Where the Sidewalk Ends

My parents have odd ways of acquiring things. My dad teaches at a ritzy private high school where the kids aren’t always very responsible about keeping track of their possessions. I estimate that more than half of my dad’s wardrobe has come from the gym floor at his school: ties, sweatshirts, dress shirts, everything. My mom is equally adept at finding stuff. Her most recent acquisition was a box of almost new books from a mother whose children were grown. My mom is a middle school English teacher, so she has use for children’s books/novels.

The last time I was home, I sifted through the contents and came across my favorite childhood book, Shel Silverstein’s “Where the Sidewalk Ends,” a delightful collection of children’s poems. I loved that book so much that when I was a freshman in high school, and had to memorize a poem, and my more refined classmates were reciting Robert Frost, unfazed, I chose “Paul Bunyon” from WTSE. “He rode through the woods on a big blue ox, had fists as hard as chopping blocks, five hundred pounds and nine feet tall, that’s Paul…”

As I took a stroll down memory lane, skimming through the poems (ickle me pickle me tickle me too; I can not go to school today said little Peggy Ann McKay, etc.) with a big goofy grin on my face, I realized that the book I was holding, that came from some random lady, was in perfect condition, and I felt very sad. That book had never been loved by the random lady and her children. In fact, none of the books that she gave us had ever been loved. When I thought about my WTSE copy at home, with its dogeared pages, a ripped cover, broken binding, and greasy finger smudges throughout, I just felt very depressed.

I know that books are inanimate objects – they can’t feel the love. But they are written by real people who do feel love. By not loving a book, is that like, disrespectful to the author? Or maybe it’s like when you know, love, and adore someone, and you watch as someone else doesn’t treat your loved one the way they deserve to be treated and you can’t understand why it’s happening. Or maybe it’s more like pity on someone, knowing they have NEVER been loved the way they deserve to be.

It amazed me that a book I loved so much could bring so many unhappy thoughts.

Fun at the Bus Station

I was in Mexico and Honduras the week before Labor Day. On the Monday before Labor Day, I flew from Detroit to Phoenix to Mexico City and then took a 1.5 hour bus ride to Cuernavaca, Mexico. The bus ride was uneventful. The driver seemed to drive the speed limit and the bus was like a chartered bus – new, clean, relatively quiet, and 4 tv screens showing a dubbed movie.

Due to the nature of my travels, I was at a bus station almost every day that I was in Mexico. I started to notice that most of the bus stations had some sort of shrine to Mary, the Holy Mother, usually consisting of a small amount of tasteful artwork, a statue, and some decorative plants or flowers. Rumor has it that the larger the shrine, the scarier the bus station and bus ride. After safely returning from the ancient temples in Teotihuacan, I had to take a picture with the gigantic shrine to Mary, but only after expressing my prayerful gratitude.