Does your summer reading list include the National Enquirer?

“Dalton, put that down,” my lovely wife Grace murmured. 

“What?” 

“Please,” she clenched her teeth. “People may see you.” 

Grace was alternating side glances between me and the magazine I was reading in the supermarket checkout line. My favorite part of grocery shopping with Grace is reading the tabloids. While she unloads the cart, I peruse the National Enquirer and the Globe, publications featuring stories and tidbits found nowhere else. 

“Look,” I announced, “here is a story about a baby born with a wooden leg.” 

“Shush,” Grace stage-whispered. “People can hear you!” 

I reluctantly returned the magazine to the rack. 

On the way home, Grace remarked, “Well, that was certainly fascinating.” 

“I know,” I replied. “I guess one of the parents must have had a wooden leg.” 

After a pause, Grace sighed. “Give me strength.” 

“I didn’t get to read the whole article. You made me put the mag—” 

“Stop! I don’t want to hear any more about the baby with the wooden leg.” 

Neither of us spoke for the remainder of the drive. 

Aunt Toogie was sitting at the kitchen table reading People magazine when we arrived. 

“Aquaman!” she muttered. “Can you believe some YouTube personality named her kid that? And she already has one named Elvis and one named Malibu Barbie.” 

“At least they will be the only one in school with that name,” Grace offered, ever the diplomat. 

“Speaking of one of a kind,” I interjected, “guess what I read at the supermarket?” 

“Oh, please, not again!” Grace moaned. 

“No, it’s not about the baby born with the wooden leg.” 

“Baby with a wooden leg?” Toogie asked. “Tell me more.” 

“Don’t encourage him,” Grace pleaded. 

“Anyway, a lady in British Columbia harvested a zucchini that looks just like Little Richard.” 

Grace stared at me. 

“You know Little Richard,” I explained. “He sang oldies like “Tutti Frutti” and “Good Golly Miss Molly.” 

“I know who Little Richard is,” Grace declared. 

“Don’t forget ‘Long Tall Sally,’” Toogie chimed in. 

“That’s it!” Grace said. “You two need some encouragement to elevate your interests. Let me find my summer reading lists.” 

The next day, Grace laid several lists across the kitchen table – classics, biographies, history, and The New York Times best sellers. 

“For starters, we might consider a current best seller or a classic South Carolina author like Pat Conroy.” 

Toogie and I stared at the lists. 

“Or we could tackle one of these classics,” Grace continued. 

“Do we read the same book?” I asked. 

“Sure. That way we can discuss it and compare our perspectives.” 

“Sounds like school,” Toogie snorted. 

“Think of it as summer camp,” Grace countered. “Good books stimulate the mind and renew the soul.” 

“Okay, Toogie,” I announced, holding the numbered list. “Pick a number from one to one hundred.” 

“81.” 

“Why that number?” 

“Never ask a woman that question,” Toogie quipped. 

“What book?” Grace asked. 

“‘Madame Bovary’ by a guy named Gustave Flaubert.” 

“Oh, I’ve been thinking about rereading that one,” Grace cooed. 

Toogie and I stared at each other. 

I am presently about halfway through. It was a slow start, but I’m picking up steam now – and so is Madame Bovary, to say the least. Emma has a physician husband, Charles, but then there’s Leon, a lawyer, and Rodolphe, a rich dude. The story is sort of “Southern Charm,” circa 1850. 

One afternoon I put "Madame Bovary" aside. 

“I’m going to run a few errands.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Toogie piped up, abandoning her copy. 

“Hurry back,” Grace said. “We need to finish our books so we can share our thoughts.” 

Once in the car, Toogie asked, “You’re going to the grocery store, right?” 

“Yep.” 

“Good. I need a fix, too.” 

We made a beeline for the checkout lane. She bought Us magazine, and I purchased a brand-new publication all about Taylor and Travis’ wedding. We took our goods to Blondies and read them cover to cover over lattes and a cinnamon-raisin bagel. 

“They say Adam Sandler did a good job as the wedding officiant,” Toogie remarked. “Although if anyone sang, I hope it was her and not him.” 

On my way to toss our cups, I spotted a stack of newspapers near the restrooms. I shuffled through them and – jackpot – found a copy of the National Examiner. 

“Look at this!” I exclaimed back at the table. “Elvis – the real one, not that kid – is alive and running a dry cleaners in northwest Oklahoma.” 

“Sweet,” Toogie sighed. “I love this break, but we better get back before Grace becomes suspicious.” 

We bought Grace a muffin as our cover story and drove home. 

I am now sitting, again, with “Madame Bovary.” I’ll just skim the rest. I think I’ve figured out this frolic through France. In the end, I’m pretty sure things will work out for Emma. 

What I really want to know is the full story about the remains of two space aliens and their aircraft secretly hidden by the government in a hangar at Area 51.