Just because I have not posted a blog since January 30th is no indication that I have not tried. I throw out at least half of my attempts. However, there is nothing like writing for a specific date (in this case, a birthday) to outdate my efforts almost before they are published.
I have misplaced an important journal and spent much of yesterday, once again, searching for it. Quite naturally, that led to clearing my book shelves. Now that my youngest grandchildren are learning to read, about one fourth of my accumulated literary treasures would hold no interest to anyone except me. Of course, with a new grandbaby on the way, I'll hang onto most of those books.
Scattered haphazardly on the floor of a seldom-used room were books from various reading stages of my life. Lassie Come Home and coverless Cinderella as well as Hurlburts bible Stories and Aunt Charlotte's Bivle Stories are the only tomes that have survived since childhool.
There is one book that really haunts me. When John and I lived in Beaumont, Calfironia, there was an elderly christian lady who would stop me on a weekly basis and insist that I should read the best piece of literature ever written. Eventually, she brought me a copy of A tree Grows in Brooklyn. I have no idea how many times over the years I have tried to read this novel. I have never made it past the second chapter. I do not know why it has never held my interest; what little I have read was well written and even interesting.
Once again, I removed the book from my bookshelf where I keep books for loaning to people; although this book has never been loaned. Once again, I place it in the stack to take to the used book dealer's shop to trade in. And, once again, I remember the lady who loaned it to me over 40 years ago. And...once again...I place it back on my shelf. What am I feeling? Guilt? perhaps. Motivated? no. But maybe one day I will get around to reading it.
I wonder if others hang onto books or things, not really knowing why?
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2 comments:
You think you're bothered about not being able to find something? What about that poor lady who's been trying to remember where she put her copy of "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn?" Can you imagine how frstrating that must be, wandering around the house muttering, "I know I used to have that book. Now where did I put it?"
As for me, I notorious for having too much stuff.
When I make a stab at thinning out some of the junk I keep renning into treasures which have special meanings attached.
Some of my things are more important as repositories of precious memories than for the pittance I would realize if I put them in a garage sale.
I have drawers and boxes and shelves full of such wonderful ephemera. I can't let it all go because in part they help remind me of who I am and what others have meant to me.
Keep the book!
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