If They Could Speak

My first transatlantic trip resulted in some overweight embarrassment. I was 19, smitten with theatre and with books. I'd just spent two months in London, seeing fantastic theatre and shopping lovely used book stores. Those were the days before checked baggage weight limits. After attempting to lift my suitcase full of old books, the attendant slapped a bright orange tag on it marked "HEAVY". This was the beginning of the end of my fight between love of travel and love of books.

What I quickly discovered is that a large literary collection does not jive well with a transient lifestyle. As a young single person, I travelled and lived wherever my heart fancied. The truce I negotiated was a commitment to purchase only books I intended to read over and over again (which mostly included reference manuals, cook books, dictionaries, some poetry and volumes of Shakespeare). Everything else I required myself to obtain at the library--or, if unavailable at the library, to purchase a used copy and then try my hardest to give it away when I was done. I still struggle with religious books--there are things I want to read, but not reread. Yet, my local libraries don't carry much LDS literature. If only I could find an LDS mail order libary. Oh, and I pay enough late fees at the library to feel like I'm doing my part.

When I married my husband, it was with a bit of wanderer's trepidation. You see, circumstances dictated that he would remain in one location for at least three years. I counted back and determined that prior to then, the last time I'd stayed put for three years was about the third grade. So, I braced myself and settled in. What I discovered was that although I was suddenly stationary, my space was extremely limited, and my new husband was skeptical of my vast book collection. So, I kept to my pledge of minimal literary acquisitions, but nonetheless, I retained the collection I'd already developed.

We spent four years in our first home (still a record for me) and then moved my book collection to a home with plenty of room for my library! I was thrilled! My books spread out! I lightened up a little on my book restrictions. Then came the great reduction. The move from 2100 square feet to 800. It was a near painfull experience as I donated or sold (thanks Amazon) as much of my collection as I could part with. I still miss some of them. I digress.

The point of this rambling is to say, that although we once again have some elbow room, the years of restriction have had an effect. My collection is still very subdued. I still go to the library long before I go to Amazon--even for cook books. I check them out, try them out, then only buy if I've found them usefull (generally after exhausting all possibility to renew my check out, multiple times over). And so, as we got ready for our trip to Spain, I realized I needed two important things from the library: a good novel to read in Europe, and a good Spanish guidebook. As I carried these with me, I began to wonder about the history of the books that accompanied me to Spain. I considered nestling a travel log (akin to the gnome pictures) in the leaves of the book, but refrained. Don't you think though that it would be fantastic for every library book to have it's own personal history somewhere in the back pages? Be it banal or thrilling, it would nonetheless be interesting--if the library books could recount their own history.

P.S. Did I mention that I forgot to renew/return some things before I left? Yeah, when I got back, my library account had been blocked and I owed nearly $20 in fines. I guess that's still cheaper than a good novel and a guide book.

P.P.S. Should I apologize to the libary for the water spots on the Barcelona map? I mean, I think they dried out . . . it's sort of my little memento of the rain in Barcelona, right there on the library book. Shhhh, don't say anything.

P.P.S.S. I swear I'm the only one that ever reports damaged books to the library anyway--it seems that when I check them out they're falling apart already (really), so when I return them, I mention it so they can repair them, but then they must think that I'm the cuprit! I hope they don't freeze my account again--I sometimes wonder if there's a little flag on my account about how this lady is rough on books.

P.P.P.S.S. I'm really not rough on books.

P.P.P.S.S.S. Well, not terribly rough anyway.

P.P.P.P.S.S.S. That section of the novel had fallen out before I got to Spain--before I checked it out! Really!

P.P.P.P.S.S.S.S. What water spots?