If you were born with
the weakness to fall,
you were born with
the strength to rise.
-- Rupi Kaur
I enjoy walking the streets of Manhattan in December. Yes, it can be cold, but short of a violent snowstorm, there is real pleasure to be had in bundling up and being part of an environment far removed from the hills of Arkansas. My work brings me to a conference held the first week in December every year there, and my wife and I have established a ritual: We walk to the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center, inspect the colorful windows of Saks Fifth Avenue, appreciate the chestnut sellers, but then we end up at the Holiday Market located at Columbus Circle in front of Central Park. In their food court we first hit the German Delights Bratwurst, then swing by Baked Cheese Haus for a swiss-style raclette, then conclude at Dulcinea Churros for you know what. With our bellies full we then walk around the many booths selling a dizzying array of potential Christmas gifts.
Walking can give you a spark of intimacy with strangers that lasts for only a moment and then incurs no further obligation. One favorite thing I do is look at facial expressions of my temporary companions, which can range from pure self-absorption to looks of utter despair or complete excitement. It was thus I found myself this past December on a Sunday afternoon at the Strand Bookstore booth in said market, casually flipping through a book on the High Line greenway, when a young girl about 12 years old suddenly bounded beside me. "I've been looking for this book forever!" she announced with cheerful enthusiasm. I glanced at the title, it was called The Sun and Her Flowers by Rupi Kaur. I had never heard of it or the author before, but the young lady certainly had. Cradling the book to her chest with both hands, she began calling out urgently for her mother and father to come over to her.
The scene made me smile. I was and remain to this day an avid reader, and I often pestered my parents when I was her age to advance me my allowance early to purchase a tempting new title. "There are perhaps no days of our childhood that we lived as fully as the days we think we left behind, without living at all: The days we spent with a favorite book," said the writer Marcel Proust. Galileo said reading was a way of obtaining superhuman powers. I know I can attest that I magically rode camels with Lawrence of Arabia, fought side-by-side with Aragorn and Frodo, and set in the courtroom listening to Atticus Finch.
Soon the young girl's parents came walking up. "This is the book I've been looking for so long!" she again repeated to them, holding it out ceremonially -- not unlike Moses revealing the 10 Commandments for the first time. "How much is it?" the father said brusquely, without even looking at the book. "$12.99," she replied helpfully, again cradling the book in her arms. Her father leaned in closer to his daughter to make eye contact. "Let me tell you something. You can get two ice cream cones for that. Now, you tell me, would you rather have the book or go get ice cream with us now?" The girl looked pleadingly at first her father, then mother; the fix was in, and she knew this drill by heart, I thought. "I'll take the ice cream," she responded in a defeated voice. Her father had the facial expression that he had just closed a big real estate deal; his wife nodded her head approvingly. "Smart girl," he pronounced proudly. The young girl quietly placed the book down, and they disappeared into the crowded fair.
Picking the book up, I approached the clerk running the booth and asked him what was this book about. "Oh, that is a book of poetry. It's very popular with teenage girls because it helps them deal with issues such as low self-esteem, abuse, and relationships." For the second time in five minutes, the book was quietly placed down, and I too walked back into the crowd.
I just hope that was an awesome ice cream cone.
NAN Our Town on 02/15/2018