My father has always loved reading. We had bookshelves
lining our breezeway when I was kid and I can’t remember a time where there
wasn’t at least on book on his bedside table. I’d find him reading
in the car when he was waiting for me to get out of rehearsals or voice
lessons. And I’m pretty sure his eReader has become an extension of his hand.
But for him it wasn’t enough just to read. He wanted to
share the stories he loved. By the time I was in seventh grade, I was reading
the books that he read. In non-fiction, it was a lot of American history. In
fiction it was generally thrillers, sci-fi and historical novels.
He would read something, pass it on to me, then we’d have a
discussion about it. As someone who remembered conversations much clearer than
lectures, the hours he and I spent discussing historical events
did more to help me succeed in history classes than any amount of studying
I could do.
We talked about fictional stories with as much dedication as
we did the non-fictional ones. The only difference here was that, on a couple
rare occasions, I didn’t have all the facts.
You see, my dad wanted to share books with me, but he also
was concerned about protecting my young mind. This resulted in an interesting
phenomena.
My father had given me a book to read and I was naturally
excited. I took it from him and turned to flee back to my reading spot*, but he
stopped me. He gave me one simple instruction: “Don’t look under the index
cards.”
I was a little confused, but this was a man who asked very
little of me and fed my book habit, so, I agreed.
About a third of the way through the book, I found my first
index card. It was taped into the book and covered a paragraph of maybe five or
six lines. Later in the book, there was a full page covered. These deletions
didn’t ruin my enjoyment of the book or make it difficult for me to understand
the plot. They were just curious. Particularly the first one. I mean, what
could have possibly happened in that one paragraph that was inappropriate
enough to censor, but did not bleed into the surrounding paragraphs???
One of the great unanswered questions of my life.
This censorship initiative was not long lasting, maybe two
or three more books after this sported index cards. Instead, we moved on to
talking about the parts that had my dad questioning appropriateness. While our
historical conversations almost always took place in the kitchen, the talks
about novels were generally conducted in the car. We’d drive, sing some oldies
and talk about some books. And I learned a lot, not just about books, but about
my dad and about life. Lessons that I still rely on today.
So, I wish a Happy Father’s Day weekend to all those dads
out there. Thank you for both feeding, and worrying about the states of, our
minds. And for being willing to tackle the uncomfortable conversations. It’s
greatly appreciated.
* My reading spot was the bathroom because I see all the
corners of it. This was important when I was reading a scary book. It was the
only way I could be sure that the bad guy wouldn’t find a way to
jump out at me. Many an evening was spent sitting on that floor or in the empty
bathtub.
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