Boswell and Libby

When I lose something, my irritation can be irritating. Last week I picked up a copy of Boswell's London Journal, written in 1762 and 1763, when the biographer of Samuel Johnson was 22-years-old. I've had trouble putting the book down. The writing is brilliant.
Tonight I couldn't find it. "Has anyone seen the blue book that was sitting by the fireplace," I said to a house still in heavy activity. Henry (age 8) moved around the room, picking up one obvious piece of reading material after another asking "is this it?" I looked some more. Under chairs, in the kitchen, in the dining room. No book. Irritation grew and I began talking to myself. People began to clear out in anticipation of interrogation.
"Where is the book?" Nothing. You get the idea. I went through four of five children, making eye contact with each to ensure attention and asking the direct question: "Have you seen a blue, hardback book? It was here last night." Crickets chirping. My wife simply said, dismissively, "there are a bunch of books in the sun room," as though I could just pick up one of those.
Last shot. I walked up to Libby's room where she was lying, having gone to bed 20 minutes earlier. I almost felt silly. "Honey, have you seen my blue book?" Libby is four. She paused briefly and said: "Oh, I forgot. I took it in the car and left it there. It is still in the car, I think."
Downstairs to the garage, open the back door and there sits "Boswell's London Journal." Irritation replaced by laughter from everyone.
Then I found this entry written December 20, 1762. It is appropriate to Libby's role in the family:
"I dined at Macfarlane's. We were very hearty. I indulged in it much. Erskine and I walked down Haymarket together, throwing out sallies and laughing loud. 'Erskine,' said I, 'don't I make your existence pass more cleverly than anybody?' 'Yes, you do.' 'Don't I make you say more good things?' 'Yes. You extract more out of me, you are more chemical to me, than anybody.' We drank tea at Dempsters."



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