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This blog reflects my interests: reading, writing, genealogy research, the minutia of small town life, politics, and religion. In my former life I was a high school English teacher. Now retired, I belong to women's clubs, edit papers and books for former students, and read a lot of political blogs. My husband Max, a former high school principal, sells real estate; my two sons have forbidden me to write about them.....oh...well.... |
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| Books--Libraries--Reading |
| Fri, December 29, 2006 3:00 PM |
I love books. I love to read. I love the feel of a book in my hand; I love to find an author who draws me into his or her created world. My books are my life-long friends. I give away the books I do not much care for, but keep the ones I like, even if I never read them again. They sit on my shelves, reminding me of the pleasure they gave. They are my friends, guardians and supporters of my personal and intellectual journey. Rooms lined with books are my favorites. Back in the 1990's, Max and I took my mother to Boston where we toured the home of John and Abigail Adams. I was entranced by his library, located in a small building attached to the house. It was one large room, two stories high, with a staircase and narrow walkway to attain the second tier. Imagine the effort to gather such a library in 1780. I do not expect to achieve the dream of having such a room in my home, but I thought his was one of the most wonderful rooms I had ever seen. It was clearly a working library and study, not a collection gathered to impress. I have always loved libraries, but am eternally put off by my early memories of the library dragons, the prim, usually elderly ladies who guarded books from the "unwashed" such as me. Perhaps it was my eclectic choices which put them on guard. Fortunately, librarians are much more friendly nowadays. Being able to purchase my choices--love amazon.com!!--allows me to chose without commentary from others, a freedom I grasp with relief.
My book club recently read Anna Quindlen's How Reading Changed My Life. She writes about her love of reading---the title is self-explanatory. When I was teaching high school, it was hard for me to deal with students who walked in and announced "I hate to read." I thought: you are an idiot!! However, I generally made a bland response about how I loved to read or rolled my eyes. The same students frequently commented on my breadth of knowledge: "How did you know that?" one would ask, seemingly astonished. How, indeed! I read it in a book.
My father loved books, as did his father. One of my treasured photographs is of my Shafer grandparents in "the library" of their home, seated by the library table. That table now sits next to me, holding my work as I read and write at the computer. My father collected books all of his life; when he was an impoverished young minister, he tended to forget his children needed shoes in his haste to purchase some much-desired book. When he died, it took his grandson Jim four months to sort and catalogue the books. It was a daunting task, as thousands of books were stored on all three levels of his condo. Some were given to the Grace Lutheran Seminary in Columbus, Ohio; others were divided among the children and grandchildren; the bulk are stored in Salem--the Latin, Greek, and philosophy---waiting for Jim to have a study of his own.
My mother also loved to read and was an avid patron of libraries, preferring not to have a large personal collection. She did have several bookcases of much-loved books. Her treasured collection of books about John and Abigail Adams is now shelved in my living room, as are her Gladys Tabor, Stillmeadow books. A few of her beloved books from childhood also now sit on my bookshelves.
Our home was not "filled with books," as my father had a study in our home, lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, while other rooms contained no book shelves but perhaps a few books stacked here and there. Books were all around and we children were encouraged to read and to use the library. No, we were expected to read and to use the library. Reading was more important than sports, games, entertainment---and certainly more important than TV, which we were not allowed to watch very often. I cannot even remember where the TV was in our house when I was 16---oh...yes, out on the side porch. Some of my favorite times as a child were visits to my grandmother, Hazel Parsons, who would take me to the Highland Branch of the Louisville Public Library and allow me to browse and then help me carry home stacks of my selections. One time, after I had selected a stack, taken them home, and read all day, we returned the next day for more. The librarian sourly commented that perhaps I needed to select more difficult books. In my teaching career, as we teachers struggled to encourage students to read---and I read hundreds of those "lying" book reports in which the student clearly had NOT read the book or had read only parts---I would remember that librarian's remark. She certainly had never read any research about how children learn to read or about the stages of reading development. But then, those were the days when the library dragons guarded their treasures from scruffy little kids such as me.
My house is filled with books. Upstairs the window seats in the dormer windows are lined with book shelves; there, I have all the 35 cent paperback novels, many important literary works, that I bought in college. Hundreds of books I have bought in the past 45 years, a cookbook collection, and my children's books line the large upstairs bedroom, one wall of our living room, a shelf in the dining area, and the book cases along the non-window wall of the sun porch. Lots of magazines are stacked around, too. I do not go to the library very often now, as books covered with scent or the smell of candles or Glade or similar things give me a headache. Mostly, I buy what I want to read---and I recycle. I have some books I read again and again. Every few years, I re-read all of Jane Austen's novels. I also read through the 37 book cycle of Angela Thirkell's Barsetshire series---again and again. E.F. Benson's Mapp and Lucia books are another set of favorites to re-read. I plan to start re-reading all of my books about Thomas Merton again, as my book club is going to read The Seven Story Mountain this spring. I have all of his journals, many of his books, and many critical books. I haven't read the Merton books for twenty years---and am anticipating the pleasure of re-reading from a more mature viewpoint. Right now, our Brown Bag study group at church is reading a book of Merton's writings about nature. His poet's eye sees to the heart of things.
The other night Max's grandson Ethan's oldest son, great-grandson Rhett, age 4 1/2, asked me to "read books." Soon he and his brother Riley, age 3, were sitting on my knee or leaning against my legs as I read: Winnie the Pooh, Dumbo, Morty and Mickey, and The Tawny Scrawny Lion. I had not read those Little Golden books to little boys for some 35 years, but the words came back almost as if I had them memorized. The same thing happened each year on Dr Seuss Day at school [March 2---Read Across America] when my seniors enjoyed The Cat in the Hat, One Fish-Two Fish, Green Eggs and Ham, among others. I could almost chant those books I have read them so many times. I am looking forward to reading to the "Greats" again---Max has six great-grandchildren; the oldest is Rhett. A small body, pressed close as one reads aloud, is one of life's most wonderful tactile experiences. |
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| My Sunporch Room |
| Fri, December 29, 2006 1:30 AM |
The summer of 2006 was a disaster. Max's left hip prosthesis came apart on June 6. After a trip to the ER and minor surgery to push the ball back into the socket, he was fitted for a brace and spent the next six weeks on crutches. No sooner had he healed than on July 23 he pivoted at the car wash and the hip popped out again. Another trip to the ER, surgery, and back to the brace and crutches. On August 9, the ball and socket were replaced successfully; after six weeks of healing he was off of crutches and back in the swirl of life again.
When Max and I were married in 1987, and he moved into my house, he claimed the sunporch as his room. Here his recliner, TV, and piles of stuff "lived" for 18 years. But, the large new TV never fit well in the room and it was too crowded when visitors came. He certainly does not intend to receive visitors from anyplace but his recliner. Thus, as he struggled with the hip issues last summer, one day he suggested we flip the rooms, meaning he and his recliner/TV would move into the much larger living room, while my computer and I would move out to the sunporch. I had to let go of one of my mother's rules, "no recliners in the living room," but we do not keep a formal household, so I let it go.
Well...what a mess. We hired some former students to help and they whirled around moving things faster than we could point to where to place them. It took me several days to sort things out, but once we were settled, we were very pleased. I dragged up the French Doors, original to this 1920ish house, from the basement, covered with dust and mold. After washing them in the front yard, I managed to hang them---they are quite heavy. Before I bought this house in 1984, the previous owners had pasted bamboo on the glass and used the room as a bedroom. Half the bamboo had fallen off and the glue had crystallized to a deep golden color. However, the glue chipped right off with a razor blade. I got enough off to allow light to pass, though the job needs a final finish and several panes must be replaced. The doors block the noise of the TV and the scent of visitors---giving me a safe place from the headachy perfume and laundry detergent scent visiting people wear.
As we sorted out the furniture, I decided to put my particular treasures in this room---the sunporch. The tall oak bookcase that stood in the kitchen of the Fair Acres house where I raised my children now stands along the inner wall, along with a temporary metal bookcase---until I can dig the oak bookcases out of the storage unit. Along the same wall is my china cabinet, filled with my treasures, none of which would gain any $$$ on Antiques Road Show. The Edison record player is centered along the east wall, as I don't mind partially blocking the view of the street. Next to it are small bookcases from my children's grandparent's home, also loaded with pictures and treasures. Other particular treasures are an antique oak washstand that belonged to friends of my parents, Bill and Jane Thompson; my grandparents' library table, which I use as a desk; and a small bookcase my father made for me when I was in college. A couple more book cases, my apricot colored recliner, Aunt Francie's apricot velvet chairs, plus my glass desk and computer fill up the room. The three walls of windows, eleven in total, keep the room from feeling too crowded. Obviously, I prefer things to be "visually stimulating"....i.e. cluttered.
Right now, it is past midnight. The half moon is shining through the branches of the largest silver maple tree, out the window to my left. I would never see such a lovely sight or see the glorious pink and gold sunset I saw today or watch Friend squirrel if I were still in a corner of the living room. It was a mutually beneficial move. |
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