There is a large accumulation of books in my house. All kinds of books, fiction, poetry, textbooks. I have rehomed many of the volumes, through various means, but many still remain.
An online site, the Book Warehouse, had advertised they would accept all books, even buy some. They would accept any and all books, as long as they weren't torn apart or moldy. I found they would come to my house. I loaded several boxes, planning to put them outside for pickup. I can't keep things forever, you know. But, alas, Book Warehouse, probably due to overload, now accepts only books with a barcode. That excludes my old books, almost all of them. So I guess it's back to dollar day on eBay, which is now dead, or else the garbage. But then, books don't take up that much room, and they are easy to store.
One of the books I came across was P.C. Wren's Beau Geste, and it evokes a vivid memory from long ago. Dorothy and I were avid readers; about the only criticism we ever received from our parents centered on our love for reading. During the day, I can still hear our mother's voice telling us to put that book down and go outside and play and enjoy the day. Our father would thump on the heat register near his bed which opened into the living room when we would be reading late at night. Time to turn off the lights and go to bed. This of course would be after homework had been long completed and we'd be reading from "library books," our guilty pleasure.
On one such night, I was reading a book on the living room couch and Dorothy, probably about 12 years old, was reading in the chair by the window. Suddenly she broke into not only tears, but sobs and headed out the door on her way to upstairs. She turned to me in her despair as she left the room and cried out, "Digby is dead!"
I had not yet read Beau Geste, but soon did, and yes, it was very sad when Digby died.
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