Bookstory

Hubby and I were out birthday shopping for V. last night and decided to stop by The Dusty Bookshelf, our neighborhood vintage bookstore. I have always loved the nooks and crannies of used bookshops, and the treasures you can find there. One of my hopes for V. is that he will end up loving books and bookshops as much as I do. They have given me so many wonderful memories.

There was the one I went to in Columbus from the time I was 11 or 12. It was a great little shop with a great owner...a true collector. He had a passion for fine books. Some of the first books in my antique book collection came from this shop. My daddy would take me for a special occasion, usually my birthday, and we would walk in the door to the jingle of a bell. There was a fish tank and a pot of stale coffee always sitting in the middle of the store, and sometimes another collector sitting in one of the armchairs talking to the owner about books he had for sale. I would wander through the tightly wedged shelves and debate for an hour whether I wanted this book or that, and end up handing over my precious birthday money for a 19th century edition of Tennyson, perhaps, or an ancient textbook.

A few years ago I decided to go back to visit the shop. I walked in, alone, to the familiar tinkle of the bell and stood in the middle of the shop. Something felt wrong; a chill ran down my spine. A very young man came out of the back room of the shop and asked if he could help me. I walked towards him, the uncomfortable feeling still lingering in my spine, and asked where the owner was. "Oh," he said, and stopped. "He died two weeks ago, of a heart attack. I came in to work the next morning and found him lying there." He pointed to the spot I had been standing when I walked in, in the middle of the bookshelves. I started to cry, for some reason. I had not been in for so long, and had come in that day wanting to tell the quirky old man how much I had always loved his shop and looked forward to coming there as a child. And I had missed him by two weeks.

He had died suddenly, in the middle of the things he loved most. It was fitting somehow.

The young man asked if I had known him. I couldn't say I really had known him, in the true sense of the word. But I felt as though I had. Every book in the room had been hand-selected, by him. I asked what would happen to the shop....and discovered that the books were being sold off for pennies and the owner's widow was selling the shop. I asked him to convey my condolences to the widow, and walked out. I felt sick. I went to my car and drove away, bewildered by the abrupt slam-shut of a treasured memory.

I had missed him by only two weeks, forever.