The Bookstore

The tea I ordered three weeks ago languishes in an unmarked place unknown to anyone. They say it is in transit. What does that mean? On the way. Stopping off somewhere. Opened and brewed. No one has said—“delivered”. And the word lost hasn’t been spoken. 

How many packages disappear into space— unknown and never found? This is what happens when we turn away from small stores and consume our goods by googling what we want or checking online purveyors of goods. 

How do you check the feel of a sheet or if that sweater is scratchy? We will depend upon descriptions written by people reared in the language of promotion and advertising. 

 Years ago when I moved from Maryland to Massachusetts not only didn’t I know anyone, but my favorite bookstore owner no longer was  near by. But I did find a bookstore run by an incredible woman who turned her small home into a bookstore. A small wood sign— Books— hung on the side of the front door. Rather than a bulky cash register she preferred a ledger and a desk drawer with wooden dividers for different denominations. She liked paper money, but didn’t turn you away if you used a credit card. 

I happened upon her store when I was out investigating my new environment. Within a few weeks I became a regular customer buying poetry books that had sat on her shelves for years— judging by the prices. Once she learned that I taught school she introduced me to Peter Elbow. Reading his books altered the way I taught writing. Over a period of five years she encouraged me to dip into previously unexplored areas and genres. 

She was reticent about her background or her age. But in time I heard about her missionary parents, growing up in China, and the book she kept in her house in New Hampshire. She had a number of guests visit— “over the years.” Her living room had some comfortable chairs, a fireplace, and bookcases. In the evening, “ after we talked ourselves out we read.” 

The book was for her guests. She encouraged them to write about meaningful things and especially about the books they read. 

The collection of books in her store — or what had once been a parlor and living room— included philosophy, poetry, history, fiction she considered worthwhile and essays. Then there was a shelf of odds and ends. That’s where Peter Elbow’s book on writing resided.

Locals often ordered books, but a day might pass and only one or two people showed up.  That never bothered her. Often after a day of teaching I stopped in to chat. Her friend who sometimes came over with sweets told me that my book friend was close to ninety. 

She died six years after I first walked into her store. The sign came down and the books were boxed up and disappeared. Within a month the house that was a bookstore was renovated and an insurance company hung out a shingle. Since then a realtor, a women’s dress shop, and a antique store have occupied the space. No one really settles in and stays for long. I expect that her soul is still there suggesting books and writing down your name and what you purchased.