A night for the history book
There are certain events that will enter into our cultural baggage. The moments that we will drag out for years (a lifetime) to come. Last night, for better or worse, will be one of them.
All over North America, those who can read (or be read to) gathered in small boutiques and large boxstores, some in costumes, all with their mind set on the most important act of the day. Better that it take place at midnight, thus dragging two days into the equation. Harry Potter Seven was available for sale, and millions heard the clarion call. As the last book in the series was brought in on carts, under dark plastic wrapper, I heard a voice say “I saw the book”. Let’s not haggle over who’s voice (OK, it was mine). Even though I haven’t read the series (yet), I was there as a witness, and a passenger in a car that wouldn’t be returning to the campsite any time soon.
There were people there that I knew. University professors and high school seniors. Lots of people I didn’t know. Considering that we’re on vacation, a family unit removed over a thousand kilometres from our living room, we were still part. There were people from six to sixty, with the normal range of error. The costumes weren’t done in fifteen minutes. The doses of sugar fed to expanding minds kept things at a fever pitch. Even the snakes and centipede were (literally) on hand to keep the waiting throng entertained.
And then the cash registers began to ring (not really, more of a bip-bip) and the lines began to move. A word about the lines. Someone in charge (not the girl in the yellow wig with a bullhorn that NOBODY could understand) decided to ease the tension by reversing the flow of the prepaid queue. The first shall be last and the last shall be rewarded. I made my way to the door and the pitchdark parking lot and waited for our designated driver to emerge, book in hand. The wait was over; let the reading begin. For those who want to know how it ends, the final word is “well”.
