A Feel-Good Book

I’m currently reading Bill Bryson’s “At Home: A Short History of Private Life,” which I discovered in the Lambert-St. Louis International Airport. It’s a meaty volume of almost 450 pages, a bright red cover, and a topic that I should not have been able to resist: an author journeys about his house from room to room to write a history of the world without leaving home. But I did resist because I was on my way to Orlando with my IPad tucked into my computer bag, four books downloaded on my Kindle app and ready for travel. This was a first. I’m not a light packer when it comes to books. I always take one that I’ve just started in my carry-on, and then pack another in my checked luggage just in case I finish the first. Depending on the length of the trip, I might add a third. I get panicky if I don’t have something to read.

I was resolute in the airport bookstore, however, and determined to stick to the IPad Kindle plan so I set Mr. Bryson’s tome back in its place. Unfortunately, I mourned that decision for the remainder of my vacation. After arriving in Orlando, we were trapped in Disneyworld, where there are no bookstores or shops that carry anything other than Disney-licensed merchandise. Mr. Bryson’s book does not fall into that category. I was stuck with my e-books, which by the way cannot be accessed on an airplane during take-off or landing (my favorite time to read while flying). Our condo had a luxurious tub, but taking an IPad into a bubble bath is asking for trouble. And if the battery on the e-reader gets low, you must hook yourself near an outlet or computer to charge it up. These are not deal breakers for me. I still love my IPad and don’t regret for a moment that I gave in to its seduction, but there is this thing I have with books. Real books. Yes, it is a tactile. I like to hold it, breathe in the ink aroma, and occasionally run my fingers across the page opposite of the one I am reading. But it’s also the history I have with books. Since childhood, I’ve loved to collect them, go back and read passages in some, arrange their spines on my bookshelves, loan them out to friends, pass them down to my children.

They say that the bookstores are in financial trouble and publishing houses are also feeling the pinch of decreased book sales because many of us are allured by the idea of downloading volumes on our e-readers in seconds. It’s cheaper and more convenient, and isn’t that what we want? Yes, most of the time. But sometimes, nothing will do but a real book. So I bought Mr. Bryson’s latest the day after our plane touched down back in Tulsa. And I went to a bookstore, bypassing the Amazon option. I’m on page 23, which means I have lots of book left to enjoy on the next flight, in the bathtub, on the back patio. And it feels good.

State Fair: An Anthropological Study

Kyle is adamant that Fair fish won't live. Alison threw a ping pong ball into a too-tiny goldfish bowl eight feet away from her that was crowded between about 200 other bowls, which made her dunk even more amazing. So she won two goldfish that were dumped into a Ziploc with what I can only hope is treated water. It is the State Fair after all.

We mostly go to the fair to watch people. At the risk of sounding like someone who is too big for her britches, the people-watching is much more interesting than the livestock, cake decorating contest winners, or even the butterfly tent. I'm not better than anyone at the Fair, just more boring. I'm too self-conscious to eat a foot-long turkey leg, and too pragmatic to wear high heeled boots with short shorts and a camisole. I can't stomach a deep fried Twinkie, but I'll stand and watch a couple share one until the last bite has been plopped into her mouth. Some people carry their children on their shoulders, and others opt for the cute stuffed animal harness with the child leash attached. Some like a tall beer (or three), others a "fresh squeezed" lemonade. The people that amaze me the most, however, are those who succumbed to the automated barker who lured crowds into the snake lady exhibit. "How did this come be?" the voice shouted above the crowd. "This beautiful woman who has the body of a snake must be seen to be believed!" So the people pay their dollar, and walk in. Who are these people and why are they taken in by this? Isn't it obvious that this is nothing but freak show trickery?

I joined the interesting people for just a moment as I paid my dollar to see the poor woman, who the barker says has "no bones." Snakes, I am certain, have bones and this should have been my first clue. But what drew me in was not the promise of seeing this freakish woman, but the barker's assurance that we would finally know her sad story. We could ask her questions, he yelled. And, finally, we would learn the truth of her unbelievable life. I'm a sucker for a story, so in I went, and climbed up on the short step to peer into the round cage that was draped in something like a mosquito net.

And there she was, situated in the middle with her head poking out of an elevated mound of snake body. She had curly blond hair, and I envisioned her sitting cross-legged on the floor underneath the phony prop that surrounded her. The snake lady was wearing ear buds and looked bored. There was no asking questions of this woman who was probably drawing minimum wage for the hours she sat ringed by the snake body, jamming to her music and hiding behind her sunglasses. I was disappointed because this woman most certainly had a story. We all have a story, I know that, but some stories are just far more interesting than others. I was sure the snake lady would be able to spin a tale, but I didn't want to shout questions at her over an MP3 player and some things are probably best left to mystery. So I climbed down off the stairs and went to watch my daughter throw ping pong balls into a goldfish bowl. I hate to be boring, but watching my little girl walk away with a prize was a highlight of the day. Here's to Fair fish longevity and the world of people out there who are far more interesting than me. I'll look forward to seeing them again next year.