The late afternoon light slanted low from the west, and he brought out the kitchen chairs and a dishpan. It seemed to Thomas, as they sat in the sinking radiance, shucking bits of shell from the meat, dropping nuts into a dishpan, that he should hold on to this. Whatever was said, he should hold on to. Whatever gestures his father made, hold on to.  The peculiar aliveness of things struck by late afternoon sunlight—hold on to it.  And the trees behind them, their shadows, wavering. Biboon said,

“Oh the devil, look here.”

Inside one of the shells there was a golden beetle, like something in a teaching or a fairy tale. Its bifurcated shell was shimmering, metallic. For a moment, it rested on Bibboon’s hand, then its golden armor parted and it flexed tough black wings. Whirred off into the loom of shadows.

“It looked like a chunk of gold,” said Thomas.

From “The Night Watchman,” by Louise Erdrich

Louise Erdrich captures the poetry that always lies next to us, the simple wonders of Nature.  Too often, these moments pass us unnoticed.  But Thomas knew to confine to memory these special minutes with his father—something to hold dear forever. Too often, our minds focused on quotidian problems and missed life’s greater purpose: “As they sat in the sinking radiance, shucking bits of shell from the meat, dropping nuts into a dishpan, that he should hold on to this. Whatever was said, he should hold on to. Whatever gestures his father made, hold on to.  The peculiar aliveness of things struck by late afternoon sunlight—hold on to it.”

Thank you, Louise Erdrich, for this beautiful novel. It relates the American Indians’ survival in a hostile society that conspired to exterminate the remnants of their ancient world.