Reflections on the long ago, or not so

small brave thing #228

Hello beautiful human,

Once upon a time—and some of you will remember this, and for some of you this will be a legend from the long ago mists and curlicues of whispered myth—but whichever it proves to be, we know there’s a story to come whenever we hear that phrase, once upon a time…so lean in and breathe deep and imagine with me…

1.

Once upon a time there were no buttons to click.

If you wanted to learn about something, you went to a library, a newspaper archive, or an elder in the community.

If you wanted to find something to do you had to take a walk, call a friend on a phone with a cord, or come up with an activity on your own. This last choice could lead to some strange places. Some of us remember playing dress up by taping cotton balls to our faces. I don’t remember why but the photos exist because I haven’t destroyed them yet.

Now, back in this time I’m talking about, if you wanted to buy something, you actually had to venture out into the world and find where the thing—or something else close enough--was at. Imagine. It was a bit of a treasure hunt I suppose, although we didn’t think in those terms then. It all seemed very ordinary.

We had to find the shops that sold toys, or clothes, or hardware, or auto parts, or furniture. These shops were often owned and run by people who lived in our community. Neighbors, parents of our peers at school, friends. In larger communities, finding these places often involved a book with thin yellow pages. I can’t explain it. It sounds unbelievable, I know.

There were even shops that sold books.

Now in these long ago times, every shop had its own distinct atmosphere and the bookshops most of all. Some were narrow and poorly lit. Others were sunny with very big windows. A few were found in basements with fluorescent lights, but those weren’t the best ones. Some had stairs and others simply stretched, room by room, back what seemed like forever. Narrow hallways would point “Mystery This Way” or “Romance Around the Corner” or “Oceans and Biology Under the Stairs” and we didn’t know how prophetic these signs were. We simply thought they were for showing us where the books were we were looking for.

Photo by Norbert Tóth on Unsplash

In short, we had no idea of the fragility and temporality of the world we traversed. We took for granted the people behind the counters and tables. The ones who ordered the books or went out on weekends searching for them at garage and estate sales. We thought those people would always be there. We didn’t know what an algorithm was much less how hungry it would be to devour all of our favorite haunts and hangouts. We took our neighbors as for granted as the timber barons took the old growth forests of North America. And it wasn’t just the people. Some of these shops had cats. Some had clocks. Chairs, pillows, paintings, parties. All of them took on a bit of the personality of the person who owned them. And with time they came to take on a bit of the community’s personality too.

2.

Believe it or not, in some places bookshops like this still exist. One of my favorites is Nooks, and I highly recommend you read owner Shawn Smucker’s The Courage to Live It, for a behind the scenes glimpse. Very inspiring! And thanks to Bookshop.org, you can find an independent bookshop in your area and support it with your book-buying dollars if you so choose.

3.

Back in the mists of long ago, I worked at such a store. This would have been two or maybe three lifetimes ago. It was a children’s bookstore in an uninspiring Minnesota strip mall right off the highway. Next to a smoke shop, of all things. Within such a dubious setting, wonderful things happened. Of course they did, because wonderful things always happen when book lovers congregate. Now most of the shop was children’s books but the owner, Dan, had a gift for literature and right in the middle of the store he maintained the most marvelous shelf—a very narrow shelf really—of adult fiction. Somehow, in a way I can’t quite explain, this short shelf held all the books you could want to read. It was perhaps the ninth wonder of a now-gone world. Classics lined up right next to the newest titles—not all the season’s titles, just the best ones. Not the best sellers I mean because Dan had no time for that, but the really good reads. Poetry, fiction, biography, criticism, essay…he had a knack for knowing which writers to pay attention to and which books to order. Many times a parent or grandparent would come in looking for something for their toddler and they would leave with a new read for themselves as well tucked into the bag.

And oh, the feeling of opening a brand new box of books straight off the UPS truck. There’s nothing like it.

4.

When I got divorced and moved to a new house, I got rid of almost all of my personal library. Reader, I used to have three tall, wide book cases that were crammed floor to ceiling with poetry books. It was an entire wall in my writing room. Classics of the canon, the leading names of contemporary writing, and local authors I knew and was friends with, all side by side. I still remember those spines lined up, the colors and fonts of the covers. I was in ongoing conversation with those shelves. My books spoke to me, called to me. Sometimes a random line or stanza would suddenly flash through my mind while I was chopping carrots in the kitchen or pulling laundry out of the wash and if I couldn’t remember who wrote it, I’d go downstairs and stand in front of the shelves and feel for the answer. And many’s the time I bought a book only to think “meh” and put it on the shelf…only to reach for it some months or years later and have it prove to be the exact. right. book. for that moment, a gift from past me and the bookshelf.

Books are not inert. They bristle with voice and intelligence.

And now that collection exists only in my memory. The books have gone on their way into the world; I like to think someone else is reading them now. As I was packing them up, I thought I would do a good deed and donate them to the local library for their quarterly library sale. At first the librarians were astonished and enthusiastic as I brought in my two bags of books loaded to the top. But as I kept returning to the van for more, and as the bags lined up on the counter two by two, their voices got thinner and their eyes got rounder and eventually I realized maybe they didn’t want my entire collection of poetry new and old clogging up their sale. It was an embarrassing moment for all of us. I hastily and cheerily said, “Well, that’s the last of them,” and saw their shoulders slump in relief they tried to hide but couldn’t, quite. Then I drove across town and dropped the rest of the bags—about half of the total—at Goodwill and sped away before anyone could stop me.

It's right that the collection no longer exists. A bookshelf is a biography and I needed to rediscover myself anew. Like everything else in my life, it blew apart. It had to. I had to make room for the possibility of something next.

5.

But back to long ago in a strip mall in Minnesota. Sometimes a customer would walk in looking for a book we didn’t have. And when that happened we would order it specially for them. I’m good with words but I can’t convey to you now the sense of anticipation we used to enjoy on a regular basis. We took it for granted. Now everything or nearly everything appears at the touch of a link on a screen, ephemeral and commanding. We’ve lost the thrill of the wait and the spark of discovery. And we’ve lost so much of our connection to people. That act of going into a store—or calling—and speaking to someone, a bookseller, about a title you want. Inevitably there would follow a conversation about the book, and why you want it, and what you’ve heard about it…that casual unscripted conversation should not be discounted or forgotten. Those interactions were important. We lost something. Something that was precious, as it turns out. And now I think perhaps we begin to remember.

(“Why can’t they use the app? Why can’t they use the automated phone tree?” my colleagues at the pharmacy fret. “We spend so much of our time talking to people and they could just punch the buttons and let us know what they want…”

It’s true it takes time but I never mind talking to our customers on the phone. I believe we do as much for their health and well-being—and the health and well-being of the fabric of our communtiy—through these small interactions. Buy stamps in person. Use the staffed checkout lanes. It’s important.)

What if convenience isn’t our primary value? What if we begin to prioritize connection, discernment, discovery?

What if, instead of inconvenient, the wait is…part of the pleasure?

I don’t have a brick and mortar building, but I do have a bookshop. You can’t find Baker’s Dozen on the streets of my town or anywhere else you might walk into and say hello. It exists only in the imagination but there in the imagination, reader, we may meet. I believe we already have a time or two. You’re welcome any time. The store is a jumble--because I am a jumble sort of a person. I’ve never believed in genres and categories. All the titles mill about and sidle up next to each other and start conversations with each other. And maybe with you.

You’re cordially invited. To peruse and surprise yourself. And, if there’s a title you know you want and you don’t see it, do what we used to do: Reach out to the owner (me) and tell me the title and author and I’ll order it for you. I’ll let you know when it arrives at the store and I’ll tell you where you can find it on the community shelf and purchase it. And then someone else will see it and maybe purchase it too and before you know it, we have a connection, a conversation, maybe even an exchange of ideas.

Yes, it will take a few days for that book to arrive maybe, and I hope it does. Because in the meantime we get all the old-fashioned joy of anticipation.

6.

An…ti…ci…pa…tion. Anyone who has experienced waiting for a berry to ripen on the vine, or a loaf of bread to come out of the oven and cool enough to cut and slather with butter, anyone who has dreamed of a kiss to finally have it be realized in a swoon, well, those folks know the sweet pleasure of slow anticipation and the reward of delight that can not be rushed. There is no shortcut. It’s a human birthright and gift and I believe we can recover it.

Take time. Savor. Connect.

xo
S

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I believe our world needs new stories. what if those stories lie curled within us like seeds? This is An Inviting Space to experience where and how we might discover, recover and nurture the secret, magical gardens of soul day by day. Starting where we are, as we are.

(Not quite ready to subscribe, but want to show a little gratitude for this post? buy me a coffee.)

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A Celebration Corner for sharing the Good Goodies

I just started reading the novel The Forest Brims Over, by Maru Ayase, translated from the Japanese by Hayd Trowell. Ms. Ayase has written nearly twenty books and this is her first translated into English. I imagine that must be quite a feeling. I’m only on chapter one but something very interesting is happening to the young wife (that is her character, yes)…she swallowed a bowlful of seeds and is beginning to grow…

I also read…in a single night…Thorn Hedge by T. Kingfisher. An imaginative retelling of the Sleeping Beauty story. Highly recommend.

I often take inspiration and creative hints from visual artists. Their ways of thinking and exploring give me new ideas for how to think about my writing. Here’s a technique—or mindset—to mull upon from

Samantha Dion Baker

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If you also love bookstores and the memory of bookstores, please please please go watch the documentary The Booksellers. I loved it.

“It was clear that the books owned the shop rather than the other way about. Everywhere they had run wild and taken possession of their habitat, breeding and multiplying, and clearly lacking any strong hand to keep them down.” - Agatha Christie, The Clocks

Your attention and time are the true gifts. Thank you. xoS