Not me. In the last week I’ve come across so many interesting ideas that can be turned into books, that should be turned into books. But where is the time? I sit here now with my eyes closing, heavy with a threatening sleep. But no! I want to write this. I want to read and explore. Time runs out it seems, every day.
I guess it’s a warning, that time is always running out, that I should use my precious portion with great care. That doesn’t mean I have to use every moment to produce something material, but every moment should matter.
That’s all. I wanted to share that with you, as I sip my juice and read about horses and how they continue to change the lives of people today. Just another idea, waiting for development.
I’ve been working on and off on a memoir, “Arrows Axes and Scythes”. It’s an odd book. Because it is about my early childhood, many memories are vague, but impressions are not. As a consequence, I created pictures, using “Paint” and “Gimp”, to help recreate the scenes I recall. The narrative below explains what is happening in the picture. My book, in yet again under revision. I hope to be publishing it…soon.
As I explained earlier in this book, my first years in school were not successful. Everyone believed I was slow. This assessment persisted into at least November of the third grade, when my teacher wrote a sympathetic note to my mother and lamented my poor performance. Between November and the end of the year something remarkable happened. I learned to read. By June, I had become one of the most advanced readers in the grade.
With this improvement in skills came an insatiable appetite for reading material. There was none at home, until we discovered the shack. This humble building, shown above, was concealed by thick overgrowth in the forest. When we investigated, we found that comic books covered the floor of the ramshackle shelter. We helped ourselves to these, though we did not know who might have proper rights to them.
The shack was my library.
Reading was one of the great gifts of my life. Socially I remained awkward, but peers and teachers showed new respect simply because I seemed to be talented. The conversion from being a dolt to being an excellent student taught me an important lesson. I was the same person before and after my transformation, but people around me changed. Previously, they had punished me for being dull, a circumstance over which I had no control. And then they rewarded me for being bright, a gift I’d done nothing to earn. The folly, the sheer cruelty, of their early behavior enlightened me. It taught me to place little value on the judgment of others. And it allowed me, for the rest of my life, to see worth in people whom others disregard.