HOW CAN I PART WITH THESE BOOKS?!

Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore tops the teetering tower, its neon yellow cover a beacon calling for a re-read. Can’t do it now; I’m here on a mission. I pick up Mr. Penumbra and search for any tiny gaps between the books on the shelves that might grant entry. No luck. I must purge before I can place it. 

 

I was thrilled when Dave attacked the area on his side of the bed, a dusty potpourri of paperwork and books. In his nightly enthusiasm for Words with Friends and Solitaire over reading, his backlog of books had multiplied to the point of obstruction. One fine day, he cleared it out and pointed proudly to the easy access he’d created. Well done!

 

That is, until I went to get a book from our tiny nook of a library and discovered where all those books had gone.  

 

Truth is, we have too many books. Even if Dave had tried to put them away, he would have been foiled. When it’s time to organize and clear things out, I’m the one to do it. Order is my sanity.

As I embark on this mission, I am guided by two precepts. First, would either of us ever read a given volume again? Second, we are not throwing books away, but donating them to the public library, a better use than limbo on the third floor. 

 

With Mr. Penumbra put aside to accompany me downstairs, I address the rest of the pile. Sudden Sea, the story of the hurricane of ‘38, is a keeper. I’ve read it four times and will read it again. Thanks, Obama, a memoir by one of the president’s speechwriters, goes in the maybe pile. John Boehner’s On the House is a cutting peek into Republican politics that Dave might enjoy. Suddenly I realize that most of the books from Dave’s bedside migration are those I’d recommended once I finished them. Hence the prominence of Penumbra, a book I loved. Many are keepers that require homes on the shelves; better to start with benchwarmers that have occupied space for too long. 

 

As I said, order is my sanity, so I’m disciplined about rooting through things and hauling rejects to the dump or Goodwill. As I survey the fiction shelf, I realize there’s not going to be much give there; these shelves have been purged before. Peace Like a River and A Gentleman in Moscow are both on my list for a third reading, and I periodically cycle through the assortment of Dickens, Hiaasens, Irvings, and Austens. Better to take a crack at the history and children’s sections.

 

Hm. These volumes are history all right, but they represent our history as well. Adjacent to books by McCullough, Philbrick, and Goodwin are those studied by high school Lea. At 17, I’d envisioned a life sifting the sands of Egypt, striking a hard surface, spotting some hieroglyphs, and discovering a tomb. I tug out When Egypt Ruled the East, Up the Nile, andThe Conquest of Civilization and flip through pages, turning them sideways to read the copious notes I’d scribbled in the margins. The Egypt shelf is crowded with titles I’ll never read again, but, oh the soft halo of memory in picturing myself so young, immersed in tales of Ramesses and Tutankhamen with my gift of a teacher, Miss Smedley. Do I hold on… or let go? 

 

I pause and sit back. Survey the mess on the floor and the half-filled boxes. The shelves and piles still to go. I run my hands over my face, breathe deep, and blow out a long rush of air. 

 

HOW CAN I PART WITH THESE BOOKS?!  

 

My inner harpy is firm: Put them in the box! Think of Tucker and Casey’s dismay when they discover these books, floor to ceiling, and have to lug away this Egypt crap. And do you really need those near-shredded paperback Shakespeare plays from Doc Dando’s class?  Or that yellow wall of National Geographics? By then, you might be living the high life on the Other Side, but do you want the kids stuck with this? 

 

No. Sigh. So, I compromise, for now asking myself only to reduce the number in each category. I select a few titles and authors to save, then fill a box with well-worn books I once cherished, underlined, and dog-eared.  

 

Onward! Hm again. Books on crafts and quilts and country living carry me back to Lea of the eighties, a young mom with a sewing machine tuned and ready to make curtains, dolls, decorations, and crib bumpers. So much of my life then was intangible: hours spent picking up after the kids would be undone within minutes. But I could create a corduroy bear that might last decades… just like my mom’s childhood toy. 

Almost 30 years have passed since then, and these voluminous full-color editions, complete with patterns, would better serve somebody else. My, they are heavy… and take up space. I pack a dozen into a box and smile to see some open room. With a swipe of a torn tee-shirt rag, I dust the shelf and move on.

  

Crockett’s Victory Garden, Back to Basics, Early Tools, and Eric Sloane’s Sketches of America Past speak to our world and leanings in the 70’s and 80’s. We lived on a campus with like-minded souls dedicated to the well-being of children with learning disabilities and appreciative of the do-it-yourself orientation of that era. Dave built cupboards and benches we still use, and we scoured tag sales for old furniture to refinish. Weekends were scented with the acrid stench of Zip Strip and accompanied by a scratchy sandpaper soundtrack as we removed fifties favorites, lime and green paint, to reveal the honey-brown hues of raw pine. 

 

Now that he’s retired, Dave spends more time in his basement workshop. When the sound of the band saw whines through the floorboards, I know he is happily at work. So, books by Sloane and his fellow carpenters will stay.

 

Several shelves are crammed with Dave’s professional resources and books about the Beatles, Rolling Stones, baseball, and guitars. These are his loves, his career, and our music. When Dave plays a slow version of “She loves me” on the piano or “Helplessly Hoping” on his guitar, I sit quietly on the stairs seeking to soak it in, freeze the moment, and store his voice on the spools of my mind. So, I give this section a cursory once-over and make a small pile of possible rejects. Dave told me he trusts me on this process of elimination, but I’ll grant him the ultimate yea or nay. 

 

Four half-shelves hold my in-home therapists, a host of wise souls who, with friends and family, buoyed and guided me when life seemed ill-fitting and my path unclear. One’s forties can be tricky, and the likes of Wayne Dyer, Rachel Remen, Sarah Ban Breathnach, and Robert Fulghum provided healing counsel and company. 

 

Idly, I pull out Rachel Remen’s Kitchen Table Wisdom. The pages are of heavy, cream-colored stock, and the lines are generously spaced. The book is a just-right length of 333 pages, not a tome, but long enough to get the feel of the author, to sense in her a friend. I understand the appeal of Kindles, but really, nothing is as soothing as a favorite book in hand. 

 

I open to a dog-eared page. Rachel’s life wasn’t easy: she was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease at age 16 and fought her way through to a degree in medicine. When she wrote the book, she’d switched disciplines to counsel cancer patients. Her stories are about gratitude, recognizing the sacred in simple things, and the joy in strengthening and celebrating others. To me, she speaks truth: gratitude and connection lift the soul. 

 

Next, the shelves holding Casey and Tucker’s childhood favorites. We have two copies of Good Night Moon, one torn and taped, so beloved by my little ones that we’d purchased a back-up in better condition. We also have a tattered copy of The Tall Book of Make-Believe that was mine as a child, plus another discovered at a library book sale. The choice should be obvious - throw the wrecked ones away! But those are the most precious, imbued with the prints of tiny hands and cozy nights with a toddler snug on my lap. They stay. These books are us, and it is as hard to part with them as it was to leave those life phases behind.

 

And what of books inscribed “To Tucker on his 1^st birthday,” or to Casey, “I loved this book when I was 4!” When the final dismantling of our library occurs, will my kids open to title pages and check for inscriptions? Probably not. They might be sad, pressed for time, and overwhelmed by the magnitude of their task. So, I reflect and decide not to purge the children’s books; my grandchildren might love these too. 

 

My parents were avid readers and believed time with a book was well spent. I agree. But life gets busy, and Ted Lasso, Queen’s Gambit, and the Great British Baking Show steal evenings that might be passed reading. Once I load up 12 boxes and 4 bags of books to donate, order is restored, but the shelves remain full. In purging, I’ve been reminded of those I am keeping, and I can’t wait to read, or re-read, them all. 

Authors not previously acknowledged: 

 

Breasted, James Henry: The Conquest of Civilization

 

Brown, Margaret Wise: Good Night Moon

 

Bull, Deborah & Donald Lorimer: Up the Nile

 

Crockett, Jim: Crockett’s Victory Garden

 

Litt, David: Thanks, Obama

 

Reader’s Digest, Back to Basics

 

Scotti, R.A.: Sudden Sea

 

Seele, Keith & George Steindorff: When Egypt Ruled the East

 

Sloan, Robin: Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore

 

Smith, Elmer: Early Tools and Equipment

 

Towles, Amor: A Gentleman in Moscow

 

Unger, Leif: Peace Like a River

 

Werner, Jane & illustrator (the pictures are the best part!) Garth Williams: The Tall Book of Make -Believe 

Hardly Heartbreaking, but...

When my dermatologist’s nurse called to report that a recent biopsy indicated that the red patches on my legs were psoriasis, I laughed and said, “Ah. The heartbreak of psoriasis!” With no prior connection to this skin condition, the catch phrase conceived by some 60’s ad man burbled to mind as easily as the old jingle for Pepsodent. 

 

The patches were red and ugly but didn’t trouble me much. I just wanted to rule out skin cancer, and that done, I was relieved. “Hardly heart-breaking,” I thought. 

 

As time has passed however, the affected areas have spread. A specialist told me, “Psoriasis hates the face,” and thank heavens for that, because it seems to have a fondness for everywhere else. Despite twice daily search and destroy missions aimed at treating every spot with a steroid cream, only my face has remained unscathed. 

 

During the summer, sundresses were out of the question, and I wondered if it would be the last season where I could un-self-consciously wear a tee shirt in public. My need for a new wardrobe prompted a shopping trip with my daughter. So fun! Why don’t we do this more often? Perhaps because our mutual encouragement reaped such a staggering profusion of purchases? Thanks to TJ Maxx and Casey’s compliments, I now have a plethora of breezy, flowy pants to wear on hot days; still, I’m not quite ready to surrender my sundresses to Goodwill. 

 

During a reception while in Rome for our reunion, I sat next to a friend who was given a platter of gluten free appetizers rather than those served to the rest of us. He explained that a diet change had minimized the symptoms of his auto-immune disease. When I mentioned the psoriasis, he said he’d recommend some articles. Kind, concerned, and extraordinarily organized, he’d sent a line-up of links to my phone by the time I returned to the hotel.

 

While my dermatologist and most of the research say skipping alcohol might help, they claim diet makes no difference. Still, gluten affects enough people negatively that I thought it worth a try.

 

But not just then. We had two more weeks in Italy, and I was not about to abstain from the pasta, bread, and wine I was gleefully consuming in abundant amounts. The psoriasis was raging, inflamed and spreading, but minus the characteristic itching and burning. So, skin be damned! Pour the wine and pass the bread! 

 

Once home however, Dave and I went all in on a diet change extravaganza: no gluten, minimal dairy, and for me, no alcohol. 

 

As our primary chef and baker, Dave was excited by the challenge. He took to the internet for gluten-free bread recipes, and we have enjoyed the results. The loaves look beautiful – like real bread! – but a bit more crumbly than their glutinous counterparts. We also sought the wisdom of our local Kindred Spirits rep in guiding us to an alcohol-free wine that was not revolting in flavor. The brand recommended was “Win” followed by a flippit of vine which, cleverly, resembles an “e.” Dave did a Google search for “how to make fake wine less disgusting,” and, with the advised addition of a slice of lemon, I have found the beverage to be a reasonable stand-in. 

For two months, I was a diligent denier of most things yummy. My skin improved some, but was that the magic new medicine? The lack of alcohol? Dave’s marvelous gluten free adaptions? The oat and almond dairy substitutes? I have no idea: we’ve not been scientific in our clean sweep approach.

 

Over the holidays, I gave myself permission to ease up on restrictions, but the new year will see us adding, subtracting, and taking note. In the meantime, I am at peace with my rebellious skin. At this age, most everyone I know deals with an affliction, some of them grievous, and I count myself lucky that psoriasis is mine.