My Father’s Dragon. Its THE book.
My dad read it to Mark, Craig and I when we were very very young. It has stuck in my head that I can recite the plot, though not the words. I have a copy somewhere on my shelves and no, I didn’t read it to my kids. I made up stories for them.
It didn’t introduce me to a new world, or give me great insight. The book brings a memory of the three of us sitting on Dad’s lap in a big oxblood leather chair in Iceland. It was six months dark and 6 months light on Iceland so there was a long of covered windows and reading. Plus, little to no TV then.
I realized in the last few days that Memories are the real treasure as some little bastards robbed my house and while they made off with a lot of electronic stuff, they stole more from me than anything. they stole my jewelry that was sentimental. piece that mark major points in my life. now its gone, all of it. Because of a really selfish Navy wife who stole rings my father gave me, I now have nothing left from my youth. I’m heartbroken and frankly don’t want a single thing in my home that’s a prize. Someone will always ruin it.