As I sat across from Bret Lott, on a picnic table littered with blossoms from a nearby tree, he asked me who I was. Not just who I am, but what makes me tick. I don't remember how, but my book club came up.
He asked what we were reading.
I responded, "Mark Twain's Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc."
He said, "You're in a good book club."
I smiled. "I know." And it's true. I know.
We've read our share of bad books, but we read good ones too. But that's not really why this book club is good.
I sat down to read in my still house, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the tick-tock of the clock on my wall, and I smile again. I read aloud. About Joan of Arc. But not just about Joan of Arc. About Joan of Arc in Mark Twain's words. I pause and reread and say the delicious words slowly and enjoy them again, if I choose to.
I know I've got a great book club. As Amber says, we'll still be reading books and meeting when we're old and gray. We'll talk about books and sex and our grandchildren. Every third Thursday. I look at this clock and know it will cease its ticking and die years before this book club does.
