I have a thing about books! My father was a book man, and as Daddy’s little Princess, I am still strongly influenced by my father who died 42 years ago. He was a book man, and I still have a book thing – reading books and writing books. He was a pen man so I have an appreciation for fine writing instruments.
When my mother sold our house a few years after my father died, I took possession of some of my father’s books. The paperbacks went on new adventures with new readers, but many of the Reader’s Digest Condensed Versions, with their pretty gold trimmed covers and a few select others came with me. He loved these books and read each one before the next one arrived in the mail a month later.
The boxes of books traveled from flat to flat where I lived in South Africa, then crossed the ocean to our new life in Toronto. There they moved from storage to our apartment on The Esplanade, to our house on Bicknell Avenue. They got packed up once again and took a long ride in the back of a truck, coming across the country to Vancouver. Over the years, the boxes have been pared down, and now I am down to about 20 treasured pieces.
My favourite among them is the 800 page volume “The World’s Best Fairy Tales”. The red cover is faded and worn. The binding is loose where the best loved stories have been read over and over and over again. A few pages of Rapunzel have escaped the binding altogether, and will need to be taped back in place. Each of these books are filled with stories, but their pages also carry memories and are heavy with all the corresponding emotion.
I pull a random book every now and again stand at the shelf and read 5 or 10 pages, wherever the book falls open. My heart used to be heavy with longing, but as time passes it is far more the joy of all the memories that surround me when the pages flutter open. When I put the book away wistfully, they all return to the pages where they wait until the next time the book is opened.
What will happen to these books after me? They mean nothing to my daughter who now lives on another continent. These books are among the last few tangible things that I have of my father. I open it and I remember him telling us about the story he was reading with excitement in his voice. He told us about all the journeys, experiences and adventures that lie in-wait for the reader between the pages. I remember how much he enjoyed the books and somehow, by opening them every now and again, it is almost as if I can carry that enjoyment forward just a little longer, When I see his name written inside the book – always in fountain pen ink, often green ink – I can see him sitting at our dining room table, writing his name in the new book that had arrived in the mail.
Perhaps its foolish and sentimental, but for now, I’ll keep them. I’ll open them from time to time and bask in the the memories they bring. One day, when they end up at the Salvation Army all my loving memories will have been used up, and someone new can add their story to these pages.