Where's my sleeping pills?

I’m exhausted…not just tired, but completely utterly and absolutely exhausted. The fact of the matter is, I don’t sleep well and have struggled with insomnia my entire life. Normally three hours a night is the limit of nocturnal slumber and usually catch a couple hours on Saturday mornings, albeit not last Saturday because of our safari to the great outdoors.

Considering my sleeping condition, it’s no wonder that I read so much, with such a great deal of time on my hands I have the opportunity to read considerably more than I would if I could convince my body to keep normal hours. I don’t consider myself so much a book connoisseur as a book carnivore; I’m ravenous in the amounts that I read and it only increases up during the winter when outdoor activities are limited. The wife on several occasions has tried to put per trip spending caps on my bi-monthly trips to the bookstore, but to no avail. I spend hours perusing the aisles in search of the next great midnight novel. I’ve run across some excellent books and others that I found it a chore just to complete.

Although I don’t associate myself with any particular author, Hemingway has proven himself to be one of the more enjoyable novelists. While working for Command Training Wing 6 at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola, I had the opportunity to accompany the flight officers on detachment to Key West, Florida. While there, I had the good fortune to visit the house Hemingway owned on the island. A couple of interesting facts; his house had the first swimming pool on the island, and there are still numerous 6-toed cats living on the premises, direct decedents of a 6-toed cat given to him by a sea captain.

Charles Dickens and John Steinbeck are masters of characterization and have won places on my shelf right next to the macabre Edgar Allen Poe, creator of the detective novel. Poe is buried in a Baltimore cemetery and while the grave is believed to be his, there has been some question as to which plot actually contains his remains. Every year, a man of mystery (doubtful that it’s 007) leaves fresh roses on the spot believed to be his resting place.

I could bloviate on literature for hours and still come to the same conclusion; after another trip to the bookstore tomorrow night, I’ll be adding more books to the growing pile I have yet to read. With that…I’ll bid you good night, I’m off to finish another book.

I apologize for the boring, meandering post, have I mentioned I’m tired?