Inner Workings discussion

My son, Chris (who I have always thought of as a welcomed surprise) came to me last night and asked which Stephen King book would be good to read. I was speechless, and caught off guard, most likely staring back at him with my mouth hung open, like a toddler waiting for a spoonful of mashed peas. “You want to read?” I asked, following my youngest child to the spare room.

“Guess it’s gonna rain,” mom would have said, stuck on the idea that it always rained after an unusual event. (Or, if you dropped a kitchen towel, it meant that someone was coming over.) “Are you looking for a mystery or something really gory?” I asked, then reminded myself to thank Mrs. Little the next time I saw her. Harley-riding (and recently retired) Mrs. Little had started the AR reading program about the time Chris was in second grade.

The stereo pulsed (what my dad would have called the devil’s music) from the top of the campus-sized fridge. Chris's camping gear sat, neglected, in a lump in the corner, and three hardbacks were lined up on his bed: Lisey's Story, Dolores Claiborne and Everything's Eventual 14 Dark Tales. He plopped his nearly six-foot frame down and said his girlfriend had been reading a novel and he was tired of video games and movies. Aw, my baby’s growing up - too bad I couldn't have talked him out of that tongue stud.

Chris asked, “So which one do you think I should read?” I was touched. He had used the word novel. I felt like I’d come upon a miracle of nature and didn’t want to get too close for fear of losing the moment.

I told Chris a little about each book. My learn-by-doing Chris, who wouldn’t read an instruction manual until after he’d pulled the transmission off of a motor. It’s just a phase, I thought, like the time he wanted to learn how to make pizza dough, or wanted to know how to build a stereo case with my power tools. He feels left out, maybe. Careful! Don’t pick the wrong book or you’ll never get him back. He looked them over and chose Delores Claiborne. I went to back to my own reading and didn’t think anymore of it.

The next morning was definately a welcomed surprise. I woke up to a Texas-sized thunderstorm that covered half the state and a nineteen-year-old son who rushed into the kitchen to tell me about the Crazy Old Bitch who was frightened of dust bunnies. He had read 65 pages. It rained so hard that night, the streets were flooded. It was pretty damned sweet.

Very Sweet.

Very Sweet.

Neat, it's great that your son is slowly becoming a reader. Maybe he can tackle Salemn's Lot. If he dares.

Definately (I'll dare him). Salem's Lot will be my next suggestion, along with Richard Matheson's book Button, Button Uncanny Stories.

Actually, I wish I could throw all the books in his lap and scream, "Read! Read! You don't know what you're missing."

Just be sure not to overload him! *lol* It's awesome that he's "coming around" to our side. ;)