The Captain who, for reasons I can’t fathom, insists on
checking to see what I’m doing at any given time, strolled through the living room
when I was mouse deep in research. I’m
not sure why he checks on me. He says
experience is a great teacher. I say don’t
worry about it, the hair grew back.
“What are you doing?”
“No, but I can still be supportive.”
“Of who?”
“The band. It’s band
books week.”
“Um, no it’s not.”
“Nothing like a stirring march by John Philip Sousa to
wake up all the dogs at once.”
“But it’s not.”
‘Maybe I’ll wear red, white, and blue tomorrow.’
‘You can wear what you like, but it won’t make a difference
to Mark Twain.”
“I didn’t know he had a band!”
“He wrote Huckleberry Finn.”
“Um, you may not like this, but Huck and I took the
friendship oath long before you swashbuckled along.”
“Then you know it’s banned books week. B-A-N-N-E-D.
Not band.”
“Oh. You mean like To
Kill a Mockingbird, Catcher in the Rye, and Fahrenheit 451?”
“Yep. Just like them.”
“And Harry Potter and his Hogwarts buddies?”
“The very same.”
"No marches? No fanfares? No pants with stripes down the
side?"
“Nope. Banned books. The ones they kick out of schools and
libraries.’
“Isn’t that kind of like the lifeguard draining the pool?’
“Exactly.”
“How are people supposed to learn to swim?”
“I guess they’ll get a book about it.”
“That sounds great. Strike up the band!”
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