About Me

I am a writer and artist with the soul of a swing-dancing Pony Express rider. Interests include consumerism, classic films, environmental issues, scent-free living, health, science, writing, and robots. My blog reflects exploration in word and image. I can’t promise how often I will or won't post.

I Once Bought 100 Books in a Week

I once bought a hundred used books in a week. Books entice me like jewels sparkling in shadowy corners.


As a kid, I explored dilapidated abandoned houses and looked around but didn't take things. I wanted to feel those spaces uninterrupted for years, sometimes decades. My mind wandered among dust covered tidiness or within vacant buildings whose history etched the floorboards. One forgotten two-story was missing its middle from the ceiling into the basement like something had donut-holed it. Light filled a weather-spun core of leaves and webs.

Another nearby house set back from the street, overgrown with trees and bushes, lured me in many times. A shell of a place. Three rooms downstairs plus a big side porch and a toilet closet. The house remained as it was in past days--plumbing-free and without electricity. The upstairs had two open rooms. This place became my haunt. One day it went up for auction. My mom had the high bid. Sixty dollars. The land had no resale value because of a 99-year land lease, something to do with the defunct mining company. Now my brother, sister, and I officially possessed a playhouse. It was time to explore the attic. After climbing through the dark rafters, we carried down a traveling case containing a Catholic prayer altar and two old books. One was a volume of Shakespeare, the other a slightly charred-looking copy of Gone With The Wind. I've moved many times but have kept these books all of these years.

I prefer hardcovers. Packing and unpacking boxes of heavy books during my many moves led to finally giving in and donating most of them. My allergies don't miss that dusty book smell, but my internal librarian pines for each rehomed friend.


I keep my remaining paper books behind glass bookshelf doors. My e-reader goes everywhere when traveling and is much lighter than a stack of books. I'm on my third Kindle. My husband bought our first Kindle, which we shared, so all of our purchases were tied to his account. That was a mistake because now I have my own account and e-books are not transferable. At least there's a list of the books for reference. The paper books I donated are forgotten until little blips pop up reminding me--yes, I loved that book on Truman, Selznick, Marilyn, so many more, and all of those art books. A book can remind you not only of its story but your life when you read it. Now, I either need to use the shared Kindle Keyboard (which I clung to because its E-ink gave my eyes a break from illuminated screens) or rebuy all of my books so that I can read them on my current Kindle's account. Lesson learned.
Those hundred books and more, each one spoke to me and said I'd need it then or maybe sometime in the future as a piece of my personal puzzle.
Books have propelled my life and given me a home. The words flowing from someone's pen or keyboard flooded a page and carried me to places and adventures I needed to go out and experience for myself. Maybe that's why I'm always on the move. Home is where the words dwell.


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