A Life Told by Books

To me, a house isn’t a home without books.

I DON’T HAVE THE BEST MEMORY, both for dayto-day tasks (apologies if I owe you an email— I’m sure I wrote a reminder ... somewhere), and for events of the past. There’s much from my childhood that’s blurry, or just completely missing, a source of exasperation for my mother. Apparently, a road trip to Story Land, during which your baby cousin screams nonstop, doesn’t rate as steel-trap material. Sorry, Mom (and Dad, who was driving). I’m sure I appreciated your endurance and commitment to creating a magical day. When Rebecca Rule pitched me the idea for this issue’s “At Home in NH” piece (“Home Is Where the Books Are,” page 96), I didn’t need convincing. For one, she’s a talented storyteller. Second, my house, too, is filled with books. And whenever I think about my (usually) overflowing collection, one particular memory I did manage to hold onto is never far from the surface.

Growing up, I loved spending time at our local public library. Over the years, I moved on from the kids’ section to young-adult area, both located on the first floor. I can’t say I read every single book, but one day I realized I’d reached the end, or at least the end of what interested me. I don’t remember exactly how the conversation went, but the gist was this—I asked a librarian for … something else. I didn’t know what.

Just something more. “What’s next?” I might have said.

She pointed me upstairs. Where the grownups went. Up I went, nervously wondering if this was really allowed. At the top of the stairs, I took a right, and there it was—the fiction section. It had taller shelves than the floor below, meaning that many more books to explore. I was, in that moment and many more thereafter, one happy little nerd. I felt both excited and deeply content.

Every time I walked upstairs following that day, whether as a patron or employee (eventually they paid me to hang around books, a job I kept off and on through college), that feeling of discovering what seemed like unlimited reading would resurface. To this day, the sensations of wonder, happiness and peace still drift back to me in libraries and bookstores. Surrounded by books is my happy place.

My home shelves aren’t as packed as a store or library, and though I don’t keep every book I’ve read, I hang onto the ones I love (or really like, or sort of like …). Picking up a book sparks memories—of the way I felt when I finished it, about the person who recommended it, the little out-of-the-way shop where I found it. When it comes to the really special ones, I remember the first time I read them, the bittersweet knowledge that they couldn’t last forever, and that I’d never be able to experience those first impressions again.

Perhaps my memory for most things is full of holes because I’ve dedicated so much space to the books I love. Not necessarily passages, but the people, places and emotions forever linked to them. The seventh-grade teacher who thought I might like A Tree Grows in Brooklyn; the day I tore through The Golden Compass (sitting, alternately, at the table in the cabin of my family’s boat and a chair by the helm); my mom, reading me Eloise, Matilda, Little Women or Anne of Green Gables in my childhood bedroom; an imposing college professor who unlocked Faulkner (the only 8 a.m. class I ever looked forward to). I might not remember every family trip, holiday or teacher, but I have my own imperfect map to the past: books.

My home will always be where my books are because they’re my way back to more than just stories—they’re the keepers of important memories, and in that way they tell my story too. Now, if only they could help me remember where and when my next meeting is taking place, then life would be that much closer to perfect.