The Last Book

I've got a book on my shelves that I've kept for years, through at least 4 moves, and I don't think I've ever read it carefully until now. The Best of Field & Stream, no further explanation needed. In the family in which I grew up, my parents had a tradition of giving one book (selected by my father) to each child as a Christmas present, every year, a tradition that continued long after we flew the nest. It was not until now that I realized what a wonderful tradition that was. I looked forward to the book, and they were always inscribed, either with my mother's ornate handwriting ("too beautiful to be legible" my father used to say) or my father's scrawl, which I inherited. Not a complex inscription, just the recipient's name and the year.

The Field & Stream book has no inscription, and I'm not sure why. I have my suspicions. It was the last book my father ever gave me, and I just don't think he bothered, for two reasons. One, he had suffered a stroke awhile before and didn't do things like he used to (though that doesn't explain why mom didn't do it, except that maybe she delegated it to dad -- since he always wrapped the presents she wouldn't know he didn't follow through). The other reason is that maybe the tradition had run its course, Dad didn't get to bookstores much, and it was time to let it go.

I never asked.

I do know that I was vaguely disappointed that he got me that book -- I'd been an avid reader of F&S in my high school years, and during my childhood and adolescence Dad and I did a lot of fishing, and so occasional (and unsuccessful on my part) hunting. But after adolescence came my years of rebellion and rejection of things I'd once accepted and shared with him. And the books he chose often seemed to track my changing values, though I should have paid more attention to the effort he expended. This book seemed so, well, outdated.

He died before the next Christmas, and I kept the book largely for that reason. Two days ago I pulled it out, desperate for something to read, and re-discovered something I'd forgotten -- the magic of good outdoorsy writing, and I relish the memories the book resurrected.

Like so many things, so many times, I wish I'd taken the time to read it much earlier and to thank him sincerely for it, instead of pro forma.

I also have a couple dog-eared old books that Dad had scored from used bookstores and read whenever he wanted something familiar and well-written. He tried to tell me about them, but I only half-listened, I had my own library and my own tastes. I thought. My next project is to read those books, in memory of him, and to hope that somehow, some way, my sincere apologies and sentiments reach him, wherever he is.

I owe him that much.