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| Bookshelf. Flickr/Jep |
I stare at the overstuffed, floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in the bedroom. This used to be my mother’s bedroom. One wall is lined with a custom-built shelf she specifically requested when we were constructing this house all those years ago. Now, some of the shelves bow slightly under the weight of two tightly packed rows of books. I’ve been contemplating what to do with them. Perhaps I’ll donate them someday, but first, I feel compelled to catalog the collection. It’s a daunting task, not just because of the sheer volume, but because these books are hers, accumulated over decades, each one a quiet witness to her life and tastes.
The collection is eclectic: romance, mystery, science fiction, fantasy, self-help, reference books. A mixed lot, much like her personality.
I think I inherited my love for books from her. She was a voracious reader. I remember, as a child, she always had a book in hand during quiet moments. She subscribed to Reader’s Digest and regularly ordered their condensed classics. That’s how I was introduced to the classics, albeit in abbreviated form. I graduated from Olga da Polga, the Guinea Pig, to Gulliver’s Travels, Sherlock Holmes, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and the many adventures penned by Jules Verne.
My reading habits evolved through elementary and high school, eventually gravitating toward science fiction, fantasy, and comic books. By college, I had started building my own modest collection.
I recall one afternoon when she was idly browsing my shelf. She asked for recommendations. I hesitated, thinking, "*Nah, you wouldn’t possibly be interested in these, would you?*". I imagined her tastes leaned toward Mills & Boon romances, period fiction like Anne of Green Gables, or philosophical works, such as Ayn Rand's books; she did once mentioned Atlas Shrugged was among her favorites.
To my pleasant surprise, she adored Anne McCaffrey's works. She loved her so much that she began hunting down every book she could find, especially those in the Dragonriders of Pern series. As I catalogue her collection now, I spot duplicate copies of several McCaffrey titles. We weren’t well-off growing up, so buying books meant hours spent combing through Book Sale or flea markets. I can picture her, determined, searching for her favorite author's books among the stacks.
Over time, I introduced her to some of my favorite authors. We talked about Kafka’s surrealism and Borges’ mind-bending short stories. I discovered she was already familiar with Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles, so I shared Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone screenplays. She devoured Raymond Feist’s Riftwar Saga, enjoyed The Hobbit, though she was lukewarm about the rest of Tolkien’s works. She appreciated Neil Gaiman’s lyrical style, especially his short fiction.
Her transition to e-books was seamless. She loved the convenience of having an entire library at her fingertips. Plus, the e-book readers were lighter and easier on the eyes than her iPad Mini. Her first reader was a first-generation Barnes & Noble Nook, followed by a Nook Simple Touch, a Sony e-reader, and eventually a Kindle Paperwhite.
I became her tech support, ensuring she always had fresh books to read, often using Calibre to manage her library. It was especially challenging during the pandemic, trying to do it all remotely.
Despite embracing digital reading, she never abandoned physical books. She’d still pick up a few whenever the opportunity arose. Now that I’m back in my hometown, I recognize familiar spines, some I may have bought for her, others entirely new, and a few I’d like to read myself.
I look at this extensive collection and I feel a myriad of emotions. I don't think it would be right to just dispose of it. These books were carefully chosen, read, and cherished by my mother. They offer a glimpse into her inner world. What did she think of each of these titles? What compelled her to pick up certain titles? Was it merely a familiarity with the author? Or did she genuinely enjoy that first book she read of the author's work and wanted to recapture that enjoyment over and over again with each discovered title in a pile of discounted books. It is a treasure chest filled with wonderful possibilities. It is a monument to her curiosity, her imagination, and the quiet joy she found in stories. And in cataloguing it, perhaps I can understand her a little bit more.
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