So last week, I launched the Slow Book Movement as an act of resistance against the e-book. It was futile, of course, kind of like insisting on the glories of cuneiform. Because not two days after I posted, swarms of e-people descended on the gadget store, all buzzing and hyperventilating, hardly able to wait for their turn to catch the latest whatsit to fall out of the apple tree. Well, I counted the $600 I still had in my pocket, rolled over in my hammock and took a long snooze. When I woke up, I was in one of my slow moods, which made me think of last summer, when my little friend Lucas and I sat quietly on the lower bunk in his room to read a book. We’d been for a long walk earlier in the day and were ready for a change of pace. Slower. So I held the book on my lap and turned the big pages, which sounded like szslis, and we stared at the pictures and Lucas pointed and wondered and we talked. I read it aloud, and we skipped over some parts that Lucas didn’t care for and back-tracked to some pages we especially liked, and Lucas took it all in and the afternoon sun came shining through the high little window just like I planned it.
That was either the day before or the day after I went trout fishing with my daughter up there on a little Creek in Oregon, on another sunny afternoon full of freshness and summer air. Erin and her boyfriend and I caught enough fish for each of us to have two, and we cooked ’em up and ate ’em along with some homegrown tomatoes and basil, outside on the deck while the summer sun seemed like it never did want to go down.
So, if Rule #1 of the Slow Book Movement is Meander, browse and see what turns up, Rule #2 is Go fishing, eat a trout, and read a book with a shining little boy. No batteries required.