A room without books. . .

For Christmas, my sister made me a beautiful picture that has this quote on it: “A room without books is like a body without a soul.”  It’s attributed to Marcus Tullius Cicero, a Roman statesman who lived a LONG time ago.  I love that quote and luckily, I have no rooms in my house without books.

When I moved in March, I got rid of a lot of my books.  I didn’t get rid of the special ones, but a lot of paperbacks went away. It made me sad, but it was OK. And then, I realized I didn’t have enough bookshelves to hold the books I was bringing with me.  Big problem. 

Right now, not counting my cookbooks, and the bookshelf in my bedroom, I have five large bookcases in my house.  And this may sound foolish, but the bookcases are just as special as the books.  I was thinking today that the places where my books live are just as important to me as the books themselves. Let me explain.

When I moved in this house my friend Mr. Donald built two beautiful bookcases for me. They are literally works of art.  Not only did he build them, but he painted them and delivered them. I came home and they were here. They are pretty big and I thought they would hold all of my books, until I started unpacking them. I not only love those bookshelves because they are beautiful, but because he MADE them for me.  He put part of himself into those bookshelves.  As long as I live, every time I see them, I’ll think of him. 

 

I brought a black bookshelf from my old house.  I repainted it black, but it’s been black for years. This bookshelf has traveled to lots of different houses with us.  For years, it had a pencil sharpener attached to it.  It always seemed bigger when I was a little girl.

(Yes, that’s Master Yoda on top and yes, it’s not arranged very nicely!)

 

Tonight, my friend Dan helped me bring home two other bookshelves.  These don’t look quite as pretty as mine, they’'ve been a little more used and they are a little more beat up. But that’s OK with me.  See, they were my Daddy’s.  Someone who was his friend built them for him, just like Mr. Donald built mine for me. Daddy took them with him through several moves, they’ve been painted (and need it again) and there are dings and knotholes and scratches  in them.  But I think  I’ll keep the dings.  I’ll keep the hole that he cut so it would fit around an electrical outlet.  And when I put my books on it, I’ll smile and I might even cry a little.  Because some of the books I’ll be putting on it came from him. He packed them up for me. I’m not even sure what’s in some of the boxes.  I know there’s some Dave Dawson books and some old Tom Swift books and maybe even an old Tarzan book.

It’s funny how an old bookshelf that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else can mean so much.  Most people wouldn’t have those bookcases in their home, they wouldn’t fit into the décor of their  house, or wouldn’t help create the ambiance they want. But they fit me just fine. And as far as ambiance goes, they hold my books.  And my books hold part of me. It’s like being surrounded all the time by the things and people I love!