For the Love of Books

The love of books, the love of the written word in any form, has been a mainstay of my life. It started while sitting on the arm of a very large, pink velvety chair in the living room of the farm house I grew up in. My mother would sit in this chair in the evening with my sister on her right and I on her left, and we would listen as she read. I often followed along and would, from time to time, stop her to see where she was, see what the word looked like and how it matched the sound of the word. There was a story involving monkeys and coconuts that was a regular of ours. It was this story, more than any other, that taught me how to read.

Reading was integral to our family life and material was always at hand. My early favorites were found in a book of fables and fairy tales. Hansel and Gretel held great appeal, although the idea of a step parent was unfathomable to me, not part of the world I knew, and wickedness in any form was strictly the stuff of fairy tales. It was going deep in the woods with a trail of bread crumbs as guidance that grabbed my attention.

I went on to Golden Books and then comic books. Remember Classics Illustrated? They would tell a very condensed version of  literary classics. I still have a copy of Washington Irving's Rip Van Winkle that I framed. And, lest you think it was all classics, there was Archie and the gang, Turok, Son of Stone, as well as Millie the Model.  All things in balance, of some sort.

My tastes, if I dare to call it that, developed as I went, until one day in my tenth grade English class we had to give a book report and read a small portion to the class. It was an exercise meant to give a glimpse into the book we had read, as well as the writer's style. I read from John Updike's Rabbit, Run. Ah, sweet, troubled youth. I cannot provide an adequate explanation as to why Rabbit and the world he felt trapped by would appeal to me at that stage of my life. I like to believe it had a great deal to do with Updike's writing. I knew what appealed to me as far as a writer's style even then, and his definitely did. Unfortunately, for my classmates and my rather stunned teacher, I read the drowning in the bathtub scene. I would not choose that now for the life of me, but in my then small, self-centered, not very emotionally mature world view, I found it to be the natural, if not dramatic, choice. Teenagers love drama. And I was no exception.

Years later, after getting my degree, I returned to my high school as a substitute teacher and there was Mrs. Leyendecker, my tenth grade English teacher. I was sitting in the teacher's lounge at lunch visiting with other former teachers of mine when she realized who I was and said something like, "You read the drowning in the bathtub scene from Rabbit, Run." I offered a belated apology for my youthful indiscretion. She was very nice, and I must say, it was a real treat to be sitting among my former teachers as a teacher myself. I felt a small bit of redemption. When Updike passed on last year the New Yorker did several nice pieces on him and included some of his wonderful poetry.

I trust books will remain an invaluable part of our world. I recently went to see the movie "The Book of Eli," not once, but twice. I loved the post-apocalyptic story, the amazing cinematography, and Denzel Washington is always worth watching. But, what I carried with me after the movie was over was the importance of books as a way to recover a world that has been lost. It wasn't The Book itself or the ways in which books can be misused or misrepresented, but the value of books, the idea that books, a library or a repository of knowledge, would be a way to begin again.

I always have at least one that I am lost in, fiction now and then, but often it's non-fiction that I reach for; someone's story that sounds vaguely like my own, or the person who has lived a life I will never experience except through their words, but find a camaraderie or empathy therein. I fear I sound like a dinosaur waxing nostalgic for the good old days, but I do hope we never lose the desire and need for libraries and bookstores. I like nothing better than to wander around a bookstore, seeing what jumps out at me. Borders in Santa Fe was my home away from home for many years. I still go back there whenever I visit. I will be there in a couple of days. Can't wait.

I remember several bookstores, independently owned, that provide rich memories. One in New Orleans, just off Jackson Square, small, cramped, and spectacularly well-stocked. Another on Grand Avenue in St. Paul, the Hungry Mind, that had a selection nonpareil, and one of the first to include a cafe within its walls. During my earlier forays west, Back of Beyond in Moab, Utah, was a regular stop. I once scored a book of Ansel Adams letters for half the price on one of those trips. I was beyond happy.

Used book stores are always fun to go wading through, turning up some unexpected jewel. I find even the smell enticing. Perhaps I will share a few of my favorites in a future post. There is a small one, in the equally small town in which I live, with an odd and lively mixture, operated by a thoughtful bibliophile, working hard at keeping the faith, holding the future in his good hands.