Harry's Done

I've finally finished the last of the Harry Potter books. Oops, that's a lie. I've still got the xmas gift from my son, The Tales of Beedle the Bard, to read. I liked the Deathly Hallows - 'twas a great escape and look, now it's the middle of February already - winter's almost over. Seven HP books - Harry almost feels like a son to me. This Potter reading marathon is something my now 21 year old son and I did together. My two girls wouldn't read him. (The younger one did succumb to the Twilight books, though, but she's not expecting me to read them). 

Dear son and I took turns in the hammock enjoying the wonders of wizardry.  I got behind with the 7th one, but I must admit I did enjoy this last volume. Snape. Yes, he didn't disappoint.

Back to the real world. I'm reading a German memoir now - yes, the Stalin years - again. Which reminds me ... at the hospital yesterday while visiting my mom (we went down to the cafeteria and celebrated Valentine's Day by sharing a bag of Old Dutch chips -  a salty, forbidden pleasure - she once worked in the Old Dutch Potato Chip factory for 80 cents an hour. That paltry wage helped my parents be the first on their block to have a mortgage burning party for their new 60s bungalow.) Anyway, we sat crunching on chips and listening to my mom's favorite old German music when an old woman at a nearby table, started a conversation with us. 

Turned out, she's an Auschwitz survivor. A German. She tells me she loves the music but that she's very bitter. 2 and a half years in Auschwitz. She wouldn't talk about it, said she came to Canada in 1961. She was in her early 20s when she was in Auschwitz. Now she looks like most of the old people in that hospital - neglected. I wanted her to talk more to me, but she said it's too painful. How dare I pick at scars?  Still, I'm itching to.

P.S.  I'm blogging over at the AuthorsNow website tomorrow. Come visit.