The library booksale is the last weekend in February. I’ve gone nearly every year for the past 20 years. Jerry called it my Superbowl.
In the past I’ve gone a little nuts, filling several bags and suitcases with stuff. This year was a little different. I still bought but only those things I felt I wouldn’t find again, or not easily find. Those that I really, really wanted, needed. I picked up a lot but put most of it back. I tried to imagine where I’d put it and that’s why I left the 2 volume set of the shorter Oxford dictionary,priced at six bucks, behind. I’m sure it will find a good home.
I even bought a few things for Bear. My son is a discerning reader and it relieves me that he likes to read. My family valued education, at least they told me they did but I never saw anyone read for pleasure. My mom took me to the library but never showed interest in books. When, if they read it was magazines or the newspaper. They didn’t discourage my reading habit but didn’t really encourage it much. Going to bookstores wasn’t something we did. I was odd and shy, bookish and they weren’t sure why, what was wrong with me. Why I’d rather read than go play. My mom said once at one of my birthday parties the other kids were playing and I was in a corner reading a book. She felt this wasn’t right. But even now I’d rather be reading than interacting with people, most of the time.
Booksale is my happy place. I am glad to be surrounded by so many fellow readers, fellow misfits. But it isn’t all bliss. Some people have bad hygiene, BO. Occasionally someone passes gas. Hopefully it’s a toddler but usually an adult. Talking to oneself, singing, behaviors that keep people at a distance don’t work here. There are too many people crowded in a room, around tables searching. Most are polite and apologize for bumping you or trying to get past. It’s not for the easily discouraged, but it’s worth powering through. When you find that book, record or whatever thrills you, it is worth it.