During those summers, my father was still alive. Our routine was set: we would leave at eight in the morning for Hale’s Goods, and by nine we would be under the long shade of the oak trees, reading the Times while 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 light. They stood tall and sturdy 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 as ordered and calm as his books, and just as illuminating. I had never seen this side of him before. Inside this edgy, chain-smoking man was a depth of knowledge and study, with conclusions that were voiced with the same clear logic as theorems. It was like a world – or worlds – were opening up to me.
