Caffeinated Politics

A couple of weeks ago, James and I sorted through a large drawer containing childhood memories. I picked up the well-used and somewhat frayed hardcover copy of Little Raccoon. My father would come into the dining room, and without ceremony, he’d reach for the book that was included in a pile of my childhood reads.

I had recalled this book many times over the past years. I knew it was here in our home, but with some additional shelving recently added, we started reorganizing some of our past treasures. And there in the drawer with other parts of my past, I saw the raccoon with its round, earnest eyes, the dandelion being held with fluffly seeds needing to be blown all about. What struck me was that the book was tiny enough to fit in a coat pocket, but in memory it feels larger because of the way Dad held it each time it was read to me.

The other memory that comes to mind was Dad’s voice. His cadence was always slow and steady. Each time the story of the woodland creature came alive, he added to it by inflecting the voices of the various characters in the book. He didn’t rush. He didn’t skim. He read as though the story mattered, as though the raccoon’s tiny triumphs and troubles were worth lingering over.

Decades have passed. My dad is gone now. But when I came across this book in our drawer, it seemed he was present again. The recollections were strong, indeed.

What also struck me as I held the book was that even if I had not come across it, a very real version of the book and the memory it created still lives inside me. There, Dad’s voice still reads about a small and adorable. raccoon.