A lifetime of books and boxes, piled high
I'm confounded by books. Over many years they crept into my life and took residence wherever I've lived, shelves groaning under their weight, chairs and couches infested with them, floor space littered in uneven stacks. Once while sitting at my computer a complete bookcase to my right tumbled down on me while I was attempting to write something. I eventually devised an escape route after regaining consciousness.
Two wives wondered why I didn't sell, give away or otherwise destroy 90% of them, which of course I did not. I was grateful for their eventual patience, even in the wake of two divorces. Today I'm a singleton (read: simpleton) whose apartment is beset with all manner of books, arranged in no discernible order, so that when people mention a book I have, I willingly offer to lend it, but there is no possible way I could locate it. Then when I invite them in and their expression says, "Well, I think I'll be going," I understand why they slammed the door behind them.
I'm not a neat freak but still manage to live a somewhat orderly life and keep things reasonably squared away. To wit: I clean out my fridge probably twice a year, tossing out year-old sour cream and discarding ham salad that no longer looks ham-salady but resembles fresh avocado dip. And I keep my laundry picked up and freshly washed and dried, oh, probably three times yearly. The other day I vacuumed a gray area rug and was surprised to learn it was actually black.
Back to books. My history with books began years ago when surprisingly a set of World Book Encyclopedia appeared in my childhood home. "Your dad picked it up at some auction," my mother said. He was an auctioneer and probably couldn't get anyone to bid and bought them himself, or possibly absconded with the set after everyone left. I would lie on the floor, stomach down, and flip through the pages, systematically beginning with "A" and scurrying all the way through "Z." I recall the set was copyrighted 1949, so for me back then it was right up-to-date.
Then those Reader's Digest Condensed Best Sellers appeared two or three times a year, smartly hardcover-bound. As a teenager I consumed them while my parents never noticed, which was just as well, because I wouldn't have wanted them to read some of the near-racy passages that delighted me.
In college I discovered an actual library where I went to study — free from the hurly-burly of dorms — and while walking through the stacks on the way to a carrel, I'd pull down interesting-looking books and spend time reading them instead of attending to course work. My grades suffered, but I discovered new worlds. I think they call it education.
Now, I spend lots of money on books, never considering the cost, money that could be spent on important things, like shoes that fit and a current model car.
In the last twenty-four years I moved four times, along with books galore. The last two moves, after boxing up all the books, I employed Two Men And A Truck. The young lads must have expected a light day, until seeing boxes stacked ceiling high. One strapping guy paused before asking, "What in the hell is in all those boxes?"
"Oh, just books."
Later, I heard one say to the other, "That guy's a real nerd."
Later I tipped them. "Thanks," one said. "All those books," shaking his head.
Glad he didn't say what was really on his mind.
Michael Pulley lives in Springfield. He can be reached at mpulley634@gmail.com.
This article originally appeared on Springfield News-Leader: A lifetime of books and boxes, piled high
