I'm listening to Bill Bryson read his book, 'At Home.' I love Bill Bryson. I've never actually met Bill Bryson, but I think he must be an all around good guy and imagine that his wife considers herself lucky to have him, the font of information and good humor that he is. Also, in twenty years, he'll do a good impersonation of Santa Claus and the kids might learn something valuable about geography or science from him as they wait. And what mom wouldn't like that?
When I first began to read a book by Bryson, I quickly found he was taking me somewhere good. I laughed all the way up the Appalachian trail while reading 'A Walk in the Woods.' I've only walked bits and pieces of it, but I've seen those extra socks and screw drivers along the trail that unenthusiastic packers left behind. I could tell you a long story about the ten-day trip I took with my MYF group in high school, but it boils down to one fact: I am still pissed off that I had to carry extra weight because Annette Oppenheimer absolutely refused to poop in the woods the entire trip. So from my very first experience reading Bryson, I had something in common with him in dropping bits of chaff, mostly Annette's chaff, as I went.
I've traveled through Europe with Bryson in 'Neither Here Nor There,' through my strip mall neighborhood, the states, in 'The Lost Continent', and into Australia in 'The Sunburned Country.' I even spent some time with him while wearing a cape in Iowa, reading 'The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid.' Why I wanted to spend time in Iowa after growing up in Indiana, I will never know, but I really enjoyed the trip. I even traveled with him to the far reaches of the universe in 'A Short History of Nearly Everything.' Now, that was quite a trip for me. I learned that every modern person likely carries at least eight actual molecules from Buddha or Jesus, I can't remember which. (Does it really matter?)
Today, while Bryson described the archaeology of his neighborhood in 'At Home,' he went with me on my errands. He may have felt my regret at having to cut him off when my husband called to talk about the waterfall in our yard because our uphill neighbor rerouted his drainage. Bryson may have seen how I was three minutes late for my mammogram because I was listening to him talk about Joseph Paxton's crystal palace in 1851. Okay, so I wasn't at all looking forward to elongating my already lengthening breasts through vile manipulation and plate-glass breast sandwiching. I didn't want to embarrass him by bringing him in, though, even if it would have made a great distraction. So, after I survived nearly having my breast ripped off because the technician thought herself a comedienne and I forgot and laughed, it was a relief to know Bryson was still waiting for me when I got back into my car.
Next on my list was a short trip to Transylvania to have my blood drawn. I swear this woman has an Eastern European accent. She loves sticking that wide hollow needle into my fat green vein. Again, Bryson waited for me in the car, likely preferring the car to the view of my blood pouring into the vial that the vampire swore she'd get tested for TSH levels before she drank it.
Bryson quickly made me forget all that as I met up with him in the car, only a little green from my experiences. Then he told me all about how the Saxons invaded and quietly changed British culture where the Romans failed. He also talked about food. That made me hungry, so I stopped at the British Pantry and picked up a half a dozen steak and vegetable pies and a lancashire pasty. Now, I wonder if Bryson will tell me who invented those. I love when history and food intersect, especially at the end of a harrowing day of running errands. My thanks to Bryson's wife for sparing him for an afternoon.
Thank you for listening, jb
When I first began to read a book by Bryson, I quickly found he was taking me somewhere good. I laughed all the way up the Appalachian trail while reading 'A Walk in the Woods.' I've only walked bits and pieces of it, but I've seen those extra socks and screw drivers along the trail that unenthusiastic packers left behind. I could tell you a long story about the ten-day trip I took with my MYF group in high school, but it boils down to one fact: I am still pissed off that I had to carry extra weight because Annette Oppenheimer absolutely refused to poop in the woods the entire trip. So from my very first experience reading Bryson, I had something in common with him in dropping bits of chaff, mostly Annette's chaff, as I went.
I've traveled through Europe with Bryson in 'Neither Here Nor There,' through my strip mall neighborhood, the states, in 'The Lost Continent', and into Australia in 'The Sunburned Country.' I even spent some time with him while wearing a cape in Iowa, reading 'The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid.' Why I wanted to spend time in Iowa after growing up in Indiana, I will never know, but I really enjoyed the trip. I even traveled with him to the far reaches of the universe in 'A Short History of Nearly Everything.' Now, that was quite a trip for me. I learned that every modern person likely carries at least eight actual molecules from Buddha or Jesus, I can't remember which. (Does it really matter?)
Today, while Bryson described the archaeology of his neighborhood in 'At Home,' he went with me on my errands. He may have felt my regret at having to cut him off when my husband called to talk about the waterfall in our yard because our uphill neighbor rerouted his drainage. Bryson may have seen how I was three minutes late for my mammogram because I was listening to him talk about Joseph Paxton's crystal palace in 1851. Okay, so I wasn't at all looking forward to elongating my already lengthening breasts through vile manipulation and plate-glass breast sandwiching. I didn't want to embarrass him by bringing him in, though, even if it would have made a great distraction. So, after I survived nearly having my breast ripped off because the technician thought herself a comedienne and I forgot and laughed, it was a relief to know Bryson was still waiting for me when I got back into my car.
Next on my list was a short trip to Transylvania to have my blood drawn. I swear this woman has an Eastern European accent. She loves sticking that wide hollow needle into my fat green vein. Again, Bryson waited for me in the car, likely preferring the car to the view of my blood pouring into the vial that the vampire swore she'd get tested for TSH levels before she drank it.
Bryson quickly made me forget all that as I met up with him in the car, only a little green from my experiences. Then he told me all about how the Saxons invaded and quietly changed British culture where the Romans failed. He also talked about food. That made me hungry, so I stopped at the British Pantry and picked up a half a dozen steak and vegetable pies and a lancashire pasty. Now, I wonder if Bryson will tell me who invented those. I love when history and food intersect, especially at the end of a harrowing day of running errands. My thanks to Bryson's wife for sparing him for an afternoon.
Thank you for listening, jb
No comments:
Post a Comment