I haven't even finished reading it, and already, Christopher Buckley's homage to his father is oh, so wonderful to read. Thanks to whomever it was who pointed me to this.
When I was six, my father contrived a treasure hunt. He bought an antique wooden chest and filled it with silver dollars. Also with some of my mother’s jewelry. He and a friend sailed across Long Island Sound one weekend and buried it on a sandy spit called on the chart Eaton’s Neck, but which I will always call “Treasure Island.”
He told me that he had come into possession of an old treasure map. It was something out of Robert Louis Stevenson, scratched on thick parchment in blood-red ink. The location of the treasure was indicated with compass bearings. I couldn’t sleep the night before we set out, I was so excited.
We sailed across. After digging up half of Eaton’s Neck, we found the treasure. I can still remember the thrill as my fingers scraped the chest’s wooden lid beneath the sand. When we got home, my father said it would be a nice gesture to give my mother the pirate jewelry. Okay, I said grudgingly, but I’m keeping the silver dollars.
Go on. You have just enough time to read it before American Idol.
Meanwhile, it's a great way for me to settle my thoughts before my next long post wherein I must disagree with Rachel Lucas about something important. I know. I know. But it's not going to be what you think. And I'd as soon shut down my own blog than even hope to write as well as she, but I must address this, because it's been simmering long before her prologue to the discussion.
So, a bit of Buckley, to center. A bit of rum, to stir the muse and kill the slower brain cells.