I went upstairs yesterday afternoon to burrow under the covers and try to nap but it was too noisy up there. Too many books, all screaming for my attention. All with stories to tell and memories attached.
You see, we have bookshelves in every room of the house. We're overflowing with books. If ever the Raritan River decides to flood its banks, I can supply enough books to build us a dam that would reach from here to New Brunswick. All kinds of books, everything from Jackie Collins to Stephen Hawking. The special ones, though, tend to stick together on the bedroom bookshelves. We're lucky enough to have a big bedroom with a hallway and that hallway is lined with bookshelves, beautiful mahogany shelves that once belonged to my mother and before her to Grandpa's favorite wife Margie. (He had five of 'em.) (Wives, not bookshelves.)
I suppose we can be defined in some very important ways by the book company we keep. These then are the books I keep closest to me, the ones I want within reach on a cold winter's night in central New Jersey. [Read more...]