Booksellers

I got a chance the other night to have dinner with some booksellers.

I’ve always loved books. I was one of those kids who begged to be left at the bookstore rather than dragged to the Sears & Roebucks next door and then fussed when it was time to leave. I like to feel a book's weight in my hands, to smell the ink on the pages, and to allow myself to be drawn in by a cover that holds infinite promise.

So for me, a person with a lifelong addiction to books, dinner with booksellers was a chance to mingle with my dealers, up close and personal.

I ended up having a wonderful time. For one, these people were great – fun, interesting, and everything you would expect from people who are devoted to books.

They were also very patient. They did not flinch for a moment when I babbled on and on about fond memories of hours spent wandering among their shelves; or when I divulged that at readings I sometimes get lost in other titles on my way to a podium; or when I told the story about driving around lost one night in a New England town with my twins wailing in the back seat because I absolutely had to get to one of their stores.

But as the dinner went on, I noticed that there was also something deeply familiar about many of them. It was not that I had met them before (I hadn’t, for the most part). Nor was it that there might have been some common friend (again, not so for the most part). Instead, it was that their stories – about running their businesses while taking care of their families – reminded me of my own past.

For a good chunk of my childhood, my parents ran small businesses. They started with a concession stand, selling trinkets; progressed to a small corner grocery store; went on to own an ice cream store; and eventually ended up in the clothing business.

With these booksellers, I found I could share more than my love of books. I could share some of my childhood memories. I recalled our family freezer, filled with tubs of ice cream remainders, flavors that never sold. There were vacations and weekends spent accompanying my father to fairs and flea markets, not because I was any huge help at age 10 but because without my presence, my father would not have been able to step away for even a minute. And there were holidays where my father and mother, working to keep their stores open, would come home exhausted to three children who would then demand some festive celebration.

So when one of the booksellers asked me, “How do you manage to do it all?” I wanted to ask all of them the same.

Now when I go to my readings, I still feel giddy walking into the stores. And I still have a tendency to get lost on the way to the podium. But these days, I also cannot help but also look in admiration at those who are hosting me.

Comments

[Michael Coady]

Having admired you as an incredibly bright and technically gifted surgical resident while we were in training at Yale, I’m not surprised to have read the rave reviews about your new book. You’ve always been an inspiration to me.

I just ordered a copy online tonight and can’t wait to read it. I’m glad you had the courage to write about such an important subject. Wishing you much continued success.

Michael Coady, M.D.

[Sil]

HI P-
I like your latest blog entry. It reminds me of my own childhood spent wandering around the Norton Flea Market every Sunday with my $3 paycheck for helping my dad set up. Candy or beads, candy or beads???
All about the stories- right??
Finished the book last night. Hope all's well.
Sil