and Great Expectations again.  I assume I’ll give a third read through Two Cities.  And in our library downstairs, we have Bleak House and Little Dorrit.  It’s a lifetime goal of mine to read all of Dickens’ novels.  Is there anyone who gives us more memorable characters?  The devilish Fagin in Twist; the greedy Ralph Nickelby; and of course, the aforementioned Miss Havisham.  When I read Dickens, I know I’m reading a master.  None of the other ones, to me, have equalled David Copperfield, but then again, I haven’t read Tale since high school, before I was changed forever by Copperfield.  Perhaps that one is its equal.  But here’s what I do know: had I not had to read Tale my senior year, I probably would’ve never picked up Copperfield of my own volition.  My memory of Dickens would’ve been of slogging through Tale as a sophomore.  And after such a negative experience, why would I try anything else?  After all, I struggled through The Scarlet Letter as a high school junior and since then have never tried Hawthorne again.  But it was being assigned, as a class, to read Tale that made the difference.  Though it would be over a decade before I would take up Dickens on my own, the seed that would allow for my love of the author to flourish would never have planted if it wasn’t for AP Senior English, Oak Ridge High School, El Dorado Hills, CA, 1990 – 1991, Geneva Gibson, teacher.  So to you, Mrs. Gibson, and to English teachers everywhere, I say thank you.  But I’m also saying thank you to the books, knowing full well I wouldn’t have approached them without first being guided in the classroom.

It’s a quarter of 10 pm here on the East Coast, so before too long, it won’t be Thanksgiving anymore.  So if I’m going to make public what I’m thankful for, I had best get to it.  I hope you see what I mean, when I say by being thankful to books, I’m thankful to everything: to family, friends, God and teachers.  I could also add thankful to country, as what other nation has given us Mark Twain, James Fenimore Cooper (I really loved Last of the Mohicans), Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Cormac McCarthy, and so many others?  And I haven’t even spoken about other books that have meant so much to me, like Kenneth Grahame’s Wind in the Willows, and its protagonist who I so often think is me in the literary form, the one and only Mr. Toad?  Or the books who taught me so much of times gone by, of those knights of the air of the First World War: Manfred von Richthofen and Eddie Rickenbacker; or of baseball heroes of decades ago, like the eloquent Yankee manager, Casey Stengel; or one of my most recent reads, the achievements, conquests and defeats of the Rockefeller family.  From the 1949 Yankees to the drilling of the Golden Spike in 1869; the resistance literature to the Soviet regime to a biography of Martin Luther; so much of what has inspired me, challenged me, informed me…made me me has come from reading books.  It’s no understatement to say, without books, well…I’d be a very different person.  I wouldn’t want to think of a world where I didn’t know Casey Stengel’s antics, where Tom Sawyer didn’t scheme, or Charles Ryder didn’t find his way to Catholicism.  And though both Gatsby and Strelnikov never get away, I’m drawn to their quests time and time again.

And so I say, as a way of giving thanks on the day which we are called upon to do so…thank you to anyone who has ever drawn me to read.  Be you a teacher, a loved one, a friend, or even a passing acquaintance; if you brought a book to me, you gave me the greatest gift possible.  Look back once more at Mark and Kathy Wetzell.  Around the World in Eighty Days was just a gift to a boy who could now read.  Decades later, the memory of Fogg and his wager are as cherished memories as the day I was married.  And as I would never want to live in a world without my wife Jennifer, I don’t want to live in a world where Fogg and his cronies are no longer racing around it.  Give me books and you have given me everything…..and for that, I thank you.  Not just on this day, but on every day.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some reading to do!