SandScript 2023 [Digital Exclusive]

A Book Without Pages
Jesus Rodriguez
My parents worked hard to provide me with
an education and emphasized the notion
that books are tools, and like a handyman
needs his tools, I'll need mine. In middle
school, I carried my tools in a backpack that
hopefully would last me the whole school
year. Although my backpack made a better
goalpost than a “tool bag,” I knew my tools
were important, at least, that is what I thought
I believed. My books might as well not have
pages because I hardly read them, hardcover,
colorful or not. Carrying them around from
elementary to high school.
On a beaming summer that reached across
the border, finally out of the school year and
into summer vacation, I visited my dad. Now
being in high school, our father and son
playtime became father and son work time,
instead of getting his tools out of the trunk,
I started to use them. Far from school, but
closing in on a new lesson. I picked up my
dad's books, they didn't have any pages, but
I learned more than any hardcover colored
book I could teach myself with.
My first lesson was on numbers, and although
I got the quiz before the material, I caught on
quickly. 5:30 was nothing interesting until I
found out my dad could escape the inevitable
suns burning kiss for a while by waking up
as the moon fell asleep and the sun began
to awaken. This came with a morning breeze
momentarily stealing your worn air to replace
it with unprocessed, settling, and energetic
air. An early sunrise slowly peering over every
mountain and setting between each building
built upon it.
For the first few days, the number 12 became
evident. 12 is also 720 minutes, but that's more
dreadful to think about. 12 hours almost every
day, but this was the only number my dad
would bend working until a point of satisfaction,
77
so 12 could only get prolonged. The numbers
in my lesson were a few feet short compared
to the numbers my dad used on the uneven,
lopsided empty landscape to create a leveled
platform for a perfect right-angled patio, trench,
house, or anything that can be man-made.
Angles, widths, and lengths were measured
and marked by string, measuring tapes, and the
width of his thick thumb.
The longest measure seemed to be the hours
worked. He read my face and said, “the sun
could make it 24 if you let it”.
“I can read.” My second lesson began when
I learned my dad could read incredibly well.
Although he doesn't read like you or me, he
doesn't read from left to right. That's because
my dad didn't finish school, and his literacy
level wasn't highly proficient. That is by our
academic standards, at least. He could read
a two-story warm wooden cabin with a sharp
brown room ceiling and round logs that
stretched across the walls, with large glass
windows that welcomed the mountainous
view in four subsections. He could read
a white beautiful building with modern
geometry and extra large marble tiles that
could be stared at all day if it wasn't for the
50 feet high thin window plane taking you to
an octagonal roof that seems to curve to an
endless point.
He read all this where only an empty field and
materials lay. This summer, we drove past this
ongoing construction project on the way to ours.
My dad read, and the title was the location, that
alone told a lot of the story. The materials that
lay to the side were a combination of words and
letters, from these, my dad could tell the direction
of the story and the theme. Each incoming day
that we passed through, the words were slowly
becoming arranged. To him, it was clear as glass
that a two stories story was being written.
He can read, but did he like writing more? He
used a pencil to mark measuring points and