Doesn’t matter either way, because I’ve heard it. All week long. It’s exhausting, walking around, pretending not to care when every fiber of your being is screaming in agony and pain. It’s hard to wear a placid smile when really you just want to let your face contort into that tight ball of despair.

“They don’t mean it. They don’t mean it.”

It would be immensely easier on my part if I just give in. If I roll over and give them their way it will all be over soon. They’ll be nice to me again if I just say yes. Yes. A million times yes.

But I wouldn’t be doing them any favors and sooner or later the real world is going to come calling and the real world won’t say yes. The real world won’t care about excuses and the real world doesn’t have feelings you can hurt, the better to manipulate it to your will. The real world is cruel and demanding and the real world swallows you whole then spits you out skinned clean.

So, I’m a Nazi bitch. I’m cruel and unfair. I demand an honest effort and a respectful demeanor. I expect responsibilities to be met and a spirit of gratitude. If that’s their definition of a Nazi bitch then I’m a card-carrying member. I know I’m doing it for the right reasons and I know one day they’ll understand. They’ll get it and they’ll look back and feel bad about it. They’ll face the same challenges with their kids and it will all begin to make more sense.

That’s all well and good and everything and I sure hope that’s God’s honest truth — but that doesn’t make it any easier right now.

I totally get why some animals eat their young now. : /

The training wheels had to come off eventually, I guess.

It would be one thing if I were to say there’s no time. But that’s not the truth. I seem to find lots of stupid and inane things to do with my free time. But none of them involve writing. Which is, in truth, a terrible shame. Not because I’m such a great gift to the world and I’m depriving them of my genius. I have no delusions. But because it’s a good thing for me. Myself. My soul. It’s cathartic and comforting to write. It’s like being able to talk to a friend and that friend will only listen. They won’t judge. They won’t try to help. They won’t try to relate. This friend will simply listen and then you can vomit up great piles of emotional baggage and leave it there. Walk away. There is no guilt. It’s the way it’s supposed to be and that makes it okay.

I will also admit it hasn’t been fun around here, lately. Like most of the world I’m circling a drain of fear and dread. I’m afraid for my country and the world in general. I’m afraid of and for people who have reached their limit and that translates into horrible acts of violence and destruction. I’m afraid because it seems it’s happening more and more these days. People are reaching their limit.  There are so few signs of human kindness these days. It makes a body weary.

I’m so, so tired. I’m so tired of hearing about missing babies and mothers and daughters and sons. I’m sick of hearing about all the political screeching. I swear to God in his lofty heaven, they sound like a bunch of preschoolers in desperate need of a nap. I’m not kidding you. I know. I taught preschool. It’s the same thing. They’re all pissed off and pissed on and not getting their way and being greedy and petty and egocentric and it appears we’ve become complacent with it. Instead of saying enough of this bullshit, get your crap together and work it out or you’re going down for a long-assed nap, we’re the teacher who has reached her limit. She’s sneaked off to the coat closet for a nip of her flask and a brief moment of sanity in the dark silence — necessary evils to survive this mess. I can’t blame us. Kids will wear you down. It’s why I stopped teaching. The rewards feel highly inadequate when compared to the suffering. The difference is that it’s acceptable with kids. We expect them to be that way. It’s a part of the natural course of life. But politicians aren’t kids. They are supposed to be adults and we are supposed to be able to put our trust in them. Instead, Sarah Fucking Palin is a news item and she has a fucking reality show. A. REALITY. SHOW. This is where we are now? This is seriously how far we’ve come? We’ve evolved through the countless eons of time to become THAT? Seriously? Sarah “Punchline” Palin?? Words cannot honestly express how disappointing that is to me.

Closer to home, the boys have had health problems. I consider myself lucky that things weren’t worse. I have to keep telling myself it’s on the way up and we’ve seen the worst of it. For that, I am grateful. It still doesn’t completely erase the fear, but it certainly eases up a bit. Living with that constant fear and dread is draining. Moms aren’t tired because they spend their days working and cleaning and cooking and wearing a million different hats. Women are wired to push themselves toward those ends. Most of us thrive there. What exhausts us is the perpetual and debilitating weight we harness to our shoulders and drag behind us, kicking and screaming. Coming to terms with the impending adulthood and therefore, independence, of our children is no easy task. It’s the way life is meant to be and it’s well that it is. But the practice is nonetheless daunting and painful and fraught with peril. There is no guide book. No plan strong enough. They are forces of nature and they will blow a path of destruction in their wake. You will become persona non grate. You, the one who held them close in your lap, stroking their cheek, soothing them,  hair dripping with the vomit they just spewed over your shoulder. You, who tucked them in night after night, with a bedtime story and a song. You, who brought them safely from the womb to fifteen. You will be a stranger in your own child’s life. Or so one would believe. The reality is that they are growing up. Their world is getting bigger.  They love me just the same. Our relationship has just changed. It has taken me some time to accept that, but there it is. They no longer rely on me for their every need. They no longer need someone to hold their hand to cross their street. Metaphorically speaking. But still, the fear remains. It will always be there, I suspect. An unwelcome visitor in the house of my mind. But if they are to be happy, healthy, well-adjusted adults, we have to wade through all of this, first. In other words, they gotta learn. I gotta let them fall on their faces, if that’s the choice they make. It’s not easy, but it’s necessary. It’s time.

I lost a dear friend this week. He had been on my mind for months and I was dreading the arrival of the news. I tried to steel myself against it. I reached out to him, forced myself to talk to him instead of indulging the secret, scared part of me who wanted to avoid him at all costs. I told him how much I loved him. I repeated it almost to a degree of embarrassment. I just kept thinking he could be gone at any time. This might be it. This might be the last time, Kim! Tell him how much you love him! And then I started to worry that I was coming across as a loon-nut, so I stopped.

Then, he died.

I was pissed at first. Oh, Sweet Caroline, I was so pissed when I read the email from his wife. I was in the living room on my laptop when I read it. I tossed the laptop off my lap, across the couch, as though it had just morphed into a snake. I jumped up and walked into the kitchen. I stood at the island with my hands on my hips and I raged. I raged for 20 minutes straight. I walked circles around the island, an unholy ritual of rage and seething. I don’t even know who I was mad at. And I think that made me all the more mad, not knowing who to inflict that anger on, not knowing who to blame.

And then I stopped.

And then I cried.

I cried for him for the 200th time and felt so cheated and sad. I was sad for his wife. I was sad for his kids and his grand kids who he loved so damn much. I was sad for his friends who loved him dearly and I was sad for me. I felt selfish and small because my pain is not even equal to a drop in the bucket of sorrow his family must be swimming in. But mostly, I just felt sad.

That’s all there is. There’s no happy ending. There’s no big reveal in which I tell you it’s all okay, because, like, the lesson was there, man, and I totally learned it. There is no lesson. “People die” isn’t news. It’s not even interesting. It’s simply a fact and facts can’t be argued. And that makes it sadder still.

I will miss my friend. He was a gift to all who knew him and his absence will be felt to the core of us. I am just so happy to have known him, to have been able to share in some of his joy. I am so happy he chose me as a friend and I’m happy he is no longer suffering. I am happy that he was surrounded by people who loved him and made him happiest when he went. I am happy he once existed in the world. It was made a better place for it.

It’s hard to remember sometimes that there is so much beauty in the world. There are other people like my friend. They are out there. They make people happy just by being.  There are unspoiled wonders and breath taking moments of clarity.  There are real and good and true things. There are things that exist for no other reason than to entertain me. There is fresh air to breathe and a roof over my head. I am not hungry. I am not cold.  I am well. I love and I am loved.

It’s difficult to maintain perspective sometimes, so I hope it is to be forgiven, this self-indulgent whining. Most of the time, I get it right. All I can say is, I’m trying. I’ll get there. Be patient with me.

It’s not easy to do. My brain short circuits about 90 seconds into these fantasies and the drink on the beach turns into a bottle of dish soap and a sink full of dishes. The simple fact is, I can’t even imagine it. Though I am sure it would be fun (for a while), I am also sure I would go stark raving mad in a matter of days and then the only leisure time I would experience would be arts and crafts hour in the rec room of the loony bin.

Two teenage boys, a full time job that feels like TWO, family, relationships, doctors and attorneys and hospitals and housework and auto care — I don’t know if I’m coming or going.

Most of it I can handle. I am handling. But the whole teenage boys thing? That’s throwing me for a loop. I spend more time arguing with them and worrying over them than everything else combined. It’s wearing me out! A friend of mine recently told me there’s nothing for it. “You do your best and let the chips fall where they may.”

And I suppose she’s right. But watching those chips fall, o golly what a fright.

Jacob found out about it first, but he didn’t really know the boy that well. The news was delivered to Caleb rather callously, but not on purpose. He just didn’t realize the boy and Caleb were good friends.

I saw a cloud pass over Caleb’s face as soon as he heard. I was sitting next to him and he slumped a little in his seat. I could see him wrestling with it. He said nothing. He just stared out the window. But his breath caught a little in his throat and I got a chill. He turned only once to look me in the eyes, almost imploringly. I studied his face.

“Did you know him, Caleb?”
“He was my friend.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“He was really nice.”

This exchange was drowned out by the ruckus of 6 boys all vying for the floor. Then he turned his head away again.

He cried a little. Only a little. His face was turned away because it wouldn’t do to be 15 and crying in front of your older brother and your 4 cousins — all boys, through and through.

It stung me that I was driving when it happened. It angered me that I couldn’t help without making it worse. I said nothing. I drove on and tried to radiate waves of comfort his way.

When we got home later that night he got on the phone to a mutual friend to get the full story of what happened. He got the story and then came into the kitchen.

“It was meningitis. He had a seizure and just died.”
“I’m really sorry buddy, do you need a hug?”

He scoffed at that and said, “NO!” as if it were the most ludicrous thing he had ever heard. The very idea!

So I said, “Then….can I have one?”

He looked at me for half a second, a mixture of hope and suspicion stamped across his face. Then he stepped toward me and wrapped his arms around my waist and hugged. He hugged hard. He hugged me as if he were the only thing tethering me to the earth. I responded in kind and whispered that I loved him. I have to tilt my head up to do this now. My boy is growing up so fast.

She said with a heavy heart.

Still, at least he is growing up. I simply cannot imagine what that boy’s family is going through right now. My heart goes out to them and I hope against all hope they have some peace soon. For some moments in life there are no words.

I wish he could see what I see when I look at him. His vision is much different from mine and sadly, not at all accurate.  This is how he used to look:

He looks up at the camera as he’s speaking and then he realizes he’s being filmed. His face lights up and he smiles big. He says, “Now I just need to do the eyes.”

The smile. Oh, God, help me. The smile.

Then he looks down at his palette and says, “But I have no idea what color to paint them.” He says this and his brow furrows and he seems so serious and eager. Like he has a real pickle on his hands. Then, he takes a step back and says, “Mommy, should I do the eyes orange?” and points at the eyes. He’s bouncing back and forth on his feet. He’s got a slight baby quality to his voice still. Orange comes out “or-yinge.”

Plus, he called me “mommy” — did you catch that?

I did.

I can give you the play by play because I’ve memorized it. Its image is seared into my brain. Forever and ever, Amen.

The video came from an old hard drive I had given up on. Matt managed to pull the files off through some sort of magic trickery and deals with the devil. It’s not that I’m not grateful. Eternally so. But seeing all those pictures and videos has finally done my head in. I’ve watched that particular video so many times I see it in my sleep.

All that gorgeous hair is gone now, by the way. He’s been growing it for almost four years now. I loved it. I thought it was beautiful and it just fit him. I got so used to seeing it. It seems like it was always there. Unless I watch that video.

But it had to go.

He started growing it on a lark. He just decided one day he was going to grow it out. Then, after it got to a pretty decent length he heard about the children’s charity called “Locks of Love.” He chose to keep growing and then donate his hair. I thought it was a nice thing for a kid to do. He never fails to surprise or impress me.

So, today he paid the piper. He had been saying all along he was going to cut it on his 15th birthday. At first I thought he wouldn’t make it that long. I thought it would drive him crazy and he would get tired of being teased by the ignorant redneck hicks in this small farming community. I thought it would get old, being confused for a girl by waitstaff and kindly old people. I thought he would get tired of washing it and combing it out and taking care of it. But he kept with it. He smiled politely and waved it off. He held in there a lot longer than I would have been able to.

Then, he liked it. It was unique. It brought attention, sometimes negative, sometimes positive. Then he bristled whenever I mentioned cutting it.

At first I didn’t like it either. It was troublesome and annoying. He wouldn’t take care of it sometimes and it would just be a tangled rat’s nest that I would have to spend hours combing out. I was forever pushing it out of his eyes. It was hot. It was a pain in the summer. I almost hated it.

And then over time it grew on me, so to speak. I was afraid he wouldn’t want to cut it when the time came, but I think I was more afraid that he would. I cried all week. I started dropping little hints and then I started dropping big hints and finally, out of desperation, I came right out and begged him not to cut it.

Lord, I have no shame. I’m so sorry.

But he stood his ground. He intended to do it and do it he would. On his fifteenth birthday, just like he said he would.

I’m glad he did. He looks handsome as ever and about 20 years older. Ugh. That’s what got to me. His age really started showing when all that hair he was hiding under disappeared. It makes it hard to pretend he’s still my baby. You know what I mean?

Anyway, we both survived it, though I had to leave the room more than once. The girls in the salon ooh’d and ahhh’d and he had them eating out of the palm of his hands. To me, they kept “awwwing” and “poor mom” and I wanted to beat them all to death with an oversized can of hairspray.

I’m still afraid for him. I’m afraid he’s going to have trouble at school. Not because he doesn’t look good, but because he doesn’t think he looks good and those creeps feed on that shit. Sad, but true. I’m afraid people won’t look at him and think about this incredible thing he did for another human being who he will never even likely meet. He’ll never get a personal thank you from the person whose life he selflessly touched. I’m afraid they’ll cheapen it and take away, a little at a time, all the sweet things about my son that make him my son. I’m afraid he’ll have regrets. I don’t want him to have regret because he did this thing. This thing he did is not something to regret.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’ll be left alone. Maybe they will either say nothing or only good things. It could happen. And even if he does get some grief, I think he’ll be okay. He’s been teased and tormented for the past four years and he’s taken it all in stride. Many times he could have lessened the degree of the torment, were he to toot his own horn. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t go around telling people what he was doing and was forever embarrassed when people found out. He didn’t want any recognition. He just wanted to be left alone to do this thing he wanted to do for somebody. One of the many times he was called a “faggot”  by some knuckle dragging byproduct he could have defended his actions and turned the ridicule their way. But he didn’t. He just let it be and bided his time. So, no, I don’t think it will kill him if he isn’t met with open arms upon his return to school tomorrow.

And that’s why that video makes me want to scream and go right on screaming until I have to shove my fist in my throat to keep from coming apart at the hinges. It is because that video and today are stark reminders of where we’ve been and where we are going.  It is because time is slipping away and moments like the one in that video and the one today…they’re never coming again. They’re gone and I want them back. It is because I see it in the maturity he displays when dealing with adversity. I see it in the jawline and the eyes. It is because I hear it in his voice. It is because Time is marching on and it has swept my boys up with it as it goes. I fear I am being left behind. He can and will make his own decisions and all I can do is sit back, watch, and hope for the best. It is because he will never call me “mommy” again. He will never ask me what color the eyes should be.

It is because my boys are growing up and I have to deal with it.

God help me, I’m tryin’.

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

-  Mary Oliver

I am afraid of you. Seriously, you scare me. I am afraid of what’s going on out there. This guy walked into a preschool in China and stabbed 28 kids and 3 adults. Seriously. What the fuck? This business has to stop. Sanity has to prevail eventually. Right? I mean. Right? People are so miserable. We’re all out there killing and cheating each other like there ain’t no tomorrow. Let me tell you something. There is a tomorrow. And tomorrow you will have to pay for what you do today. The bill must always be paid. Ask Randy Quaid, he knows. Now.

We are well and truly fucked. Or we’re doing  better than ever.  It depends on who you listen to. And isn’t that what it’s all about? Isn’t all this about who can scream the loudest? I don’t know about you, but I am constantly being screamed at. Buy this! Wear that! Drink this! Not that! Eat those, not these! BOOB JOB! VIAGRA! CELEBRITY! SEX ADDICTION! SAVE THE WHALES! NOW THE BABIES! NOW THE BABY WHALES! JUMP UP AND DOWN! SING A SONG! YOU’RE OFF THE ISLAND!

Damn, what I wouldn’t give for some peace and quiet for a little while. Just, maybe just a bit of it, huh? No more stupid scandals that aren’t news but just silly, childish sensationalism. No more bombs. Stop with the wars. I understand we’re all stuck in a whole bunch of them right at the moment and we might not ever see an end to some of them, but maybe could we just not start anymore? Just give us a breather. Seriously, World, I’m worn out over here.

Politician is synonymous with corruption and distrust. Nobody trusts anybody anymore. And who can blame them? I wouldn’t trust anybody either. Have you seen what anybody does when you give them just a little bit? It ain’t pretty.

What the fuck is wrong with you? Seriously? Knock it off.

Stop fighting. Stop listening to Sarah Palin. Stop bickering. Stop spending money you don’t have. Stop blaming everyone else for your problems. Toughen up. Stop getting your poor little feelings hurt. Stop worrying so much about what other people are doing. Stop feeling so damn entitled. Stop watching reality TV. Stop watching TV in general. Enough is enough. Stop it now.

400 dead in China. Thousands dead in Haiti. Chile.  California.  Guess what? Earthquakes happen. Every spring our little planet shakes off the bitter cold of winter and knocks stuff around in the process. Can you not build some damn walls that won’t kill everyone within a hundred city blocks when they do? You can put a man on the moon. You can keep some 80 year old geezer erect. You can buy Lady Gaga’s brand of bullshit. You seriously telling me you can’t fix this? It’s 2010, people. Get busy.

Speaking of getting busy, how about a little less time devoted to keeping those 80 year olds erect and more time devoted to curing cancer? Diabetes. Aids. Sickle Cell Frickin’ Anemia. Pick one. I don’t care. It’s been ages though, literally ages, and I’m getting tired of waiting on you yahoos to do something real with all that money you’ve been raising. We’re all “aware” of the problem. Take your “awareness” marches and your “awareness” bumper stickers. Hats. T-shirts. Golf balls. Take them and shove them where the sun don’t shine and now that we’re all “aware” could you maybe, I don’t know, DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT?

“I have a sex addiction” is the new “My wife just doesn’t understand me.” Keep your damn junk in your pants. Stop thinking with your dicks. Quit cheating on your wives and girlfriends. And if you do cheat, and you get caught — and you will get caught, you feeble idiot — don’t blame it on an addiction. Your only addiction is stupidity and baby, it is just coursing through your veins. At least man up about it. Admit that you are powerless to keep it on a leash and try to be a decent person. Just try.

Women? Ditto. Don’t sit over there acting like you’re so innocent. It takes two to tango, baby. You’ve done your fair share to screw this up. Women cheat. And worse. The fairer sex isn’t often that fair. Just stop it, now.

Polar bears are dying. Honeybees are disappearing. Oceans are drying up. A dollar isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on.

Is there something in the water making us crazy? Is it airborne?  What have you done!? When did we pick this up and how do we get rid of it? Why is there no inoculation against all this violence and misery? How come there’s no cure for stupid? Why do we keep going for the lowest common denominator? Is this really the way you want it to go? You’re only hurting yourself you know?

Hey listen, while I got you, let me just share some news with you. As you may already know, my son turned 16 earlier this month. He’s super excited to get his driver’s license. I am, too. Totally. It’ll be great to have someone to run to the store every five minutes because I forgot basically everything I need to make dinner. I even bought him an old truck for his birthday. I’m a cool mom. I’m down with it.

But still. It sucks. I get that it’s not rational. Kids grow up. They get their licenses and one day they drive off and that’s the end of that. In a way. But that isn’t it. I’m afraid for him. I am so afraid for him.

I mean, look, I know 16 is a bit old to worry about stranger danger. I understand that he’s not likely to be snatched up and whisked away in a non-descript, white cargo van. Statistically speaking, the chances of that are between slim and none. I get that, logically. But it’s a fool who looks for logic in the chambers of the human heart. I still worry. Every time he’s even five minutes late my mind starts racing with all the bad things I know have happened to him. Because things happen, don’t they? Specifically, bad things. Kids go missing. People get in car accidents. Lives are changed forever. Bad things happen to innocent people — usually when they are least expecting it.

And yet you would have me let him go. You would have me push him out into you and then sit back to watch where he goes.

I understand. And I will try. I promise. All I ask is that you meet me in the middle. Stop being such a scary place to be these days. It feels like no place is safe and nothing is right. Stop doing that. Stop scaring me and help me let go. I’m good for it, I promise. I’ll do my part. Only — could you maybe pitch in a little bit? Please?
Thanks so much, World, for hearing me out. I know I can count on you to do the right thing.

Right?

Sincerely,

Kimberley

When the boys were growing up I thought it was peachy that they were so close in age. 13 Months apart meant two boys in diapers at the same time. They hit all the milestones together, making it convenient for me to only have to go through it all at once. Just get the potty training for both out of the way at the same time. Bottle weaning. Walking. Reading. Writing. Certainly very efficient.

But now that they’re both going through the “terrible teens” at the same time? Well, I’m beginning to have my doubts about this whole thing. Now I am reviled by two. Now I am twice as stupid and twice as mean and two times the shrew. Now I’m bouncing from bedroom to bedroom trying to put out fires and maintain civility.

To be perfectly honest, I don’t know that I have the strength to do this. I don’t know if I can keep it up. Right now I’m beginning to think this was all a terrible mistake. Is it too late for a do-over?

I suppose it is.

No matter. I’ll deal with it. But I won’t like it. No, not one little bit. Until it’s over. And then I’ll look back and say, “Awww, I miss when they were 15 and knew everything.”

Maybe. (Maybe not.) (Probably.)

by Sharon Olds

Stephen King wrote a couple short paragraphs on his passing over at his EW column. I won’t link to it because, like most things on the net, the comments section ruins it. I’m embarrassed BY and FOR those folks.

I’m a fan of Stephen King and I’m not embarrassed to admit that. His more recent work is a little too political and heavy-handed for my tastes, but I won’t hold that against him. I just read (and re-read and re-read) the classics (and they ARE classics, whether you’re a fan or not) and leave the new stuff for someone else. Perhaps that’s why the comments bother me so much. People can be so cruel with the things they say. How big you must feel sitting back on your anonymous high horse, typing venomous vitriol at a person who has done more in the face of adversity than you have even the capacity to dream of! How satisfying it must be for you to tear down the lifetime achievements of another person; you sitting there doing nothing, going nowhere, but talking such a big game. How proud your mothers must be!

All I can say is, fan or no, King is a better person than I. I couldn’t sit there and read the shit people throw my way day after day and not get so disillusioned and cynical that it kills me. Good on him. Perhaps he’s trained himself not to read those comments? Perhaps. But even that is an accomplishment. It would be difficult NOT to read, I should think. More difficult not to take it all to heart. More difficult to climb back in the saddle and write another column, subjecting yourself to more garbage.

Anyway, he writes regularly for Entertainment Weekly and I read his columns because he often has interesting things to say about pop culture, new authors on the scene, horror movies, etc. Check it out if you’re so inclined, I think the title of the column is “The Pop of King” or something catchy like that. Google it and you should be able to find it.  Just avoid the comments section unless you like hateful rhetoric.

This isn’t about Stephen King anyway. It’s about JD Salinger. I just got way off topic as per my usual. I wasn’t a big fan of most of Salinger’s work. I read his books, but none of them really got to me like “A Catcher in the Rye” did. I know, how predictable, right? I don’t care. It was great. I’ve read it at least a half a dozen times over the years and now I feel like reading it again. Caulfield was just such a great anti-hero. And the way he talked, his narrative really spoke to me at the ripe old age of 16 — the first encounter I had with him. I still have that worn and faded original copy from 1966. It was already  23 years old by the time I got my hands on it in ’89. I’ve got other, newer copies, too. Those are the ones I read. I leave the old, original copy sitting on the bookshelf untouched. It’s likely to fall apart if I don’t. I’ve flipped through the pages too many times now.

I remember when the boys were in middle school I tried to get them to read it. The subject matter was a little risky, but I really wanted to connect with them over this one. Jacob read “To Kill a Mockingbird” and loved it. We watched the movie and had a lot of great discussions about it. Kaileb read “Flowers for Algernon” and loved it. Ditto the great talks and movie watching. They both liked “Lord of the Flies” but hated the ending. Can’t say I blame them, but we had a lot of really heated discussions about it, debated it, analyzed it. Both enjoyed “Animal Farm” as well. Things were progressing smashingly and I was enjoying sharing my love of reading with them. I nudged them in the direction of “Rye”, but they just couldn’t get into it. They tried. To their credit they did try to make a go of it. It just wasn’t meant to be. I was really disappointed and probably pushed them too far to try again. They wouldn’t go for it and I eventually gave up.

Perhaps now that they are in high school it would be a better time to give it a go and I might mention it to them again. I might just leave it out on the table and be all like, “What? Oh, how did this book get here? Well, I guess someone should read it!”

I just remember reading it and feeling so exhilarated, so dangerous! It was an exciting book with such a rebellious theme that I was swept up in the adventure of it. Perhaps it was because I was raised in a strict southern-baptist home. I remember thinking, “If my parents knew the wicked naughtiness of this book!” and then giggling hysterically at my little secret. I was no stranger to having books removed from my possession due to their subject matter. It’s no wonder I held so tightly to this one, kept it hidden. I guess I can understand the boys and their lack of understanding. They live in a different time, a different world. It probably doesn’t seem anywhere near as dangerous to them, given all they are exposed to these days. Yet, I’ll try again. It’s worth another go.

I know Salinger was a notorious recluse. I know he shunned media and lived out his days in solitude. I don’t know why though. I don’t know if there was some reason behind his disdain for the light. Perhaps now that he’s died we’ll have some answers. It’s more fitting that those answers would come after his death, he doesn’t have to live with that which he apparently hated most: attention.

Regardless, I hope his final days found him happy and content. I hope he shucked this mortal coil with a sense of satisfaction and peace. I hope that when death found him, it found him serene and ready to go. I hope he died having never read a single internet comment thread.

RIP, Salinger, and thanks for the memories.