My father-in-law is reading my novel, “Reichold Street.”
I find that both pleasing and interesting. Ninety-five in January, he’s remarkable for a nonagenarian. He still gets around extremely well and I’m pleased we can talk to him, because he’s an engaging, delightful man.
It also means I can honestly claim readership for my work over nearly an 80-year age range. I can’t let myself get too carried away by it, however. When I spoke to my brother-in-law, Dave, on Thursday, he had just spoken to his father, and had asked how he was doing. The conversation went something like this:
- “What are you doing, Pop?”
“Reading some damn goofy book.”
“What’s it called?”
“Not sure.”
“Who’s it by?”
“I don’t know.”
“What name is on the cover?”
“R.L. Herron,” Dad said (he mispronounced it).
“Pop, that’s Ron.”
“Ron who?”
“Your son-in-law, Ron.”
“Oh,” Dad said. After a brief pause he added, “Where does he come up with this stuff?”
I had to laugh, but it made me wonder what he would think of my other books, “Tinker” and “Zebulon.”
Then I heard he was reading through “Reichold Street” for the second time. I like to think he’s enjoying it.
“Reichold Street”
Painting With Light 