All
kidding aside, I’ve had a biography of Christopher Columbus stored along with
two or three dozen other books of miscellaneous genres in a plastic bin in my
garage, and one day, I vow, I will get to it. It’s old school – and I mean purely
old school –written quite the while back, the 1930s I want to say, meaning it should
be fairly free of the post-modern contagion that rots so much of the historical
nonfiction put out today. I bought it at a library book sale a decade ago, and
I can feel it in my hands right now: strong and sturdy like your grandparents’
living room tv set, five or six hundred pages of hefty thickness, shielded by a
hardcover that could stop a .38. One day I’ll get to it. When I need a break
from all the religion, science, military history, classic lit, and pulpy sci fi
that seems to be my daily bread.
One day.
Maybe
Columbus Day 2026.
