Yesterday’s post reminded me of one of the many things I love about books.
My parents are collectors of old books, and the love of old things was passed down to me.
I still own the book that I was reading in that old photograph of myself I put up yesterday. Here’s what it looks like today.
It’s falling apart, but that doesn’t bother me.
Growing up, it was on the shelf at my grandparents house, and I would always want to pull it off whenever I came to visit to read it. It didn’t matter that they had acres and acres of land, with a tire swing and regular swing and gardens and a sandbox and a tractor that the cousins could all pile into and travel around on my grandfather’s land. I wanted to stay inside and read books. They always let me. My grandmother would make me her special “cuppa-cuppa” and we’d read books together. These are some of the good memories I have of that time in my life.
That book belonged to my grandmother. The inscription on the inside of the book reads, “Emily Greene Christmas 1932.” I don’t have much from my grandmother. This is one of those few treasured possessions of hers that I do own. I’m glad that I have it on my bookshelf. If I can convince my nephew to slow down for five minutes one day, I hope to read him some of the stories, because I think he would love them.
I don’t think it’s actually the oldest book I own. I have collected other old books as
time has gone on. I plan to have a special place for them on top of my piano in my library/spare room once that bedroom is more settled with the rest of the furniture in it. I’d have to do a little digging to see just how old some of those books are. This book, The Doings of Little Bear, was written in 1915.
It is old and fragile and I love it so very much.
Do you have any old books that you have fond memories of?
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