Black and White and Read All Over

 

By Elaine Viets

Beach reads. That's what my novels are often called.

Those words are supposed to conjure up a carefree day by the sea, where readers have a cold drink in one hand and an entertaining book in the other.

Here's the truth. I don't like reading on the beach. It's too hot. Between sweating, slapping on sunscreen and swatting sand flies, it's hard to pay attention.

Besides, I grew up in St. Louis, which doesn't have beaches. My favorite place to read was my grandparents' backyard. I'd sit in the shade of my Grandmother's honeysuckle vine with a cold glass of lemonade. The honeybees didn't bother me. I wasn't sweet enough.

I liked to read mysteries, mostly Agatha Christie and Nancy Drew.

Nancy had the ideal life for a teenage girl: She had a doting Daddy who bought her a car, lots of money, no annoying mother and a housekeeper to wait on her. Nancy also had a convenient boyfriend who only appeared when she wanted him around, and never tried to get in her pants.

Teenage boys were terrifying creatures to many young women and front-seat wrestling was a major sport. Back then, nice girls had to guard their virtue or they would be Damaged Goods and no nice man would marry them. At least, that's what Mom told me.

So there I was, a nice Missouri girl, sitting under the honeysuckle reading Nancy Drew. Grandma had the old-fashioned round-back metal lawn chairs. I'd read in one and put my feet up on the other. The lush scent of honeysuckle and reading are forever linked in my mind.

So is the trickle of a brook. That was my second-favorite reading spot, by a brook in the Ozarks. I mean the Ozarks before Branson, Missouri, had hot tubs and country glitz.

My family spent vacations at tourist cabins in the Ozarks. The un-airconditioned cabins smelled faintly of mold and had kitchenettes. That meant Mom got to cook dinner for six with one frying pan and two beat-up pots on a two-burner stove. We kids slept in roll-away beds that cost fifty cents extra. With three rambunctious brothers, I didn't have much privacy.

But during the day, I could take my book and read under a tree by an Ozark stream. I'd listen to the water tumble over the mossy stones while my family was getting sun-burned by the pool. Those afternoons were luxurious.

My third favorite reading spot was neither luxurious or romantic, but it sure was exciting.

Until I was in my teens, my bedtime was nine o'clock. My parents insisted on lights off when I wanted to read. I had my own room. I would seal off my door and stuff rugs in the cracks so the light wouldn't show and wake up my parents.

Usually it worked.

When it didn't, my furious mother would stomp down the hall and shove open the door. It was jammed by the rug.

Then it was definitely lights out for me. I had to sleep with my door open.

The thrill of reading was almost equaled by the thrill of not getting caught. (NOTE TO PARENTS: If you want your children to become bookworms, restrict their reading time.)

Now I can read any time I want. I like to go out in the early morning and sit by the pool at my condo. It's on the Intracoastal Waterway, so I can watch the boats go by while I enjoy my book. I sit in one lawn chair and put my feet up in the other. I listen to the water slap the side of the pilings.

Sometimes I catch the faintest scent of honeysuckle.