Burning books

A long time ago my mother put all of us into her car and drove us to the hospital. She left all of us in the car but one, my brother. That day was cool enough to keep the windows rolled up, and I still remember the leaves were in full fall color. A police car pulled into the parking lot nearby and waited with us. The policemen never approached the car. We knew they were protecting us. It was a kinder age back then, when police just waited with us instead of accusing my mother of abandonment.

There was nothing to do in that car for several hours.

He was dying, my brother, though it would be some time before I realized it. After the long day of waiting in the car, everything changed. We spent hours on the road to the only hospital equipped to deal with his illness. We spent hours waiting in crowded, windowless rooms long before they were made to be comfortable for children.

Children weren't even allowed in hospitals back then unless they were patients. But he was dying, my brother, so the hospital staff bent the rules and let us stay. We had to be quiet, and there were no playrooms in hospitals back then.

We read books. Books became more than a diversion for me. Books were doorways into places where I couldn't smell disinfectant, where brothers were not dying, and where I couldn't hear children in treatment scream.

That's why I wanted a library of my own when I grew up. I could not envision life without him, my brother, but I would have one room with book-lined walls and a chair near a window. That one room became my future, the way to live after, and I would continue to read myself into other lives instead of dealing with my own.

Other things happened after. When life was good the library didn't matter. Books were piled into stacks on any and every horizontal surface. When life was bad the books were neatly lined on shelves and more shelves.

I've mentioned from time to time that I have hundreds of books. I've read them all. When I was pregnant with my first child I bought sacks of books, any books, any subject, at garage sales and book fairs. I gathered books up from the trash, begged them from decaying piles in thrift shops, and accepted them from people when they moved.

The ultimate irony is that my children don't view this fantastic wealth of alternate reality with the same need that I have. This is a testament to a happier home life, I guess, and also a disappointment. Our books ... my books ... gather dust and are prone to mold in the heat and humidity of this river valley.

I told my children to select any children's books they wanted to keep, and we would find homes for the rest. The kids expressed doubt that anyone would want the books, and in irritation I said I would burn them to keep them from molding if I had to. The kids were shocked. At least that much has rubbed off on them.

The first load of books went to an after-school program. There were maybe 60 or 70 books in the pile, and they were all gone in thirty seconds. The kids swooped on the pile with squeals of glee. Every child in the room got at least one. The children asked when I wanted him to return the books. I told them those books belonged to them.

Such a small thing brought such joy. Some of the kids came back with special requests. I've been able to grant them so far.

A new dream slipped into place: I will put a library in every child's room in our school district. The per family income level in this area is less than $14K per year, and most of the families are minorities. There is no money for books out here, even garage sale books. I know places where I can fill a grocery bag with books for a dollar, and if I explain where the books are going I may get a few more added for free.

I don't need donations for this project. If you have books you don't need, try taking them to a school and just giving them away. It'll make you feel like Santa Claus.

My brother has been with me all week.

Helen, you never fail to amaze me. How I wish we were neighbors.

When we first graduated from college and got our first "real" jobs, my wife and I were poor as church mice (and of course, didn't hardly know it). We had a second-hand couch and two mismatched dining chairs with a little red-topped table. But the first time we had money to spare, we went into Houston to a big used book store near Rice University. What treasures, and what wonderful days. We would load up the old Volvo wagon with armloads of books; big travel books, novels for her, history or sailing stories for me. We would always keep just enough money to go across the street and have lunch at a Kosher Deli; fat pastrami sandwiches and borsch so sour your throat would close up if you tried to eat it too fast.

That was thirty years ago, and now I have dusty crates full of old dreams stored away; forgotten. My youngest son brought me a rare copy he found just last week. He admonished ME to take care, as it was worth quite a lot. I couldn't tell him how much it was worth to me.

Helen, you never fail to amaze me. How I wish we were neighbors.

When we first graduated from college and got our first "real" jobs, my wife and I were poor as church mice (and of course, didn't hardly know it). We had a second-hand couch and two mismatched dining chairs with a little red-topped table. But the first time we had money to spare, we went into Houston to a big used book store near Rice University. What treasures, and what wonderful days. We would load up the old Volvo wagon with armloads of books; big travel books, novels for her, history or sailing stories for me. We would always keep just enough money to go across the street and have lunch at a Kosher Deli; fat pastrami sandwiches and borsch so sour your throat would close up if you tried to eat it too fast.

That was thirty years ago, and now I have dusty crates full of old dreams stored away; forgotten. My youngest son brought me a rare copy he found just last week. He admonished ME to take care, as it was worth quite a lot. I couldn't tell him how much it was worth to me.

Helen, when I first read your piece, I laughed at your statement about your kids being shocked at the thought of burning books. My kids wanted to know what was so amusing, so I made them read, too. They both caught right away what was amusing - they'd have the same reaction exactly if I threatened to burn books! And what a lovely memorial of your brother - a library for every child. Good for you!

Lon, I *still* spend more money than I should on books. I don't still have every one I ever bought, though. I've given a few away and sold a few and lost a few more. I still have the great majority of the books I've bought. And read more than 99% of them. It's always a pleasant surprise to find a book that somehow got into the wrong pile and hasn't yet been read....

Awe helen, I think I love you

Your writing is just amazing. Girl, get something published, you have a gift. You know I have always told you that. I have recently purchased a few journals and will try my hand at writing. It's supposed to be great therapy, if nothing else. Did you know that when a person is doing something creative such as painting or writing, etc, their brain waves have been found to be different from the other conscious states; like it alters electronic impulses or brain activity. This might explain why it feels good to be creative and why people relax and seem happier when they are being inventive. Just some interesting stuff I've been reading about. I have also picked up some paints and brushes, strictly beginners stuff, but now I digress. (I have never thought of myself as artistic btw, so this is all funky)

I LOVE my books too, and accumulating them. Pretty soon this tiny place is going to be lined with them too and overrun. And can't fathom parting with even one.
I think if more people would take their kids to a Borders or a BarnesnNobles instead of disneyland or six flags, they would see good things and changes. My family loves it. And we have come to love our saturday trips to the library.
The best things in life are free, or very close to it. [img]smile.gif[/img]

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ March 08, 2003 12:15 PM: Message edited by: Pen Name ]</font>

You never know just how a kid takes things, how he gets "stuck". Times like these bring me up short with a thought that seems new and foreign every time:

He's not coming back.

She's still waiting for him, her brother.