Thoughts While Reading a Book Dad Loaned me Years Ago

Last of the Breed by Louis L'Amour
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I can't write a regular review on this book. I liked it, and rated it as objectively as I was able, but I don't feel free to comment on its merits. Even though I have some thoughts along those lines, that wasn't why I read this.

This was my dad's book, and reading it now was a kind of goodbye.

My dad was a reader, so we always had that in common, even though we usually read different genres. He liked lots of things but leaned toward Westerns, and he loved Louis L'Amour, reading all or almost all of his novels. "Christmas '86" this one says on the inside. (Not sure who gave it to him. Mom? Marg? Don?) He thought I would enjoy this particular book, out of all of them, and loaned it to me a loooong time ago. I meant to read it way back then but set it aside; at the time, his recommendation and loan was a small thing, one interaction among hundreds.

He died many years since, and I inherited lots of both parents' books. Even though it wasn't the usual route, this one became mine, too, I suppose.

I've handled the book a few times but somehow always shelved it again. I can't say why now, but it felt like the right time, and I finally picked it up. I think I knew it would always be more than just a book--and so it was.

I was aware as I read it that Dad had read each of those words ahead of me, out of the same book, off the same page. The words connected us, and it was like having a long-delayed conversation. Looking over his shoulder, or with him looking over mine, we followed the main character in his flight across Siberia, crossing rivers, climbing mountains, trying to survive and get back home. It's not a profound story but an everyday one, something read in the normal course of life just for enjoyment, like watching a ball game in the afternoon, and it's more real for all that. We rooted for Joe Mack together and wished bad luck on his enemies, watching the action in our mind's eye, and though I don't know if we pictured everything the same way, I suspect it was pretty close.

It was a pleasure having that time with him all these years later, something like a Field of Dreams game of catch, sharing these words and this story with him. (He would have been only a few years older than I am now when he read it. Strange to think.) But once started, it had to end. It was bittersweet nearing and finally reaching the last page, finishing this last conversation, this last shared story, but I'm grateful for even these few hours. I'm aware that they were never promised.

So, Dad, I enjoyed the book. Thanks for the loan. I'll just hold onto it for you, if that's okay. And I'll say goodbye, one extra time.

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