An elderly man came into the library this week with a special request. His wife died recently, and he wanted to donate two boxes of her books to the library. He stated that his wife had filled a dedicated home library with hundreds of books ~ most of which were divided among their four daughters. Only two large cardboard boxes of books remained. We accepted his donation to add to our ongoing book sale.
Even with the best intentions, most death-related donations are shoddy-looking paperbacks or moldy-smelling Reader's Digest Condensed Books...especially when the donor makes the statement that "most of the books have been divided and these are the ones that are left." So my branch manager and I rummaged through the books to check their condition, which was surprisingly pristine ~ almost brand new. As I separated the books by subject and genre, I began to see a life unfolding. The deceased wife and mother had enjoyed books about gardening, cooking, crafting, and decorating ~ as one-half of the two boxes clearly noted. The remaining books were grouped into a singular subject area: weight loss. Years of bestselling diet and fitness books (many of which our library did not own a cataloged copy) made up the other half.
With so many weight loss books, I couldn't help but wonder...was she overweight when she died? She certainly did not aspire to live (or die) in an overweight condition. Judging by the sheer volume of books that she purchased, her desired body weight was the primary focus of her life. Had she simply read about weight loss, or did she finally achieve the outcome she was seeking? Was her weight a contributing factor to her death? Or had she accomplished her weight loss goals and lived a healthy life? Also, why was this popular collection of weight loss books weeded in its entirety by her four daughters? Her cardboard box of books clearly had a story to tell.
That's when I had a Tomorrow Trunk moment to take from the day and tuck away. What story would my cardboard box of books tell? Would a total stranger looking through my box of books have any idea of the life I've lived? Which books would my children keep and which books would they give away? As much as I love my books for what they have spoken to me, what would my box of books say about me?
After taking an quick inventory last night, my cardboard box of books is divided into seven groups: 1) Children's Literature, 2) Writing/Storytelling, 3) Spiritual Enlightenment and Devotionals, 4) Dogs, 5) Domestic Life (decorating, cooking, gardening), 6) Travel, and 7) Rare Books. I lay in bed this morning, perused my shelves, and tried to imagine which books of mine would end up at the local library ~ culled by my own kids.
I decided that my travel books would probably be the first to go, mainly because I have not traveled to my desired destinations. Those books might remind my children of something that I had hoped to do, but never fulfilled (as of this writing); however, that notion isn't completely true. My most favorite travel books have transported me to Tuscany, Vermont, and Prince Edward Island. I have taken literary trips through Sonoma Wine Country, along the Big Sur Coastal Highway 1, and to the top of the Empire State Building. I have even flipped through the Mississippi Delta on a food lover's road trip ~ recipes included. I own beautifully illustrated books about America's hidden corners, the country inns of the South, the best bike rides in New England, and the world's great gardens...all of which I have viewed from my reading chair.
Which brings me back to the box of weight loss books...there is something so implicitly sad about a collection of a hundred books on any unfulfilled desire, whether it be travel plans, weight loss, money management, sobriety, or marital bliss. I am assuming that the first weight loss book led to the second, and then there were five on up to ten, followed by five more ~ new and improved. After accumulating an entire box, did one book ever make a difference?
I can't let go of that thought. I am bothered that my children might set aside a stack of books that make them feel sorry for me, especially if I am not there to defend that particular segment of my life. I want my box of books to represent a life that was diverse, scopic, evolving, resilient, liberal, and surprisingly sufficient for a wannabe writer and a children's librarian. I surely do not desire to carry a lifelong deficiency with me to the grave, nor do I intend for my children to donate a box of unwanted books that reveal a signature fault, flaw, or failure.
I have always heard that we are what we eat, but are we what we read? Do I see my real self on my bookshelf? I do not wish for my box of books to reveal illusory hopes, impossible dreams, or failed plans. Eventually I hope to swallow one literary seed that grows into something of value and gives true meaning and closure ~ without regret ~ to my cardboard box of books.
Dianne ; )
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