One Rabbit's Journey

It was Easter, twenty-two years ago, that I received the best present from my Grandma & Grandpa Tanner.  At the time, I am sure they did not realize what significance this small stuffed animal would acquire over the next two decades, and to be honest, I do not think my six-year-old self could have fathomed the many things she would be a part of. Back then, she just happened to be an adorable gray bunny dressed in a pink shirt and denim overalls, complete with a small hole for her faux-cotton tail. I fell in love instantly, and Peta became a constant presence in my life. 

I was a strange child, as many of us undoubtedly were, and as such, I needed to create a back story for my new friend. Looking to her attire for inspiration, I noticed that emblazoned on her shirt was the word Greatland (at the time, the store brand from Target). In one of my more fanciful throes of imagination,  I decided that this was name of her home planet. The planet itself was not all that exciting, one filled with animals of all kinds of crazy colors (my pink cat...aptly named Pinkie...also hailed from Greatland). Peta was a prominent leader there, but her insatiable curiosity led her to explore other lands, and she eventually found her way to me. I felt lucky that she stayed with me for so long. She would go on to own a restaurant, lead a few coups, and star in a few of my clumsy childhood stories. She had her own voice (which sounded oddly like mine, but with a higher pitch and a bit of a quaver) and often engaged in conversation with my other stuffed animals. To their credit, my parents and sister were quite indulgent in all this, never discouraging me from creating this exotic, sprawling fantasy world.

More importantly though, Peta has stuck by my side through some pretty difficult times. Whether it was a debilitating migraine (of which I had more than my fair share even at the age of six), recovering from sinus surgery, or even when trying to cope with things I couldn't quite grasp at the time (my mother's injuries/disability, my sister's emotional issues, etc.), I had her for comfort. When I felt so sick, just having her in my arms made me feel one hundred times better. Holding her in my arms while I cried made it a bit easier to gain perspective, to take control of my emotions and move on. And it is clear that I turned to her more often than I can ever quantify. Her once lustrous coat is now worn away to the point that she looks almost bald. There has been more than one occasion when her left ear has required surgery, and her glassy black eyes now have cataracts. In all honesty, I am surprised that she hadn't met the fate of the Velveteen rabbit considering how many germs she has come in contact with over the years...thank goodness my parents would have never done that and had deemed a couple hours in the dryer on high heat would suffice.

As I grew older, I turned to Peta less and less. She still was (and is) a constant presence in my room, staying on my bed throughout high school traveling with me pretty much everywhere.  However, I was beginning to feel slightly silly to be so old and still have a stuffed animal with me. She became less of a companion and more of a symbol of my past. She reminded me of my grandparents, my childhood. No matter where I went, as long as she came with me, I had a small piece of home. And for me, that is something I have never outgrown. Despite how conflicted I can feel about Texas, it shaped me more than I can say, and Peta is a good reminder of that.

What is really interesting is how Peta has become an integral part of my family's bigger story. My Grandma Hayes bonded with her over the course of a few years (she is not the one who gave me the rabbit), and in a way that only family can, we have decided that Peta has grown into a bit of a troublemaker. My parents go along with it as do several of my aunts and uncles. My Grandpa Tanner (who gave me Peta in the first place) still asks about what she is up to lately.  As I have grown and evolved, so too has the rabbit. Where once she was a source of comfort and support, she has become a bit wild. No longer burdened with the responsibility of easing the emotional woes of a young girl, Peta has embraced life, and her antics have become notorious. Something broken in the house? Peta did it. Empty cans of beer or bottles of liquor strewn about the house? The rabbit did it.  String of robberies throughout the city? She was the mastermind.  Are we nuts?  Perhaps, but only in the way that all families have their idiosyncrasies, right?

One Wild Night

Anyway, my Grandma Hayes is the one who suggested I started taking pictures of her when I travel (you can check more of them out on my facebook page...more pictures to come in a few weeks after we visit Kazakhstan). At first, I was embarrassed to carry a bunny around my backpack and pull her out in front of large crowds of locals and tourists alike. My friend Lauren helped me through this with her enthusiasm for the idea.  It was this that made me realize why there is no reason to be ashamed of it. Yes, I am twenty-nine, and I still have a stuffed animal. So what? I also have lots of fun memories and great pictures. And for those willing to listen, a great story that remains unfinished.

Crater Lake -- Me: Age 25, Peta: Age 19. She looks a little worse for the wear.

Landmark Booksellers

Last Sunday, I had the pleasure of attending the baptism of my best friend's second daughter, Anna. I had been fortunate enough to have attended the baptism of Anna's older sister, Becca, almost four years ago, so it was nice to continue this tradition. I was happy to spend the time with my friend and her and her husband's family, and I was glad to share a celebratory brunch with them all. Still, several hours of this left me drained, and as we departed the restaurant, I knew I needed some time to refresh. (I also wanted to ensure they had plenty of family time together because I know how very important that stuff can be.)

It was rainy that afternoon, the kind of downpour that encourages one to stay inside, curled up with a good book. When, however, all that awaits you is a serviceable but sterile hotel room, exploring in the rain doesn't seem so bad. Luckily, I had an idea in mind. 

In preparing for my visit to Tennessee, I had done some research on Franklin (the town south of Nashville where my friends live), and the one website I kept returning to was one for an independent bookshop, run from a gorgeous older house on the main street of the historic downtown area. Like libraries, bookstores cast a spell over me, luring me in and making it very hard to leave without something new in my hand. This store in particular, though, was imbued with a special sort of charm, no doubt one reflective of the owner.

My arrival was announced by the jingling of the bell above the door. The owner immediately greeted me, an older gentleman with broad smile on his face and a welcome drizzled with the honeyed-accent of the South. He explained the layout of the place and then left me to explore on my own. 

It was strange at first, wandering through the rooms of this old house. It was definitely a far more intimate experience than one ever feels at even the nicest of large bookstores. Each room held books for a particular genre, and in each room, there were a few places to sit and browse through the massive collection available. I imagine if I ever leave my book lust unchecked, my house would look very much like this. Bookshelves covered just about every inch of wall space (outside of the bathroom, which had its own unique decor). The books that filled the shelves were not the standard mass paperbacks found in your local Target. They were first editions, signed copies, books with their own histories beyond the ones captured between their covers.

If I may indulge a bit of a Romantic notion, this place reminded me why a complete shift toward digital books would be a huge loss for society. Not so much that the stories of each book will be lost, but the stories that are often shared with the book. How can you tell how well-loved a particular book is if you do not have the worn, tattered cover and dog-eared pages? How can you replicate that strange connection between you and a previous owner when exploring his marginalia? How can you ignore just how powerful it is to be in a room filled with books, books that hold within their covers promises of knowledge, adventure, love, life? Sigh...

(Stepping off my soapbox now.) I slowly made my way through each room, browsing the different titles, not really looking to buy anything but to get a feel for what was there. When I finally made my way back to the front of the store, I had to compliment the owner on the store. I asked him about what compelled him to begin this business, particularly with the challenges facing independent bookstores. Quite simply, it boiled down to his and his wife's love for books and their desire to do something together. For the next ten or so minutes, we shared our mutual affection for what books are and how integral they have been in our lives. Both of us had an older relative who encouraged our reading from a young age and both of us saw that a book is more than just a physical object. He shared with me a few of his favorite books--an entire section dedicated to books about books and bookselling...there were a lot, and many of them looked like an interesting read. I had to settle on just one.

I had to ask how the current trends in the economy in general (a shift to the internet commerce) and how digital technology are affecting the store. He admitted an uncertainty about how long he and his wife can keep the business running, but while there was a tinge of disappointment, there was not rancor in his words. He expressed a level admiration for how digital books will transform the industry and seemed intent on embracing it as well. And he found some silver linings--fewer trees being cut down, information made more widely available in no time at all. The part of me that desires instant gratification finds this appealing, but it still saddens me that some of what makes books what they are is fading away. 

In a world that is increasingly becoming digitized, I find comfort in the physical. The ability to hold a book in my hands, to flip through a few pages, or to start reading wherever I choose are pleasures, as simple as they may be, that I enjoy when at the library or bookstore. Thankfully, we are still several years away from a completely digital world, I am sure. And until then, I will enjoy the joy of discovering places like Landmark Booksellers, where those who still believe in the magic of books can share their love and make memories that imbue said books with even more value.

Nashville

The past week, I had been counting down the days. Not only was there a three-day weekend on the horizon, but I was heading southeast to visit my best friend and her family in Nashville. It also happened that this was the weekend her second daughter was to be baptized, so I had the privilege of sharing that with her and her family. But all the flurry of activity did not prevent me from having some time to explore the city, and while it was a cursory tour at best, I definitely was impressed by the rich mix of history and culture to be found in Music City.

Were you aware that in Nashville, you can stroll along in a park only to find, looming before you, an exact replica of the Parthenon? Built for a world exhibition at the end of the 19^th century, this homage to Ancient Greek culture dominates the beautiful landscape of Centennial Park. The park grounds are simple but lovely, and I would have stayed a little longer if it were not so oppressively hot. Summer still has its claws firmly in place here (while I hear that in Kansas City, fall is making a quiet entrance), and there is nothing that puts a damper on my adventurous spirit than excessive heat and humidity.

Still, not being completely dissuaded, I headed further into the heart of Nashville, looking to explore a bit of the city center while having my heart set on one destination in particular—Nashville’s downtown library. I had not read anything in particular that made me seek it out, but noticing it on my map, I felt drawn to find it. And, eventually, I did.  However, the directions I had received from Google Maps had failed to take into consideration the fact that a good number of roads were shut down for some kind of festival over the Labor Day weekend. Being at a disadvantage already for not really knowing where I was going, I found myself circling around blocks a few times through, stopping once when I happened upon the Farmer’s Market. (It has nice facilities and some intriguing permanent stores, but I would argue City Market in KC offers more variety of goods and produce. Still, I was able to sample some delicious sour dough bread and some decadent chocolate peanut butter cheesecake. Cannot complain about that!) Eventually, I inadvertently stumbled upon my destination, only recognizable by the sculpture of a stack of books in front of this massive neoclassical building.

Nashville Public Library

My endeavors were worth the effort. From the copper engravings on the front doors to the enormous, airy atrium that greets you upon entry to the three jam-packed floors, I was enthralled. I took my time walking the stacks on each floor, observing the layout, the services offered and the like. Part of this is a professional hazard. More of it, though, was just this sense of appreciation for a space where people can come to read, research, relax even. The number of windows, facing all sides of Nashville’s downtown area, added to the beauty of the surroundings, instilling it with a certain character and charm that helped soften the imposing elegance of its particular architectural style.

While the books were my initial draw, I also discovered that the library has several of its own little art galleries. The one I walked through was a collection of portraits featuring those arrested during the Civil Rights era, the backgrounds of the portraits dotted with ephemera from the era capturing their supposed crimes. Each work seemed imbued with a sense of strength, beauty and sadness. The history of Nashville had not made an impression on me until then, and yet I know  so much more waits to be uncovered. It will be those things I explore on my next visit, when there is a little less chaos and a little more time.