One Christmas, my mother bought for me a copy of Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. That was a first edition copy, with a flawless dustjacket. – And it should have been! The book had been published earlier that year. It was brand new! And I learned a lot about a couple of things from that book.
That is why I am rereading it, now. And, once again, I find myself in possession of a NEW copy of that very same book… it’s just a Scribner CLASSICS edition. The damn book was originally published 21 years ago! – Considered a CLASSIC, now. Now: what the hell does that make me?
That is what that makes me!
Angry about it? Hell, no. A little bit confused? Most definitely. When & how the hell did it happen? I’m rereading a book I got for Christmas twenty years ago.
I’m surprised I made it TO twenty. I’m sure as hell no CLASSIC, like that good book. I may have picked up some things along the way, but I am one pathetic, far-cry away from being adult. No classic. Just… well… me.
My great uncle was a classic. My grandparents were classics. I’m just now starting to accept that maybe my parents have reached classic CONSIDERATIONS!
But they are only allowed to be considered. Not amended into any contract the would classify them one foot closer into the grave.
I know; I know.
It is a stupid & childish notion that your parents will NEVER be old. Your parents cannot die. And, when you have been blessed to have REAL parent, any thoughts of them becoming frail & fragile &, dare I say it, even CLASSIC, we – you & me, Reader – might have to start thinking about things more realistically.
For example: there was a treacherous stretch of time there, not that long ago, in fact, where I was pretty comfortable & confident that my parents would be burying me. Or cremating me. Or what-ever-the-hell they had in mind for my corpse.
Then, things change. Sometimes, it’s fast, like a bullet; other times, it is slow as the poison being extracted from the Seed or the Root or the Leaf.
The important thing, for me: things DID change.