Every author can write a good story, but few can write one that can touch our hearts. And as ironically as it may sound, It touched mine.
Most Americans have either seen or read the book, so I will skip the narrative. If I tried I would probably botch the whole thing. I will say this though; until I read something better, It will be my favorite book.
The book ends kind of sad really. After besting the Beast the first time, the teenagers lose their memories of that day. And the next twenty-seven year cycle brings the children minus one (now grown-ups back to Derry). Only this time, in the end, they begin to forget each other and their childhood. They don’t remember fighting the Thing that haunted Derry for decades. Or why they even dream of Derry.
But I guess that’s the way things go, isn’t it? Time erases any kind of memory we have of one another. I’m twenty-six years old, my father has been gone for over seven years, and I still don’t remember all that I’d like to. I have fond memories, but these are the ones that keep playing over and over in my head. I forget his laugh. I forget the sound of his voice. It’s as if I never heard them at all.
Time will pass by and as the memories fade, distort, or maybe I will remember them differently, the only thing that I have of him that won’t change are possesions he held long, long ago.
I was sitting outside one day, drinking coffee, when this memory came to me. You know how Robins, or some other bird, makes that lonesome trainlike sound? Kind of sad.
When I was young we lived out in the country in a house that was surrounded by corn fields, and was at the time of us moving in was at least one-hundred years old. As the story goes; it was one of the first houses in the area to have electricity. I guess people would come from miles around just to see the front porch light come on.
But that’s just a story. It may or may not be true. To be completely honest, I don’t even remember where I heard it.
My father and I had just finished mowing the yard. In those days he only let me mow one stripe. Apparently, having zig-zag lines in the front yard didn’t go well with the house. Even if it was old enough to be condemned.
We were sitting their on the porch, my dad smoking his cigarette. And the lonesome call of that bird came.
“That’s the loneliest sound in the world,” he said. I agreed.
“Have you ever tried to talk to one?” No. Before I knew it, he had his hands cupped around his mouth and was mimmicking the sound. He did quite well, and the bird must have thought so too because he responded. “Do you want to try it?” I hedged a little bit, but in the end, I did it.
The first time wasn’t so great. In fact, it was terrible. But the more I did it, the better I got. That bird and I must have carried on a full converstation. His lonely song was doubled because he sat on the telephone wire all by himself. We eventually stopped and stared at the bird.
He called, we didn’t answer, and soon he flew away.
I don’t know how else to describe this memory other than it was a father son time. A memory to hold onto as long as I have it to help me ride through the storm.
I visited his grave this past summer, talked to him, and cried. I’m glad he’s not lonely. I loved him then and love him now. I hope he knows that.