“There is no mistaking a real book when one meets it. It is like falling in love.”
The morning is lovely, sunny and cool. All the animals are having their naps in all their favorite places. Every now and then I can hear a kid’s voice from down the street and a bird or two, but mostly it’s quiet. I love this kind of morning.
I took my time this morning. The day has lent itself to leisure, to reading the papers slowly, missing nothing, and having an extra cup of coffee. I’m staring at the laundry bag in the hall. It hasn’t moved and neither have I. The morning has brought a contentedness and laundry can wait.
When I was young, I loved summer mornings. They were always the coolest part of the day, and they smelled sweet, of grass and flowers and sometimes rain. I was up and out quickly after a bowl of Rice Krispies and a piece or two of toast. Sometimes I went to the playground; sometimes I rode my bike, and sometimes I’d go uptown to the library, a favorite summer spot. It was always cool on a hot day even though it wasn’t air-conditioned. The floor was highly polished tile. The librarian sat at a round wooden station to check out books. She also had a desk near the mysteries. Sometimes she’d sit there and work. The chairs around the tables were wooden and had fancy backs like captains’ chairs. I was always careful not to scrape mine across the floor when I moved it to sit down at the table to browse through a few books. I’d sit there for a while then I’d return those books to the shelves and start to choose the ones to take home. I always took the maximum.
Books never lasted too long for me. I read them quickly, sometimes in a single long sitting. Books held me enthralled and the day passed unnoticed. When I was older, it was the night which passed unnoticed. I remember finishing a book, looking up and seeing it was morning. That still happens to me.Explore posts in the same categories: Musings comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.