Sometimes, you just have to sit back and, well, just sit back. I have not done that very much lately, but I did tonight. It was one of the best decisions I did not actually make in a long time. If that makes no sense whatsoever, let me ramble on just a little more. Maybe it will compel one or two people out there to allow the same thing to happen.
OK, here is what happened. This evening, after supper, with Emily at work, Dylan playing one of his video games, and Heidi already snug in her nightclothes, I wondered out to the back patio with a large tumbler of iced tea and a book by Cormac McCarthy. I had been introduced to the author by Greg Froese, a kindred spirit at BHS, and we read one of his works in Honors Sophomore English. He has his own unique style (McCarthy does, although Greg rolls his own way too), and he is quickly moving up my list of favorites. I had spotted one of his novels, All the Pretty Horses, at a garage sale this spring, but did not crack it open until last week, waiting until schools was out in hopes of simply reading for fun and relaxation.
And that is where I was this evening. I have a chair on the deck that requires one to display a great deal of trust in nylon and old cedar as he lets gravity draw him into the depths of the chair's reclination. I fell into that chair with the book in hand and tea within reach. The sun blazed through the leaves of the cottonwood and created stark contrast between the inked letters and the dull white pages upon which they were printed, a fact that allows these tired eyes to more comfortably make out McCarthy's words and sentences and paragraphs as they paint pictures of Mexican jails and greenbroke horses.
Kansas evenings in early June are something special, and few people allow themselves to slow down and let them take effect. That is unfortunate.
When I started reading, the sun was bright and fairly high above the horizon. When I closed the book and grabbed my empty tea glass, I had to strain to read the words on the page. I had not noticed the light begin to dim or the sun dip behind the peaks of the rooftops to the west as it made its way toward the horizon, but eventually it was too dark to make out what was on the page, so I had to stop. I was at one of those spots where I wanted to discover how John Grady's decision would play out, if fate was to lead him to happiness or hardship, if the obviously dubious choice to retrieve his horse Redbo would bring on more mental and emotion anguish or simply to his physical demise. Alas, I would have to wait.
As I climbed out of the patio chair, I felt oddly relaxed and satisfied. I had made no conscious choice to sit there in the Kansas breeze and read until the light was gone. It just happened. Did I have other things to do? Yeah. There is always something else to do. But do you know what? I will have those things to do tomorrow too. Right now, not making a decision to go do something "important" was the best decision I couldn't make. I am glad it happened that way. It needs to happen more often.
By the way, I have not decided exactly how I feel about the novel itself. After this evening, I am only about 270 pages in, so there is time yet. Several times, I have thought "This moves a little slowly," but then I found myself continuing to want to move through it. I guess that makes it a good read. Regardless, the is is well-spent.
And that is what really matters.
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