Houdini in me

My dad used to read stories to the family on random nights of the week, I loved it.

He'd rally all of us (5 boys, 1 girl and my loving mama) into the living room, have us sit down and be quiet, and just listen as he'd bring stories, characters and voices to life from the pages of impossibly large books that couldn't have been more intimidating to me than if they'd had snarling teeth and beady eyes. One of the things that my dad seemed to particularly enjoy was reading stories to us of Human Character. Whether the character in the story was actually human or not (often not), the stories all seemed to share a common theme; Struggle + perseverance = Victory and (sometimes) Redemption.

The Summer of the Monkeys is one book that my dad read to us from beginning to end.

I don't remember much about that book or the story, but what I do remember is that when the end of the story came; it was the first time I ever saw my dad cry.

There was a series of books about a warrior mouse named Matthias that lived in a place called Redwall.

I remember the stories of Redwall very well because I started sneaking the books away from my dads bookshelf so that I could read ahead and find out what happened next before dad could read the next chapter to the rest of the family. I loved when dad read the Redwall stories outloud because he'd try his best to make up individual voices for the plethora of characters in the stories. Here's a visual for you...imagine Grisly Adams squinting at the pages of a children's book and talking like Kermit the Frog, on purpose.

Good times indeed.

When I was a little older my dad and I started reading a book series together.

The Richard Sharpe series. The subject matter was a little more advanced (read: mature) than Redwall and Summer of the Monkeys; mostly because the Sharpe series was mostly about the Napoleonic Wars. But again, the resounding theme was Struggle, perseverance, Victory and (sometimes) Redemption.

From the Sharpe series I went on to read just about anything I could get my hands on...from Historical and Pre-Historical Epics to Modern-day Mysteries, Thrillers and Horror stories and on to Science Fiction that tested the borders of my mind...I couldn't get enough.

So, I love to read, woopadeedoo! Why am I telling you. Right?

Here's the thing, ever since my dad started to read these stories out loud to the family, I've never looked at a book in the same way. I've trained myself to dive completely into the world that I'm reading about and immerse myself in the characters, the times they live in and experiences they are going through. It's cool, and I enjoy it...but I think that I may have become a bit obsessed.

I've turned in to somewhat of an escape artist; a Harry Houdini of Literature if you will.

I've only recently realized this escapism about myself within the last several years of my adult life. Mostly during times when reality was so unavoidably overwhelming that I simply had to escape in order to maintain some control over my own attitude and how I reacted to what was going on around me. Being Irish, I have one major downfall. Temper. It must be genetic. And since I'm not a millionaire with a leer jet at my beck and call; I would escape into the pages of a book and live my life vicariously through someone else who did not have my concerns and trials, my desires and beliefs nor my convictions.

Liberating though it may have been to see life through someone else's eyes; I'm afraid that I may have missed out on some of the adventures and experiences that awaited me had I only opened my eyes and taken advantage of my own life story rather than constantly trying to escape.

But, maybe that's not completely fair...I have lived a great life thus far and I have very few complaints worth mentioning. I guess I'm just saying that maybe I shouldn't be so anxious to escape into the pages of a book when life is beckoning, whatever that beckon may be.

It's not as if my own life is so boring when I sit down and actually think about it, in fact; I've had a great time!

I have set out on my own and spread my wings with no safety net beneath me, I have hit rock bottom and clawed my way back to the top, I've walked for miles and miles and miles. I've been to a far off land made of Fire and Ice and been the foreigner that stood out like a sore thumb. I've fallen from the sky with nothing but a silk sheet in a backpack to break my fall, I've swam in the ocean, slid in the snow, jumped into rain puddles and hid from hail and sleet that flew sideways. I've driven my car until it ran out of gas just to see how far I could go on "E".

I've stood before thousands and bared my soul in heartfelt song and sung love songs of devotion for an audience of one. I have fallen in and out of love and I've felt the pain of betrayal from the closest of friends. I've cried bitter tears and laughed until I cried. I have rescued some and have been rescued by others. I've lost myself, found myself and gotten lost again.

I've found someone I can love that loves me back and I married her.

Now, I'm sure that someday soon I'll sit down with my own children and read out loud to them and pass along the joy of a well told story (with funny voices) and I'm sure that my kids will find their own ways to make ends meet and cope with all that life throws at them. I'm also sure that I won't stop reading and enjoying the tales written out by others, but...I think that I might try and focus more on my own adventures than trying to escape into the pages of a book.

Hey, even Houdini took time off.