We're right to close the book on reading

The Boston Herald

Beverly Beckham

Americans are reading less. Never mind Oprah and her book club. Never mind that you can never get a parking space at Barnes & Noble in Braintree, and that there's always a line at the checkout. According to a new survey, ``Reading is in decline among all groups, in every region, at every educational level and within every ethnic group.''

The worst statistic? Only slightly more than half of us read even one book in all of 2002.

I can't remember what I read in 2002. I barely remember 2002. But I remember last weekend. It was early. I was alone. Everyone was somewhere - golfing, walking.

And I tried to read a book.

I made coffee and then went looking for my glasses. And found them - on my desk, under a pile. It's definitely time to clean off my desk, I thought. But I stuck to my reading plan and took my coffee and my book out to the deck where it was sunny and warm and perfect.

Only the flowers needed watering. The potted plants were wilted. The coreopsis was brown. The petunias needed pinching. So I got the watering can and watered and pinched.

Might as well do the inside plants while I'm at it, I said out loud to no one. The inside plants were in even worse shape. When was the last time I had paid attention to them?

I watered, pruned, cut off dead leaves. Then I went to get a barrel to put all the dead stuff in. Of course, the trash was full so I took it out to the garage to empty and along the way passed some potting soil and decided it was time to repot my jade plant.

My coffee was cold by the time I returned to the deck. Cold. Hot. It didn't matter. The day was sunny and warm and still perfect.

I opened my book, ``The Botox Diaries,'' a gift from my daughter. She told me it was funny. She swore it wasn't a hint.

I read the book jacket. ``Warning! Reading this book could cause laugh lines! It may also lead to sleep deprivation - since once you start, you won't be able to stop.''

I wanted a book like this. I wanted a book I couldn't put down.

I looked at the flowers. They were perky now. And the trees were so green. And the sky so blue and the birds were singing. A pair flew by. Pale looking things. Like pigeons, only not. Doves, maybe. They landed next to each other on a thick pine tree. I squinted but couldn't see. So I got up, went inside, grabbed the binoculars, came back and studied them. How is it there are so many different birds in the world? And why don't I even know the names of the ones in my own back yard?

I got my bird book and looked up doves. There are mourning doves and ground doves and white crowned pigeon doves and Inca and white winged and turtle doves. Imagine. Were these mourning doves? I couldn't tell.

I picked up the novel again. I read that the authors, between them, have lived in three countries, married four times, raised three children, published seven books, written articles for ``just about every women's magazine in America,'' appeared on ``Oprah,'' ``Good Morning America'' and ``Today.'' And are happily married and living in New York.

I bet they don't waste their time reading books, I thought. I bet they spend their time writing them. And I bet they've been Botoxed, too. I studied their faces. They looked great. They looked thin, too. They probably work out. That's what I should be doing. Working out. Going to the gym. Or at least going for a walk. Or maybe I should cut the grass, instead. It needs to be cut. I need to exercise. It's the perfect match.

I got up from my chair, walked into the house and tossed the book on my cluttered desk.

I'm not surprised Americans are reading less.