A couple of hours ago, as I was making a left turn against 50 mph traffic, I noticed the pages of book fluttering in the breeze. On the ground in the suicide lane, it had been driven over -- over and over -- like roadkill. I thought to myself, "this thing ought not to be."
After I'd gone home to get a pair of running shoes and some garden gloves, I returned to the spot. There wasn't a traffic light, and the noon hour rush had already started on the four lane road. I was very frightened.
This is the treasure I got for my trouble. This really happened to me. When I got home, I set the book among the fronds of the poppies that are in bloom today, and photographed it in the high-noon sun. How's that for a date-time-stamp?
It is the only one book I can remember my father recommending to me, multiple times. He died
decades ago-- much too early for my taste, because there's so much I could have learned from him, and didn't. Working through my reading list tends to be a FILO operation, however, so I still hadn't read it when, five days ago in my last blog post, I linked to an interview by Michael Enright of The Sunday Edition. I had just stumbled across the blog of a woman who, in the interview, has her own tale to tell about the synchronicity this book apparently carries with it.
As of right now, Viktor Frankl's Man Search for Meaning is moving to the tippity top of my reading list: before blogs, before the newspaper, even before email and Facebook. It's about dang time, isn't it, Dad.
What it must have looked like new..
(PS I might be flattering myself by thinking anyone would want to copy this stuff, but just in case: please don't. Brief quotes referencing back to this page are fine though, even if you want to say it's crappy. Sometimes, I copyright my writing the old-fashioned way: print a copy, bring it to the post-office, get the date stamped on the sealed envelope.)