Autumn Traveler: What's on your bookshelf?

Antique collection

My love of books started on my mother's lap. It isn't the stories I remember nor my mother's voice, but her hands as she turned the pages. We sat together on an old rocking chair and I loved that time when it was just my mother and me.

When we were children my mother took my brother, sister and me to the library every two weeks. We walked up some creaky stairs to the library, which in the late 40's and early 50's, was on the second floor of a building in downtown Shelby. We were able to pick out several books and I remember one time when just my sister and I were at the library with my mother. When Nancy and I looked up at the librarian and gave her our books to be stamped she said, "You two have the most beautiful eyes." Who wouldn't love to go to the library when we were told that?

My love of books continued into grade school. I was fond of the biographies of famous people that lined the bookshelves in fourth and fifth grades. My favorite was one about Jane Addams. I wanted to be Jane Addams. Jane lived from 1860 to 1935 and became the first woman to be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize and is known as the founder of the social work profession in the U.S. Jane established Hull House in Chicago where she made social services available to immigrant women of the neighborhood. I was fascinated by her story and for many years thought I would follow her path. In many ways, my teaching career had elements of social work.

Books from my childhood became pathways for our own children beyond the stories. The Laura Ingalls Wilder series took us during summer breaks to Walnut Grove, Minnesota (On the Banks of Plum Creek), DeSmet, South Dakota (Little House on the Prairie, By the Shores of Silver Lake, The Long Winter, Little Town on the Prairie), and Mansfield, Missouri (These Happy Golden Years).

I just finished rereading The Long Winter in order to compare our winter with the dangerous winter the Wilders experienced on the prairie. Laura was writing for children and never sensationalized what happened to her family, but The Long Winter shows how close they came to starving to death. For months they had nothing but brown bread and tea to eat each day. They were forced to twist hay for heat and grind wheat for bread and the effort of that daily routine took more energy than they really had. When the train stopped running before Christmas and didn't come again until the last day of April because of unending blizzards, their supplies quickly ran out and they had no meat nor vegetables. It made me realize that complaining this winter about the cold and snow shows the average American knows nothing about a tough life, me included.

A book that took us on a long road trip across Canada to Prince Edward Island was Anne of Green Gables. The island was delightful but we also drove up Cape Breton and toured Fortress Louisbourg at the northeast end of the island. Unlike PEI, there was a bridge crossing over to Cape Breton Island. We came back to Nova Scotia and circled Halifax to go to Peggy's Cove, a small picturesque fishing village on the Atlantic. That trip was more than just experiencing Anne of Green Gables. It was broadening our horizons to see that there were different landscapes and jobs that people had. We also learned about the unusual high tides of the Bay of Fundy, which separates Nova Scotia and New Brunswick.

After finishing a good book I have been immersed in for days, I always have a sense of loss. I miss the characters and the apprehension of where the story will take me. Such was the case of a recent read, The Goldfinch, a novel by Donna Tartt. It was a rather tough story with dysfunctional characters. Even though it had a somewhat satisfying ending, it was complicated as the main character explained his view of life. This was Donna Tartt's third novel. I was so intrigued by this book that I am now reading her first novel, The Secret History, and discovering that her characters in this book also have complicated problems. I keep turning the pages.

Books overfloweth at our house. My husband favors history. My half of the bookshelves contain poetry, fiction, travel books and my journals. We have shelves of children's books that we bought for our own children and grandchildren. We have bookcases in our den, a big bookcase in our family room and I have books tucked here and there in piles in out of the way places. That does not count all the novels in boxes stored away. Their value is in the pleasure or pain the words have brought me over the years. They will all eventually go into someone else's collection, but I hope never discarded. Holding a book is like having a little world in my hands to explore at my leisure. What's on your bookshelf? I'd love to know.