We have several
bookshelves at home, loaded with a great variety
of books – big ones, little ones, and everything
in between. Our collection includes many old
favorites, read and re-read. It includes more
than a few of the classics, read at least once
(or frequently, if it is Mark Twain). The
shelves also hold a few dust collectors,
acquired by chance, that we’ve never read and
probably never will – too nice to throw away,
too tedious to actually read, and of
questionable value as boat anchors. Over the
years we have given many such books away to
friends to languish unread on their bookshelves
instead of ours. The rest we will pass on to our
kids, who might have the initiative to
garage-sale them after not reading them.
On the shelves at
home, our books are carefully organized by
title. That simply means that the titles face
outwards, which was not an original idea of ours
but it works. Otherwise there is no system
whatsoever, except we do try to keep the World
Book Encyclopedias together as a group.
(Encyclopedia? Google that!)
We also have a
bookshelf on our houseboat, the Phoenix, much
smaller and concentrated with our favorite
reading. These books say a lot about who we are,
in fact, they speak volumes. (I’m not going to
apologize for that pun; no one forced you to
read it.)
There are a lot
of reasons to have good books on a houseboat.
Quiet evenings before sleep. Early mornings
alone on the bow. Rainy days, sunny days,
weekdays and Sundays. And most of all, anytime
the deck needs scrubbing.
Good reading
material is essential on a boat, and I don’t
mean just this magazine and my column. I believe
that books will get you through times of no
sunshine better than rain will get you through
times of no books. (No matter how many times you
read that sentence it still will make very
little sense, but I needed to flesh out my word
count for this column. I blame the editor.) Now
back to the subject.
When I was a boy
of nine or ten,
I began discovering books from the library. I
could check them out, take them home and lose
myself in worlds of pure adventure. In the
neighborhood library I discovered Dumas, Asimov,
Burroughs, Cervantes, and Twain. Books were my
alternate realities, universes full and rich and
created just for me at a time when I desperately
needed distant planets to explore, secret caves
to hide in, rivers to raft down, treasures to
unearth, swords to cross, swashes to buckle, and
evil to vanquish.
I discovered books with a passion that was
almost desperate. I didn't simply embrace them;
I jumped inside and begged them to embrace me.
The characters in my books could always be
relied upon to behave in a manner that a
confused, buck-toothed kid could trust and
understand. When I ran with these heroes,
explored with them, conquered with them, had
close calls (yet always escaped) with them, I
was strong, brave and invincible. Quite
handsome, too. But every great story ended much
too soon.
Recently on the
internet I ran across an old book titled
Men of Iron
by a prolific
author of swashbuckling children’s epics named
Howard Pyle, who was also a magnificent
illustrator. (Pyle is often called the “Father
of American Illustration,” and an internet
search of his work will show why.)
I must have read
Men of Iron
three times over the summer when I was ten years
old because I wanted the story to never end.
Howard Pyle showed me values of chivalry and
honor. Ideals of honesty and trustworthiness.
Satisfactions of endeavor and achievement.
Men of Iron
taught this wide-eyed lad that good guys could
persevere, that stone towers could be escaped
from, that black knights could be toppled, and
that fair maidens could (and indeed, probably
should) be rescued.
I
have often remembered and thought about
Men of Iron
over the many years of my age – for this book,
perhaps more than any other, helped me get
through the age of being ten. I am going to
order the copy I found for sale on the internet,
and it will surely end up aboard the Phoenix in
our concentrated collection of favorites, to be
read again (and perhaps again) by me and my
grandson.
Maybe it’s because the pure adventure of
boating brings
out so much of the boy that still lives in me.
Or maybe, as my fair maiden suggests, it’s
because I’d rather read a book than scrub the
deck.
Satisfactions of endeavor and achievement can go
only so far these days.
Until next time,
My Best from the Stern,
Ted A. Thompson