Recently my little Kathryne issued a challenge to me via Facebook.  On ten consecutive days I was to post (one per day) the covers of the ten books I loved the most, without comment or review or explanation.

Really?

First of all, not commenting or reviewing or explaining is a stipulation which does not set well with me.  If I love a book I want you to understand why.  If I can’t explain it and detail the glorious nature of its contents, then how can you comprehend its greatness without also reading it?  Second of all . . . HOW IN THE WORLD AM I SUPPOSED TO LIMIT THIS TO TEN!?  It is an absolutely impossible task.  I mean, come on.  There is a whole room in our house lined with nothing but bookshelves and cabinets filled with books (kindly do not judge me . . .).  And that still isn’t enough room.  But the gauntlet had been cast down, and I accepted the challenge.

I began to mentally compile my list ‘cause after I compiled said list I would have to do a Google image search so I could find pictures of the covers and save them to my computer so, when the time came, I could post that picture on my wall and let the world wonder exactly who I really was.  My choices are rather diverse in nature, possibly indicative of multiple personalities .

I’d already posted the first four of the required ten when it suddenly occurred to me that I had omitted a very important volume . . . Charley Weaver’s Letters from Mama.  For those with whom the name rings absolutely no bells whatsoever, Charley Weaver was a character created by comedian and actor Cliff Arquette whose greatest claim to fame might have been his long run on the game show Hollywood Squares where he generally occupied the bottom square on the left hand side, compliments of his quick wit and one-liners.

How sad that I actually know that . . .

He may have had other published works, but this book was especially special to me.  You see, when I was growing up I was the oldest of my generation with three years separating me from the next oldest of the bunch.  When we would gather at my grandfather’s home in Bolivar, the adults would convene around the dining room table after we ate, to converse and normally discuss the businesses.  My two cousins and my brother would run up the stairs to play whatever it was they played.  And I was left alone, too young to understand (or care about) the business stuff and too old to engage in “childish games” (I need a sarcasm font for that).  I was in the Twilight Zone of my family.  So I would venture over to the antique bookcase that sat against the stairs and pull out Charley Weaver’s Letters from Mama , curl up in what I called the “Horsehair Chair” (‘cause it was one of those truly Victorian chairs with the high back and intricately carved woodwork, covered in mauve velvet and stuffed with horsehair), and read the book from cover to cover.  Every single time we were there.

My grandmother had died when I was five and my grandfather eventually remarried—and after his death, his widow remained in the house until she eventually remarried.  At that time, everything was distributed ‘mongst the family members.  Of all the things in that house, there were only three that I truly wanted—two volumes of Lorna Doone (because my grandfather always wanted me to read it) and Charley Weaver’s Letters from Mama.  Anything else was a bonus.

I hadn’t thought of that book in years, but Kathryne’s challenge propelled me to the shelf where it has lived for a few decades.  I pulled it out, lovingly opened its cover, and began to read.  And as I did the strongest, I-wish-I-could-go-back feeling washed over me.  At my age and general condition of exhaustion, I can cry at the drop of a hat, so I found myself wiping more than one tear from the old, yellowed pages as I gently turned each and every one.  But I also smiled a lot.

My three life lessons for the day . . . Sometimes, the most innocent things can end up taking you places you haven’t been in years.  Sometimes, it’s not the object that’s important—it’s the memories it holds.  And sometimes, joy and sorrow can come from the same source . . . at the same time.

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