I picked up Tim Bascom’s “Climbing Lessons” not so much because I thought I’d like it but that my father would. When I took a break halfway through, I was certain of my supposition. These were pleasant but lightweight tales that landed with all the emotional weight of a Leave it to Beaver episode. They felt cautious, tentative, muted. The tone too reverent, too deferential, too sanitized. Too nice. I soldiered on. When I got to the end, much of what I’d already concluded hadn’t changed, but a curious thing happened. The stories began to resonate, not deeply or profoundly, but subtly, thoughtfully.
This is a book where, crucially, if not by design, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. As I sit here and reflect a day later, I realize the parts and their “lessons” aren’t even the point. At least not for me. No, it’s the whole that matters, and the whole keeps getting heavier, pushing me into uncomfortable territory that falls well outside the scope of this review.
I’m glad I read “Climbing Lessons” even if it’s not really my bag. I think my father will enjoy it. Your mileage, no doubt, will vary, but it’s safe to say that if books like “Tuesdays with Morrie” are your jam, you’ll find that Tim Bascom’s “stories of fathers, sons, and the bond between” strikes all the right notes: touching and tender, with a whiff of nostalgia, and more than a dash of sentimentality.