Wet Books do cause Pain.

Thinking back to my past, I recall an interesting fact about both parents. My mother found peace with candles and baths while my father found his peace in the pages of a good book. Mother’s ritual was to fill her large bathtub with water, throw in her bubble maker and oils, and light up to half a dozen candles of various sizes and scents. We all knew when she was taking a bath. Many times I was in my room and the scent would filter in on a wave of peaceful understanding. If mom had been mad at you before, after her bath would be the perfect time to approach her for forgiveness. Many a time I found myself at that bathroom door—I rarely was alone, as I waited for the bubbles and candles to work their magic.

My father, would slip into the tattered, comfy recliner he rescued from our neighbors’ front curb. He would open his book, light his cigar, and lean back. Anyone brave enough to disturb him faced extinction. Never bother him at that time. Wait until he rose to run to the kitchen for a reading snack. At that time, you would catch him in a hurry to agree with whatever you wanted so he could get back to his book. Books were better than TV. I never understood that until later. I was a kid and there was nothing better than TV and cartoons. Who could understand old people? They were strange.

One day, they were out. I forget why. I had a need to understand these mysteries. Instead of taking them one at a time—I know you know where I’m going—I decided to kill two birds with one stone. Great saying, isn’t? Well, I filled the tub and had plenty of bubbles. I lit a couple candles and inhaled deeply. I grabbed a book and placed it on the edge of the tub.

I was smart, I checked for the all-clear before locking the door and getting into the tub. I got comfortable and was feeling good. It was easy to see how baths and scented candles made you feel good. My small head ducked under the water and it was fantastic. Perfect.

Okay, I guess I better get to the problem. I picked up the book and began reading. My hands were wet, but I didn’t give it a second thought. I began reading and in the middle of a great passage, the book slipped out of my wet grip and plunked into the tub. I can’t tell you how horrified I was. I know I stopped breathing for an eternity with the look of pure shock across my face. Eyes as big as saucers and mouth stretched open to the point of dislocating something I might need later.

I frantically dried the book, only I was in the tub wiping with sud-filled hands. Oh God! Did I mention daddy was a big guy, a carpenter and farmer with huge, rough hands and a bad disposition. You know—the wild heathen that only momma could tame.

Well, I won’t bore you any further. To make a long story short, he tanned my hide and instead of going to camp that summer, my camping fee was used to buy him a new book. Since then, I have managed on occasion “to borrow” a book or two while they were out of town. Never again did I venture into that tub and once and for all I realized water and books don’t go together. In fact, bringing them together causes pain.

Learn from my mistake and do better. Cya.