I have memory lapses. Long ones. Like, had you asked me about my favorite childhood books last week, I’m not sure how many I could have rattled off. Frankly, if you asked me about my favorite childhood books when I was eight years old, I likely wouldn’t have had any titles to give you either. I’d have looked up from whatever book I had my nose in, raised my eyebrows, shook the book at you, and then silently gone back to eating my Snickers bar and reading said book.
So reading these posts this week has been marvelous for me. I’ve remembered so many lovely books. Books that made me laugh, inspired me, fueled my creativity, kept me company. And which I promptly, shamelessly forgot. I’ve tried to get better about remembering why I love. The things, the people. Take my husband, and not in the Henny Youngman way. I always remember how much I love my husband, but every once in while he reminds me in the most unexpected ways.
As almost anyone knows, or could find out, I live in Naples, Florida. It’s a beautiful town. And it’s a wealthy town, with tons of elderly snowbirds who come down for the “season.” If you live in Naples year-’round, there is inevitably some point during season at which you just lose it. Today was that day for me.
So, we’re driving home from picking up a bb-q dinner tonight, and I am on a roll. You have a vast array of topics to choose from during lose-it point, some of which include traffic, rudeness, Publix shopping cart/deli wars, crowded restaurants, and snobbery. After a brief visit to an art gallery, it was this last topic that occupied me tonight, and the conversation went something like this:
K- ” ‘We summer in Marblehead!‘ Please, I mean, who talks like that? I don’t care! I don’t care who you know, or where your seven houses are, or which car you chose to take tonight, the Mercedes or the Lamborghini. God! I summer. Please.”
D- “Uh huh.”
K- “And can you believe he actually touched the painting?! Who does that? I mean, where were these people raised? Would they go to a museum and touch a painting?”
D- “Uh huh.”
K- “God, I want to get out of this town sometimes. (pause) I miss my books. (Side note: my books, ALL of my books, my many, many beloved books, are packed in boxes and in our attic, because we don’t have room for them all in our sweet little house. The plan is to get a bigger house, so that one day I can have my books, and maybe even a desk. But this likely entails moving out of Naples, because in order for you to get a house over 325 square feet you must have a trust fund. And you probably have to summer somewhere too. So, any rant about the irritants of season inevitably turns to me missing my books.)
D- “I miss my youth.”
K- laughing “At least my books are retrievable.”
D- “I have great hope for liposuction.”
K- laughing harder, unable to form pithy retort
D- “And goat placenta.”
I almost slide onto the floorboards in laughter. He rolls our windows down, turns up The Eagles, and I am reminded again exactly how much I do love this man. I might forget about A Wrinkle In Time, but, you see, my tiny little memory bank is overloaded with memories of the times my husband has made me laugh, at life and at myself.
Besides, there’s always the library.
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