One of the monthly pleasures I most look forward to in this era spent sheltering in place is participating in a monthly book club that MotE and I belong to.
When I say “book club” it’s understandable that you might assume, as a middle-aged parent of school-aged children, it’s a flimsy excuse to reunite with friends and drink. You’d be mistaken.
This is a book club where I am among the few members without grandchildren. A few months back, another member brought her father along to participate. He was a veteran of World War Two, in his mid-90s, blessed with a still razor-sharp mind.
On that day, I calculated that not only was I the youngest member of the group, but I was a full 47 years younger than the oldest member.
I would not trade my book club friends for the world. Some are parents like us, whose kids are perhaps a decade and change beyond our kids’ ages. They console us that the minor issues we stress about will not have the detrimental impact we fear.
Others have struggled and come out ahead as immigrant success stories, living the American dream while maintaining their skeptical eyes and outsider perspectives.
Some contribute by bringing critical insights from cultural institutions, citing newspaper reviews and interviews.
Some are writers, sharing appreciation of craftsmanship and skilled storytelling.
From the diversity of life experiences, we are able to collectively derive a better understanding of the source material, using the text to connect with what it means to be human.
It’s a beautiful meeting of minds…and then, everyone starts talking about their grandchildren.