Reading at the Table as a Boy
It was at the kitchen table where I learned to be consumed by books; but it wasn’t me doing the consuming. My father would bring a paperback – usually Louis L’Amour, I think – to the table every night unless we had company. I sat across from Mother; Scott sat across from Dad. The three of us would carry on our conversation, as conversations go, while Dad would load the fork from plate to mouth, turn the page, read some more, another fork-full; repeat. He would rarely intercede in our conversations (unless my brother or I would say something egregious, as I remember it), and would rarely speak for himself except to ask to pass the gravy or salt or ask my Mother to get him something more to drink. And we weren’t allowed to bring books to the table, of course. I tried a few times – I would bring my own book, try to catch up on something I was interested in – more interested than family – but as soon as the book came out, Dad would always say (he said this in other environments as well), “