When we were old enough to ride our bikes alone, I loved the grown up feeling of consulting with the librarians, having my own library card (so COOL!) and then placing the books in my bike basket for transport home. I can’t quite articulate the feeling I still get walking into a library or a bookstore today. It’s a sense of endless possibilities and want. Entering a fashion boutique on Rodeo Drive or Fifth Avenue will never carry the same thrill. Books are a different form of acquisition, more lasting and fulfilling. My mother taught me that.
I picture my mother now, absorbed in her book; feet propped to rest her “throbbing veins,” (GROSS! we’d mouth to each other) as the late afternoon sunlight knifed through the living room window onto the mustard colored rug (yes, it was the 70’s.) The table was set for dinner; the roast was roasting, the vacuuming and dusting completed for the day.