I
can’t imagine a life without books. Ever since I first learned to read, I’ve
been in love with them. Partly it was because my parents were both readers, and
also we didn’t have a TV then.
We
had a radio, and they listened to the news and programs like Fibber McGee and
Molly, Father Knows Best and other shows like Inner Sanctum Mysteries, which
were frightening to my brother and I as we sat on the steps to listen until one
of our parents caught us and sent us back to bed. It wasn’t until I was fifteen
we got a TV, and although I watched it sometimes, I still read. So many times
after supper, my mother would nag me to get started on the dishes, and I’d
always say something like “Just a minute,” because I couldn’t stop reading
right then.
Leftover Books
I
pack the leftover books from the sale.
Leftovers from the lives of my
mother and father.
Leftovers no one wanted, not even
strangers.
I remember these books as bright
splashes of color
mitigating all that green -
our celery green shelves, celery
green walls,
gray-green carpet, and a big
over-stuffed chair
aged to an indeterminate color and
texture;
a perfect place to hibernate Sunday
afternoons
when the snow buried our little cape
cod,
and boots melted by the back door.
Jerry played “The Flight of the
Bumblebee,”
the music undulating, mixing with
warm brown smells
of pot roast with onions, potatoes
and carrots.
Dad did the cooking Sundays,
ahead of his time in gender
correctness,
while Mom ripening with another
bibliophile,
soon to be baby sister, Cathi, read
and dozed nearby.
Elaine and Suzanne cut out paper
dolls,
as Christ on his Crucifix looked
down on
The Silver Chalice,
The Golden Bough,
Main Street,
A Tree Grows in
Brooklyn,
and us.
There were two walls of books -
a time line of books going back to
my parents’ youth
Girl of the
Limberlost,
O’ Pioneers,
The Life of James A.
Garfield,
The Pickwick Club,
and stretching
forward to my future.
In those days I’d snuggle deep
into the comfort of that
over-stuffed chair,
galloping the plains on Wildfire,
Flicka and Thunderhead
or solving mysteries with Nancy
Drew.
In that chair, the future was only a
nebulous vision
of
a ranch with hundreds of beautiful horses.
And so I sort these books, the pile
of books
I find I cannot part with growing
higher and higher.
Books from my past to add to
the already overflowing shelves of
my present,
to be read someday in the future.
 |
| My grandmother's copy of the book. |
As
I wrote in the beginning, I can’t imagine a life without books. In fact, if I
were ever accused of being a hoarder, it would probably be because of all the
books I have and can’t bear to part with. Books that maybe I’ll read again or
books that have sentimental value like Beautiful
Joe an autobiography written by Marshall Saunders, and published in
1903. It was in my grandmother’s
bookcase and told the story of a dog. It’s a small book three and a half inches
by six inches with 359 pages in all. It was a touching story about a dog named
Beautiful Joe, and it ended sadly so I shed many tears over it. Someday I may
even read this book again,, but for now I’ll just cherish it as one of the
earlier books I read and one that belonged to my grandmother, who was a teacher
before she got married and was no longer allowed to teach by the rules at that
time.
Do
you have a favorite book you can’t part with?
What
books do you remember from your childhood?
