I could never bring myself to eat the peas or lima beans and such

that came squishy and funky smelling out of cans that my mother served for dinner. I’d be the last kid still sitting at the kitchen table and regularly she’d “set the buzzer” on me. What this meant was that I had 15 minutes to finish my vegetables or I was going to my room for the rest of the night.

One night when she must have felt particularly irked (by the increasing absence of my father, her husband) she had my older brother put my arm in a hammer lock, forcing me to open my mouth while she shoved a Kaiser roll loaded with lima beans into my mouth. As soon as I had it down I broke free and vomited in the bathroom. Mom said it was all in my head. Whatever; another evening early to bed. 

But there was a gift in the punishment and that gift was reading. Books and stories and adventures set me free. Some summer nights when the sky stay lit as late as 9 PM, I read right through the setting sun and into the night. I’d leave the house and the craziness and be with pioneers up north in Alaska or even feel myself run with Lobo, the wolf. I fell in love with reading. More accurately-I fell in love with escaping reality. 

In the mid years between my youth and my elderhood books were replaced by technological gizmos, television, drinks, drugs, sex and music. There are so very many ways to distract oneself from the painful disappointments of real life. I blame Walt Disney for much of my emotional suffering. It was the fantasy world promise of heroes, damsels in distress and riding off romantically in slo-motion to live happily ever after that did more to grow my resentments and depression with life than anything that actually did or did not happen to me in reality. Expectations can sure set up a mountain of disillusionment-i.e; “when the truth is found to be lies and all the joy within you dies…”

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Fast forward to this morning. My elder wake up routine has included a rediscovery of the comforting joy of traveling into far off worlds and lives through the reading of books. I am usually tight and stiff in the lower back so after I’ve had my O.J. and washed down my Alleve, I microwave a sock filled with rice and brew one strong cup of coffee. Placing the sock where the seat of the lazy boy meets the spot of my lower back, I lean back into the healing heat and open a book. 

As a boy, these books were more than an hours escape from what often felt like my sentence in a juvenile detention facility. They were a promise of what life could be like once I was old enough to be freed from the parental constraints and out in the real world on my own. Of course, most of us found that our dreams did not manifest as we’d hoped and imagined. Events and the circumstances of finding and making your way in a world constrained by uncountable amounts of laws and regulations legislated and enforced to support and sustain the status quo of a society whose morality had thoughtlessly traded humanity for material gain and physical comfort while losing the essential spiritual aspects of empathy, community and compassion for others-rendered most of our lives far smaller and mundane than what we imagined as children. 

Although no longer a child I can still feel the pull of disappointment and depression most mornings as I drag this achey old vehicle of a body out of bed and through it’s awakening routines. I have glasses and once again I have books and library cards from 3 different cities. Reading is rediscovering good old friend who is damn interesting and who weaves a tale that engages and entertains. Good stories are written by the child within the author and for this, I am grateful.