A couple of days ago, i walked 13 blocks to the bank. Beside it was a shop which sign read "Galveston Bookshop". On this sunny, pleasant day, i decided to drop by.
A forty something lady greeted me as i entered. she was seated behind the counter amid shelves of used books, and perched on the cash register was a cat who was staring at me. i immediately fell in love with the place. it looked like a scene from those story books i often "borrowed" from the library but somehow "forgot" to return.
When we were little, my sister and i had lots of books that we decided to create our own library. We catalogued them Dewey Decimal System style, complete with those call numbers and cards. Neat huh? More of like the beginnings of obsessive-compulsive behavior if you ask me.
Eventually we couldn't keep it up as the books would one by one disappear I would lend my classmates my best books, oblivious to the fact nobody was really interested in my hardy boys, or nancy drew casefiles, or my choose-your-own adventure classics. i always insisted (short of shoving it down their throats) that they borrow my books, . i guess i just wanted them to appreciate and experience they joys of reading. They'd reluctantly take the book and pretend to
be interested. In the end, the book would be forgotten and wouldn't be returned to me. I treasured those books.
i wonder if kids still read stories about Indians, about William Tell and Pippi Longstockings, of Horace the Happy Ghost, or everyday tales of the early american children when america was mostly rural. i hope they do.
now i'm reading Len Deighton's Winter which i got for $2.50.
