I love everything about...

I love everything about books. The way they look on a shelf. Or stacked on the floor. The way my fingers stroke the pages when the story is really rolling, wanting to turn, but not wanting to miss a word. The snap of a spine that is just a little painful, but makes the book truly yours.

There was a house I visited in Hawaii, it belonged to the parents of a friend of a friend. Beautiful house, built on a hill, Waikoloa Ridge. Amazing view. Lots of stairs. And lining the stairwells were these shelves full of books. Can’t even remember the titles or subjects. But they were old. Some of them with cloth bindings. This musty, dank perfume escaped when I slid a volume from a shelf and sat down on a step. Marvelous. Wondrous. No one had disturbed them in years. I wanted to live in that stairwell.

Then there are the worlds contained between the covers. I can remember, when I was in the 2nd grade, lying on the top bunk, with my feet against the wall swaying the whole bed pretending it was a covered wagon. Laura Ingalls Wilder was my hero. Climbing the pepper tree in the backyard with Maudie, Me, and the Dirty Book. I wasn’t sure what it was about, but I was pretty sure I didn’t want to get caught with it. I had to get a note from my mom saying it was okay for me to do my book report on John Jakes’ The Bastard in 6th grade. Still can’t believe I got away with that one at a Parochial school. Thanks Mrs. Fares! The same Mrs. Fares who two years earlier had introduced me, inadvertently, to astrology with Ludo and the Star Horse. And when I finished Of Mice and Men, oh, I was so pissed off with Steinbeck. But it wasn’t the first book I remember reading that didn’t have a happy ending. That goes to The Visitor. Just thinking about the Irish Setter named Sassafras makes me cry. Ugh.

I still own all of these books, the original copy that I read. Except Ludo. I really need to acquire a copy. It’s been years!

My ex-husband, whom I also found in Hawaii, was irritated by all of my books. Hated the dust and the clutter. Just didn’t get it.

Books are kind of my décor. They’re everywhere. The requisite shelves in, well, every room, queued up in piles on the living room floor in the order in which I intend to read them, perilously stack in the order they were finished on the nightstand. And someday, I want a stairwell of my own.