Used Books
My mother used to take me to used bookstores. Not for me, she was the one who loved to read. I was a merely hanger-on. A tagalong. I just so happened to be smitten with the love of the idea of a book as well. Maybe because of these trips, but I think it was the desire for escape that hooked me.
My earliest memories are of me curled up next to her as she read me Seuss (Cat in the Hat and Green Eggs), Perkins (Diggingest Dog), and Eastman (Go Dog Go and Are You My Mother) among others. If I had children, story time would be an absolute must.
The bookstores were another early joy for me. Always oddball places of mystery and possibility every book had the potential to create a world of interesting people and places. The stores smelled of old books and must. Some were in regular houses and others were in commercial buildings but they all had a commonality: they were humble affairs owned by people who loved books. This was before Half-Price Books or the other corporate chains that six-sigma’d their way to dominating the genre.
The Cosmic Squire bookstore by my old high school I only visited a few times with her. But I LOVED to stop by on my way home from school (it was a few blocks in the wrong direction). And I adored their fantasy section. Thousands of paperbacks of worlds and universes far far from here. I discovered Piers Anthony and Poul Andersen. My first choose-your-own-adventure was here. And the place was full of heroes to love and villains to hate. The floor was dusty and creaked with every shift of your body. The nails were hammered in place before the start of the great wars of the youth of my grandfathers. Who knows what feet the decades brought to this place or what lives these books inspired.
The other local place that I frequented often with my Mom was a place I can only remember ever calling the Booknook. It was in an old ww2 era house adjacent to a neighborhood we all knew as dog patch. The proprietor was a Gandalf of a man but without the mystique. His billowy white beard hid a cherubic face that seemed kind, and he was a friendly fellow. I think he was fond of my mother, always recommending this Harlequin novel or that. Did I mention that? That my mother was an avid Harlequin fan when I was young? I remember a long bookshelf of my parents with what was probably a couple of hundred paperbacks.
The room where the books lived had dark orange shag carpet. There was a burned spot in a corner where I had knocked over a lamp without the shade and the incandescent bulb acridly left an indelible mark. She sewed in this room too, my mother. Which is a funny memory as I don't really recall her ever making anything. Just that she had a sewing machine and would often buy patterns. My wife does this now, acquire sewing paraphenalia with the best of intention, but never following through.
As an adult, I have taken the mantle of visiting bookstores. My favorites are independent places reselling used books. I always wonder what lives these tomes led before they landed on the shelves ready to be resold and loved. Selling books seems like such a noble affair.
I wrote a piece on The Secret Life of Librarians by James Patterson celebrating books and bookstores. It's a lovely book and I recommend. I also published an essay on how much I adore libraries and how important they are to humanity.
I rewatched 'You've Got Mail' starring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. It brought me to tears when 'The Little Shop Around the Corner' had to close. How devastating to lose these gems. Tiny homes to love and magic and knowledge. I enjoy a big fat bookstore like Fox Books (B&N doppelgänger in the film) and spent many a night camped out at a Barnes and Noble sipping coffee and flipping through books I lusted for but could ill-afford. I miss that. The post-pandemic world has so few places to just go after dark and just be.
We need more bookstores. A dear friend said once that owning a bookstore would be a dream come true. I have to agree. BToo bad love can't pay the rent. Since I have so little sense when it comes to business, I'll have to settle with longing to write the books that my friend may one day sell.
Thanks for reading and sharing my beautiful lie.
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