Lockport Union-Sun & Journal — And then there’s Joyce. Joyce is a delightful person and a good friend who, last week, suggested that since I was writing columns about how bored I was, I should read a book.
Nice try, Joycie. But for her information, I am in the process of reading one now. Well … I’m trying to read one.
I’ve said it before: I’m not proud of the fact that I don’t read a lot (of books). I wish I did. I envy those who do. My family, thankfully, are all readers. But I’m just not that type of person. I always have the feeling that I’m wasting valuable time. Why should I be reading something good when I could be sitting there doing absolutely nothing?
But for Christmas, a friend gave me a book. An almost 800-page volume about World War II. It’s a great book, I’m sure. After staring at it for an hour or two and fantasizing how I could use it to prop up the three-legged sofa I have in my workshop, I decided to try and read it. After all, it is a book.
Now, this may sound infantile, but after I start reading something this large – and as rare as that is – I tend to grab the pages I’ve read with my fingers and stare at the thickness in a self-congratulatory ‘look-what-I’ve-done” testimonial. I’m always so proud of inane accomplishments.
But with this book, there’s a chance I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. I’ve been reading it since Christmas and thought I was making headway. I was really getting into it. But I was made aware of just how much progress I’d made, this morning, when I turned the page and read the caption on what was to come next. It said “Chapter 1.”