Uncle Emil asked me if I liked to read. Well, I did and said so.
"So, what exactly do you read?"
That was a stumper. Actually I tried to read a bunch of things but little held my interest for long. There seemed to be a lot of stuff for little kids and for adults, not squat for us betweeners.
I did read some science fiction though most of it was so badly written even a kid like me could see the lack of reality in it. But I did like Robert Heinlien, Jules Verne and H. G. Wells. Emil seemed to think they were okay.
I went on, "Two years ago The Hardy Boys took our school by storm. Everyone was reading the mysteries and passing them around. I read one, then got halfway through another. That was it. They were so predictable Uncle Emil, by then I could have written them myself."
Emil nodded, "Isn't that the truth about a lot of it. Seems you're already onto the notion most of what's published is a waste of good trees. As for me, it's a struggle finding the good reads. I like Steinbeck. Not all of it but there's usually enough meat in his good ones to get me thinking. Hemingway, not so much. Some of the Russians, long-winded but okay. Someday if you get the notion, try another Hardy by the name of Thomas. Had a thing for the German writer Thomas Mann for a while. You're old enough, try Conrad. Takes a few pages to get into the swing of his style but it's worth the effort. And one of the new guys, James Jones or John Updike. Reading something worthwhile takes effort. Slow down, read and understand all the words. When you get the drift, let it take you to that other world inside the page."
Now that was a side of Emil I never saw coming. For sure he had his weird side and his jokes. But, someone who took literature seriously? Food for thought.
I sat there watching the tree parade for a minute. Then it dawned on me. He was always saying something funny but Emil never told jokes like the ones older guys usually told. Such as 'three guys walk into a bar...'. Something would grab him, something that was said, a sign at the side of the road, most anything and that would get his mind going. Off on a tangent. A bee line directly into the gray areas of life where pain, tragedy and tear-streaming laughter meet. His humor was always of the moment, made up on the spot. Strangely enough, if you gave it some thought, there was usually a message hidden within or, at the least, a grain of truth. Uncle Emil saw life as a straight line waiting for him to add a measure of spice.
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