Today I noticed my son's high school literature book on the kitchen table (my son's favorite place, where he eats upwards of fifty pounds of food per day and some $300 a week in groceries and still growing!!!!). The book brought back memories of my own adolescent forays, many of which also combined food and literature.
When I was seventeen, I wasn't in love, but Becky was one of my best friends. Well, she was alright. She was the only girl who was nice to me. We took all of our English classes together and during my junior year I gave her a ring which, by the end of our junior year, she had returned to me because she couldn't stand the sight of me and wanted to date some other loser. I was reading American literature at the time and may have been influenced by Mark Twain, so I wasn't in my right mind. If I'd been reading Dostoevsky at the time, I may have done something unthinkable like asking ______ for a date.
Many of the books I read in my high school literature courses impacted my life deeply. Many of the English teachers in my high school helped to transform my life. I'm not kidding. If not for them, I may never have started writing poetry to Becky and capturing her heart. If not for those high school literature courses, Becky might still regard me as a zit-faced jock who only enjoyed making love to a basketball. Of course, this is impossible, as is making love to a 50 year old woman, but that's beside the point.
I'm just glad my son's literature book is in the house. It's awakened all kinds of memories. And I can't wait to have some literature discussions with my son. He won't value my deep knowledge, of course, but at least we can discuss questions like: Why did the teacher assign this junk? and Do they still make Cliff Notes?
They do . . . and I've got tons of 'em. I've been taking Cliff Notes on my wife for years and I still haven't figured her out. And now I'm waiting for the movie.
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