I grew up to become a
book-loving adult with a voracious reading habit that has now reached and
passed its apogee. Age has left my eyes
with less acuity, and my mind tends to fall asleep when I get too settled and
comfortable in a favorite chair.
When we lived up north
in the Big House, books just seemed to accumulate in various rooms and my wife
often complained about the piles. She wondered
why I couldn’t keep them all in the bookcases I had built in every room of our
home. But I didn’t like to shelve a book
before I finished it. I wanted my
reading out where I wouldn’t forget it, no matter how many books I’d begun. I usually had as many as ten books started,
jumping from one to another. It’s quirky
way to read, but that’s how my mind works.
I was running out of
book shelf space, too. I had books on shelves in the every room including the
kitchen and was in dire need of another solution when an astounding thought
occurred to me: I didn’t need to keep
every book I had ever bought. Now that I
think of it, I’m not entirely certain the thought sprung first to my mind or my wife’s. But in any event, there certainly had to be a
few books I could give away and not feel the loss. It was a revelation, and I figured my largess
would also open up space for new books.
Finding a place to
donate them was easy. I volunteered at a drop-in center where I could easily place them on a table in the Free Store. But first I had to go through the agony of
selecting which to give away. I had to be in the right mood to let go of any of
my books. Unlike the new moon, the urge didn’t
occur on a regular basis. Frankly, it didn’t
happen often.
Eventually, the desire
to rid myself of at least a few books struck me as I rose from my bed one
morning. I ate a hearty breakfast and
planned how to go about the process. I had arranged all the books according to
my unique system of categorizing subject matter… History went High on the wall,
Religion to the Right, Middle Ages in the Middle and Technology Anywhere. Dewey’s anal scheme never impressed this
bibliophile. I still carry a resentment
toward a cleaning woman who one day decided the shelves in my office looked
messy and rearranged half of them by book height ... tall to the left, short to
the right ... before I came home and stopped her. I’ve had trouble finding what I want ever since.
But now, fortified by
a wholesome breakfast, I finally decided to begin sorting out the books to give
away by choosing a color. Orange seemed appropriate, for no particular reason. And so,
in the same spirit as the fireman in
Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, with my finger I began to ruthlessly hook any
of the orange books I found, roughly pulling them out of line like teeth from their
sockets and slamming them to the floor.
After a few minutes of such
activity, I returned to the kitchen to treat myself to a donut. It is nonsensical to become famished in the
middle of a big book elimination project.
Later, I sat down on the floor and mulled over less than a dozen orange
books. How to decide which would go or
stay? Was the book a gift from a dear
friend? Would I ever read or refer to it again?
If yes, had I done so in the past 25 years? If not, was it only because I couldn't find
it?
Finally, I had two or
three books I was willing to part with.
And so, with the morning's work out of the way, I figured that was enough self-sacrifice to
keep me feeling righteous for the next five years. And it must be time for lunch.
You may think I did
nothing but read and busy myself with books, but that would be far from the truth. For one thing, I married a redhead ... the
girl from the college library … and they have a tendency to keep one busy
guessing what they’ll do next. Another
hobby was eating, but recently I’ve had to cut back and it’s left a lot of time
in my schedule. Of course, I had many
other pursuits, although none come to mind except woodworking. I built shelves. I can’t remember ever building anything but
bookshelves. I’ve finished them all with
the beautiful wood stain. It has sort of
an orange color to it.
The Windswept Press
Murrells Inlet, South
Carolina
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