What does one do with a thousand or more books collected throughout
a lifetime that has spanned eight decades?
Before I moved into
my present home in a mobile home park for seniors, I lovingly
obtained and built bookcases to house them. The catalogue, that
took months to assemble, was ensconced in a three-inch ring binder
— by subject, by title, by author.
Here, I ran out of
room. Especially since I continued to collect more and more books.
One of my septuagenarian
girlfriends scoffed at my dilemma. She had wisely given away or
sold all her hard cover books and buys only paperbacks which she
also gives away as soon as she reads them. "Why read a book more
than once?" she wonders.
Well, there are some
books that bear reading only once and some that are discardable
after reading the first ten pages. But I have many that I have
read more than once, or twice, or even five times, finding some
new pleasure in their pages.
To me, a book is a
place to go. I am familiar with many of the locales, having traveled
much throughout the United States in my younger years. But I have
never been abroad except through books which have placed me in
the English countryside, the truly Emerald Isle, the French provinces,
the chilly whiteness of Russia, the wilds of Africa, and every
other place on earth an author has described in vivid, sometimes
poetic, prose. I have dwelled, many times, in the Venezuelan forest
where W.H. Hudson told the tragic story of Rima, the bird girl
— my namesake.
I have met many kinds
and types of people — from Jean Auel's prehistoric adventurers
to Ayn Rand's designers of utopian dreams. I look forward to reading
and re-reading the books of authors like Nicholas Sparks and James
Michael Pratt who draw detailed mental pictures of ordinary people
with deep human emotion. Like David
Westheimer, who treats his whole war experience with sometimes
deadly humor. Like those who propound my own theory that ghosts
stick around sometimes to help the living.
So I have books crowded
onto shelves, piled in corners, stuck haphazardly in boxes stored
on the enclosed screened porch. There are even a few books written
by me (still in manuscript form, probably never to be published)
alongside those of authors of classics, contemporary novels, favorite
mysteries and poetry. Also alongside are thick scrapbooks of my
published non-fiction magazine articles and newspaper stories.
My husband was a Civil
War buff and there are a couple of dozen books on every facet
of that struggle. He was a member of a Navy Underwater Demolition
Team (now known as SEALs) during World War II, and books on that
subject abound. He is no longer here and war stories are not of
great interest to me except for their historical value. They are
worth keeping for that reason alone since truths about wars seem
to vanish as participants turn to dust and political memories
diminish.
When I became interested
in religion about 40 years ago, I started looking at comparative
religions and collected the works of Mary Baker Eddy, the Book
of Mormon, the Koran, the Torah, Thus Sprake Zarathustra,
and other philosophical texts that gave me an insight into Man's
hunger for peace beyond this world.
But who would care
about my dusty tomes? Not the public library. They prefer contemporary
works complete with dust covers. Not the old book stores. They
want first editions only, in excellent condition, complete with
dust covers. I can't even sell them at garage sales. Or give them
away.
Most of them, now,
will be packed in sealed boxes and catalogued for my grandson
who may have time to read them someday, or pass them along to
his children. That may be awhile for he is only 20 and thoughts
of marriage and family are far, far away.
Old books with ragged
bindings (some dating back to the early 1900s, a couple printed
in 1875), mysteries, histories and philosophies, novels and biographies,
poetry and short story anthologies, first editions and 20th editions,
hard covers and paperbacks. Sigh!
I have lived with them
and they with me for almost 80 years. As I look at the piles and
wonder what to do with them, they seem to look sadly back at me.
When I'm gone, they'll still be alive — but where? I have
no answer.
I can't bear to think
about it.
The immediate solution?
I pick up one of the books, settle down — and read. The sorting
can wait.
Rima has been a writer,
it seems, all of her life first getting paid for her work when
employed as a newspaper reporter in Rome, NY and Houston, TX.
Freelancing after the war, she met David
Westheimer when he was editor of the Houston Post Sunday Magazine
and who bought several of Rima's stories. Her subsequent experience
was as editor/writer of a couple of house organs and then as an
ad agency copywriter in Houston and Hollywood. Currently living
in a mobile home park in Escondido, CA, Rima writes/edits/publishes
a monthly newsletter for the residents while she continues to
write fiction. In addition, she is on the editorial staff of "The
Blast," a quarterly published by the UDT/SEAL Association, Virginia
Beach, VA. She has a daughter and a grandson, now in college.
Her companion
since the death of her husband is a mixed breed dog, Sparky.
Rima welcomes your
comments and questions by email.
