 Dad’s Books Several months ago I wrote about my father giving me most of his library. I was touched by the gesture even if our reading tastes rarely overlap. I lugged home a trunk filled with books, mostly hardcover with still perfect dust jackets, mostly fiction. They included civil war fiction, current military thrillers, historical thrillers, fiction and nonfiction about law, and some old military memoirs. Perhaps twenty made their way onto my shelves where I could find room, but many were still in bags on my bedroom closet floor because my bookshelves are so crowded that my books are flowing over onto various tables. Every once in a while I went in and looked through the bags but wasn’t able to do much with them. Despite that I didn’t want to get rid of them because they aren’t just books, they are Dad’s books. Some had inscriptions from me or my youngest brother—the only other reader in my family outside my parents. A few of the books were nearly as tight and clean as if they had just been taken off a bookstore shelf. But most were obviously read, and some even so well thumbed they fell open immediately, their spines as flexible as any yoga master. Saturday night I decided for some reason that I no longer needed to hang on to all of them, that Dad’s books could be divided into those that I wanted to keep and those I didn’t need to keep. So I began by pulling the bags out of the closet and re-piling them on the living room rug. Then I went over my bookcases shelf by shelf removing his books that sat among mine. For two hours I was surrounded by cats and books, sorting the latter into “keep,” “maybe,” and “give away” piles. Mostly, it went smoothly. But there were times when I just stopped, a book in my hands that I touched, opened, read a page or two from, and set gently aside. These were the keepers. My dad was in the Navy in World War II, and he indulged himself in lighthearted books like the lighthearted Cap’n Fatso, more intense stories such as The Year of Jubilo and Street Boys, and others including Ernie Pyle’s Here is Your War: The Story of G. I. Joe, The Terrible Hours, and Undercover Tales of World War II, a gift from me on Father’s Day, 1999. But war isn’t the only subject on which he read. Louis L’Amour was a big favorite and a biography of John Wesly Powell are here. But his greatest love was the law. Fiction and nonfiction—he collected a fair number but read far, far more. (Finances being what they were, he was a big borrower from the library, caring not so much that he owned the books but that he could read them.) In his later years, he read every Scott Turow and most of John Grisham’s books that came out, but he started on legal novels and biographies far earlier. Dad would have made a fine lawyer had he elected to go to college after he got out of the war. But instead of college, he married my mother after the war and they started their family beginning with me. I know he has no regrets, at least none he will admit to having, but I sometimes feel for him. His principles and the internal strength and fortitude he possess along with his courage would have made him an district attorney. And he would have loved the work if his passion for legal novels and biographies is any indication. So it’s these law-related books I am keeping along with the war and a few other ones. The rest went up on Freecycle. I am well known there for giving away books so I was not surprised to start receiving e-mails soon after my post went live on Sunday morning. Within an hour all the books had been taken by four people who were “worthy” of Dad’s books. One woman in particular, who asked for the books in order to give them to her elderly parents who are shut-ins, was thrilled. I was touched. It felt right. I know that the books Dad has read, loved, kept, and passed on to me are going into hands of others who will treasure them as he did, and perhaps pass them along too. They will not end up languishing on thrift store shelves. More importantly to me is the fact that I kept the ones that are most dear to me because they were most dear to him. His hopes and dreams, his loves and his passions are in the books still on my shelves. They reside among mine in no particular order. The feelings attached to each one are here. And you know, I think I will add one or two to my nightstand so that I can share his books now. The man taught me to read. The least I can do is read his life in his books. Upcoming Book Festivals and Fairs: Location: Decatur, Georgia The Pub House: Not high literature to be sure but for those who enjoy the covers and the brutal storylines of classic pulp this is a great publisher to keep an eye on. What he Imaging Books & Reading: Of Interest: “We believe passionately in the power of ideas to change attitudes, lives and ultimately, the world,” they write. “So we're building here a clearinghouse that offers free knowledge and inspiration from the world's most inspired thinkers, and also a community of curious souls to engage with ideas and each other.” Their “talk tags” are numerous, ranging from “Activism” to “Wunderkind.” Until next week, read well, read often and read on!
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