The Book Healer

Sweet, savory, fine leather.....not the kind for bondage, but for books. I developed my book bondage, happily enslaved, at the age of ten. I was at a yard sale and saw them with their gilt, floral decorations gleaming in the sunlight, like a beacon from heaven calling to me.

They were red leather, adorably small and in a seven book set of Charles Dickens stories. One of my favorite authors. No matter how nerdy it was for a ten year old to want a leather book set, when all my friends were still playing with Barbies, I didn’t care. They brought me joy at the sight of them. How many things can you say that about? I pulled out ten crumpled ones from my straightleg Levi’s and they were mine!

I balanced them in the little paper bag the lady had given me on my handlebars and rode home as fast as I could to show my parents my treasure.

They were impressed at my “good eye” for a bargain. I put them on a shelf by my window so I could see then at the bottom of my bed and the sight of them made me happy every day. Soon they were joined by other worn volumes of children’s fables, the history of the Egyptians and one I wish I still had on President’s speeches, from 1850.

Then the rescue missions and my lifelong puruit of antique books really took off. I never had a lot of money to spend but I began to teach myself about what was rare and valuable. This is before the internet so I had to keep it in my head and couldn’t “cheat” to look it up.

Serious collector’s and booksellers will tell you that the condition of the book completely determines it’s value, but I would argue that there is significant value in its surviving and living with people and being lovingly read.

I wanted to learn to bind books to repair them, and I tried this but it was too hard for me. I did discover I could do decent minor repair work using archival, PH balanced products that librarians used to repair books. The right stuff.

Some of them were terrible. Both the condition of the books and the librarians. Spine covers coming off in pieces, detached boards, crayon and pencil marks and torn pages. Damn kids left to scribble or draw on beautiful illustrations. Ugghh.

The worst were the ones sadistic librarians took their unresolved anger issues out on: stamping ink with the library name, sometimes on every page, (serious anger issues) gluing and taping in horrible configurations, using a perforated stamp that left sad holes in the paper. I have determined there is a special place in hell for these authorized book manglers and I cringe each time I have come across it.

No matter how bad the condition of a rescue book, it may have other treasures it gives up upon discovery. Over the years, I have found old newspaper clippings of major events of WWII, photos of sweethearts, faded with age, small wreaths of hair, woven after a loved one’s death as a sad momento, elaborate and beautiful paper cuttings that were robin’s egg blue and intertwined with hearts and birds, bookmarks of various fabrics and designs and once, a book signed by Langston Hughes, the poet, that made me squeal with excitement when I discovered it and its value.

I have found joy in researching other signatures in books too. I found relatives of the President Grover Cleveland, a legitimate Nathaniel Hawthorne signature, a book owned by the parents of Buckminster Fuller, the geodesic dome guru, and have enjoyed the heartfelt inscriptions of not famous people like, “ From Grandma to my best girl, December 25th, 1909”, “To Prudi from Sam, hope you enjoy the book and the flower, yours, Sam”, “ ( Just one flower?) On the advent of your journey to Africa to serve God as a missionary, our prayers go with you- Sabbath Day Sunday School.” Each inscription like a secret told to me, a person revealed and I often imagine how they opened it and smiled at the sentiment.

The best of these was not about love but a significant threat of violence It was the book curse I found, written by a sailor in 1836, promising that, “ anyone who steals this book will be thrown through the gates of hell to never return!” There’s a guy seriously protective of his books! Of course I wondered if it had been in his possession for good or if some thief had helped it find its way to me! Hopefully, I was not guilty by association.

I was able to research the sailor’s name and ship and from that information could trace where he had sailed all over the world. I felt as if I knew him having seen his travels.

Once I found a large engraving of a man ,who I discovered had been abducted by Native Americans, in the West, in the 1800’s. The story was facinating as he was eventually returned.

His descendants miraculously found my listing on Ebay and they had a family gathering to place great, great, great grandpa on the mantle, newly framed. I was so happy that my research had returned him to his people. I had found his picture in the bottom of a pile of books in a junk shop. He was seventy-five cents.

Another interesting rescue was a diary from 1840 which was that of a rare female physician in Maine. I read the whole thing in one night and her courage in treating smallpox, taking her horse and buggy out in all weather and darkness to treat people in place where she was the only person with medical training for miles was so inspiring. It was a privilege to repair that worn book and have it find its way to a museum.

By constrast was the 1800’s diary of a Maine woodsman whose daily weather report was devoid of emotion : “weather fair”, “rain today”, “humid and buggy”, except for him noting the death of a dear friend ( a damp spot made me wonder if it was tear stained) “ lost John Farnsworth today, known him since we were six”and his being disgusted with a blizzard that had lasted too long. “ snow keeps coming, day four and I’m weary of shoveling!” No expletives but he was mad. Only exclamation point in 200 pages!

It is almost as if they want me to find them and bring their stories to life, to whisper in my ear, “Don’t let people forget me, tell them about how I lived”. The books were treasured possessions, after all. Most people only had a couple in those days. They are time capsules to other places and cultures, lifestyles and moments frozen on the pages.

Right now I am downsizing, having moved into a smaller house. This includes my substantial collection (hoard) of dilapidated books. It is painful, but it must be done. I laugh as I start the piles. On the right, the “keep” pile, towering at ten books or more, having gone through them twice. On the left, the “give away”, two books that I keep eyeing just to be sure. I am conflicted. There are about twenty-five boxes left to go, probably an understatement. At this rate , I will surely give away about five but I regret none of it. I have healed the books, the books have comforted and healed me.

There is nothing like the satisfaction of taking something that is two hundred years old and tired and making it sturdy again, bringing back the luster of fine red leather to last for generations to come.

Someday, when my chapters have all been read I hope a young kid on a bike or a jet pack will show up. They will find my books and my inscriptions and take off home excitedly with my treasures and remember me.