One of my recent projects was to go through our bookshelves.
Some books went off to new adventures in the hands of others.
Everything came off the shelves, including my Go Away, I’m Reading sign, and the two small stone tortoises Mrs. Larry likes to check in with when she’s walking around the house.
I dusted everything. Sneezed. Dusted some more.
I put most things back, reorganizing the books as I went. My previous system of loosely shelving by genre no longer worked - mystery/suspense/thrillers spread like sinister shadows onto other shelves, and some favorite authors write in different genres so it was like their books lived in different apartments in the same building. My brain did not care for that – it much prefers alphabetically by author’s last name.
As I held each book, I was reminded how a book can be so much more than the story within its pages. There’s often a story outside its pages, too . . .
Books with garage sale stickers when that was the only way my husband and I could afford to buy books.
Back before anyone had heard of The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini, my husband and I were in our favorite independent bookstore and one of the people there literally pushed it into my hesitant hands – it wasn’t my usual kind of thing - telling me I had to read it, I would love it. I don’t know why I doubted her. She was right. As usual.
Books where I wrote my name inside the cover, that younger version of my scrawl actually legible.
Many years ago, author Chris Bohjalian gave a talk/reading/signing of one of his early novels. I went to get my book signed and somehow the subject of my writing came up (it was probably my husband, he’s always telling people I write.) Even though a line was forming behind me, Mr. Bohjalian took the time to ask me about my work. He was so encouraging and nice, I remember that feeling to this day.
Books with pages gone yellow, that slip from spines as if too tired to hold on. Some with print too small for me to read now. Others with ties to people – family, friends, authors - who are no longer with us.
Books hold stories in their words, in their pages. We hold stories in our hearts, in our memories. And sometimes all those stories turn and twist and tangle and become a whole other story, one uniquely its own.
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Have any favorite book memories? How do you organize your books – or do you? What else lives on your bookshelves – plants, photos, etc? Any summer projects you’re particularly proud of completing?
