KVJ not to be mistaken for KJV

I like my parents very much, they’re good people. My high school days were not rife with the parent-teen struggles that are so commonly spoken of in modern lore. The memories I have of high-school consist of events such as encouraging notes from my dad, special cooked meals from my mom, constant attendance at basketball games, and the like. In fact, my 17^th birthday was spent just me and them breaking bread and crabs at a restaurant. All this to say, the most difficult adaptation to Virginia has been the loss of the proximity relationship with my folks.

May brought a much-needed opportunity to return to my native land and spend time with family after six months away. After the first ventures with my daughter on the airplane concluded with eventual success and touching down in Minnesota, we arrived on the Briese reserve mid-day on a weekday when no one was home. Correction: no people were home.

We were greeted to the Briese reserve by a resident tribe of wild turkeys whom, when provoked, (ie I let loose my best turkey impression) filled the wooded air with an overwhelming battle cry – gobble gobble gobble. Needless to say my daughter was tickled pink by the natives’ display.

Inside, the familial scents settled in my nose and rushed me back ten years to summers past spent on the reserve. I retook my sleeping quarters, now deprived of the traditional trappings of youth such as my Che poster, rebellious sixties rock that my dad introduced me to, and all manner of basketball paraphernalia. But the scents remained, now working into my bloodstream, confusing my mind as to what year it was, and who was this good-looking woman standing beside me with a baby and a look of thorough confusion.

I rattled myself from my nostalgic slide and set our bags bedside when my view was interrupted by a coloration on the bedside table. I was bewildered at first until the stirring within me brought focus to the letters and then words. There on the white faux marble Roman inspired end table sat a crisp new copy of “Sirens of Titan” by Kurt Vonnegut. Left, without a doubt, by my mom.

Let me take a moment to speak of Kurt Vonnegut. I am a devout fan of the late Kurt Vonnegut. He is hands down the most brilliant and socially relevant writer of the 20^th century and its transition into the 21^st. I could spend days talking about how phenomenal and groundbreaking his writing is, and perhaps in time I will. All this to say I have only one Vonnegut novel left to read, “Sirens of Titan”, and I am mourning the impending closure of Vonnegut. Granted, I in time I will eventually go and re-read his collection, and I still have not read all his short stories and collections, but on the whole those cannot compare with his novels. (However, check out his writings for In These Times magazine for some of the most brilliant social commentary laid to page).

Now my mom is not necessarily a fan of Kurt Vonnegut. I would assume her general take on him is benign, especially considering his sci-fi elements. However, my mom is well aware of my great affinity for him and has in fact on occasion acted as supplier to my literary addiction. Why this particular stack of wood pulp carried such impact I cannot say for sure. Perhaps it was the extended absence from home, or maybe my mom’s particular thoughtfulness. But wrapped up somewhere inside this emotive pause was the realization that my mom took the time to care about what I cared about and was able to pass to me the final chapter in this significant literary journey in my life, and this, this would forever form a tie between the three of us, me, my mom, and Mr. Vonnegut.

I gathered the pages in hand and thumbed the cover for a few moments before replacing it back on its white shrine; it would not be read that day. My parents arrived home amidst hugs and our vacation continued from there, family gathering over food, discussing children, and recalling stories of past hilarity. Our days in Minnesota withered as time is prone to do, and soon it came for our clan to return to the East. In those remaining days I would occasionally pick up the book and page through the foreword, read the back cover acclaim, or just grasp its physical measure. But the gravity of the tome would prevent me from reading it during this Minnesota venture.

So two months later, safely burrowed back in Virginia, the book still sits on my shelf. It does not taunt me like other books of high-brow literature, purchased in aspirations of social enlightenment. It does not cry out, begging for my attention like the made for movie thrillers. It does not challenge me as the books of intellectual warfare, daring me to engage in battle. It waits. For a time when I am thoroughly confused. For a time when I am wholly frustrated. For a time when I am despairingly alone. It waits. And one day I will turn my attention, and clear my schedule, and spend the evening with Mr. Vonnegut and my mom.