During those summers, my father was still alive and we had a routine. At eight o’clock, we would drive to Hale’s Goods and by nine, we would be sitting under the long shade of the oak trees, reading the Times as smoke from a slow-burning fire drifted above us.
One morning, I returned home at dawn and saw my father’s books illuminated by the first shaft of sunlight. They stood tall on the highest shelf, their gleaming jackets appearing as if they were ready for a reveille.
It wasn’t until later that I discovered my father’s thoughts. They were just as ordered and calm as his books, and seemed to be fused with the same light. Despite his edgy demeanor and chain-smoking habit, my father possessed a depth of knowledge and a clear logic that he expressed like theorems. This was a side of him I had never seen before, and it opened up a world of possibilities to me.
