My dad is a pretty quiet person. He's the wallflower to my mother's social butterfly. He leaves family gatherings early and doesn't socialize too much, but if you are a wallflower too you'll find he has a sarcastic sense of humor. He's rugged in that blue collar way. He has smoked since he was 14, he drinks too much beer, and he has worked out in the sun for most of his life. He spends a lot of time out in The Barn -- an old structure set opposite my parent's house on their one-acre property. He does his own variety of folk art out there, creating wind chimes from discarded silverware, dreamcatchers from copper wire and dried chili peppers, and walking sticks from old reclaimed wood. His two old dogs, one deaf, one who can't climb stairs, are his companions. The two eat the same grade beef as he barbecues for himself in the backyard. He's the kind of dad who I suspect told every one of his three children that they were his favorite.

When I was younger, I remember going to the library with my dad and seeing him collect a huge stack of Louis L'amour paperbacks. It seemed impossible that he could read that many books in the one or two weeks before we'd be back, but I believe he's read every book published by L'amour if not once, then twice or even three times. He once took me on a tour of the empty room in the attic of his grandfather's house where he spent a lot of time as a boy, reading books that were still there on the shelf, now covered with dust. Old Zane Grey books and Hardy Boys novels. My dad is also a speed-reader. He told me he regretted learning how to read so quickly. Maybe he'd run out of books when he decided to read through our old encyclopedia set A-Z. Yes! My father actually read an entire encyclopedia set, well out of date even before he started to read it.

Later I came to understand that my dad, like so many people, reads so voluminously because it is his escape. My father is a Vietnam veteran and he lives with memories too horrible for me to imagine. It's only sometimes, at twilight, around the dying embers in the backyard barbecue pit, that he might talk about the damages of a war from before I was born. These are the scars that necessitate a life away from urban settings and crowds. The busyness of his hands and mind forestalls thoughts about best friends who were lost and a survivor's guilt. I'm reminded of what Nancy Pearl has said about the importance of reading in her own life: "It's not too much of an exaggeration -- if it's one at all -- to say that reading saved my life."

As librarian who aims to please, finding good books for my dad has always been my greatest challenge. I'm always in search of that One Perfect Book. Recently I realized that though I can't always find something amazing, he reads whatever I give him. He usually doesn't comment on the content of the book, he just reads. Though I might be able to find better material for him if he gave me more feedback, I've come to understand that the greatest part of my gift isn't the content, but the possibility that in some tiny way a book can provide an escape and a better life in the imagination.