Book Friends

I am a congenital saver. By some estimations, that could qualify me as a junior-grade hoarder, but I prefer to think of myself as a preservationist. I have been very fortunate to receive many beautiful pieces of furniture and material culture from parents, grandparents and great-grandparents and even great-greats. I love being surrounded with history, my history, my family's history. I continue to learn more about it all the time. 

There is a downside, though. Where do you put everything? As Jill's creative wings continue to spread, she needs ALL the space in her studio. Considering that my stuff is filling the rest of the house, it's not unreasonable for her to have one room that is totally her own. Until this week, she's had to put up with 4 bookcases of my books.

Understand, we have bookcases in every room except the bathrooms. Hmmmmmm..... 

The bookcases in question are laden with books that I do use from time to time --- history, reference, poetry. It's mainly the non-fiction collection. Plus photo albums dating back to the 1940s. She has had them covered with a brightly colored sheet, to make them look like a wall. Whenever I need to look for a book, I endanger her decor. So now, we're moving the books. 

This morning, I started putting books in boxes for the move and discovered a volume I didn't know I had. It's a 1900 edition of Collier's Cyclopaedia with an inscription indicating that it belonged to my great-grandfather Cramer. I don't know when I acquired it, nor why it is not shelved with the other antique books in my collection. I was happy to hold it in my hand, though.

Many of these books I have moved repeatedly over the years. I still have favorite books from childhood. I have books that were always on my parents' and grandparents' shelves, books whose bindings and titles became so familiar to me that I am instantly carried back to comfort and safety from seeing them on the shelf. Combine the visual image with the smell of an old book as I open it, and it is indeed like greeting an old friend. If it's a book I've read, often more than once, as with the Maida books or Alcott, I am transported into an inner world that is mine alone.

When I was a child, books were my friends. I wasn't a loner, misfit kid. I had friends as well as 3 younger siblings. We played inside and outside, often elaborate pretend games involving witches, fairies, pirates, orphans and royalty. The plots and characters were loosley drawn from the rich tapestry of stories and fairy tales we had been exposed to in books. Our parents read to us nearly every night, and we were surrounded with books and encouraged to read on our own. My brother and I turned out to be the biggest readers, though the other girls took it up later in life. Often, when sent outside to "get some fresh air" (that's mother for leave me alone), I would take Nancy Drew, the Bobbsey Twins, Maida or Jo March outside to play with me under a tree or in my hut. The slanted outside doors to the basement were a good place to read, but you needed a blanket to keep from getting splinters of wood or paint. Likewise, the little hill in the front yard, when it was in the sun, was a good place to spread out the old picnic blanket for a read. And when you were done, you could roll down it!

I don't look forward to the arduous task of lifting and tugging bookcases and boxes of books over the next few days. Makes me tired just to think about it. But handling, sorting, browsing, sniffing and delighting in my books while listening to Bach and Handel on vinyl (I just rediscovered those boxed sets!) will be a perfect way to spend the hours. And, at the end, I'll have three of the four bookcases in my writing/sewing/reading room where they belong, and Jill will be able to reclaim her own space. It's a win-win all around.