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.

It's Only Rain

As I type, I cannot help but listen to the sound of the rain falling on the carport outside my window. Occasionally, the steady stream is punctuated with a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder, just in case I had any doubts about the what the weather was like outside. No matter how hard the rain falls or how loudly the thunder roars, I feel no anxiety. This is a far cry from the feelings nighttime storms evoked in me as a child.

It may help to know that much of my childhood was spent living in a tiny mobile home in South Texas. Sitting several feet above the ground, tied down by what seemed to be tenuous threads of wire, this little trailer was all that separated me from the raging Texas storms and complete devastation. Needless to say, as the winds buffeted the trailer like a ship on a raging sea, the cacophony of pounding rain amplified ten-fold on the aluminum roof, I lay in my bed, wide awake, afraid that the next gust would blow the house away, that my parents and sister and my beloved pets who somehow managed to sleep through it all would not wake up in time, and that I would fail them by not saving them from destruction.  I was a bit of a worrier as a child, I admit, and my mind jumped to the worst-case scenario. Despite the indulgence in melodrama, my fears were real, acting far better than any caffeinated drink in keeping me alert. If a storm raged on, I maintained my lonely vigil in my self-assumed role as family protector until I was certain danger had passed. Even then, I slept lightly, unconsciously keeping an ear out for a sign that the worst had not moved on. Funny how something that can be so fascinating and even exciting during the day transforms into something so frightening and unrecognizable, and funny how I assumed the responsibility (needlessly, I realize now) for everyone in the house.

Storms no longer faze me. I can appreciate their power and respect what they can do, but I do not live in dread of what they can do. No, I have moved onto more insidious fears to tackle during the night, the kind that are not so tangible, those that are worse because they originate from within. As a storm seemed a million times worse during the night, my anxieties, insecurities, and worries are magnified to the point that I have a hard time keeping them in control. Even though a small part of my mind tries to keep everything in perspective, it is drowned out by the more persistent nagging from the day. I know that everyone has periods of time that they think back on the day or reflect on how there life is going, but I have the horrible habit of taking those small, normal things and adding layer upon layer of 'significance' upon it. I fret over my job (what if one day someone...myself included...discovered I have no clue what I am doing some days?), over interactions with my co-workers (should I have asked how they are doing? Should I have been more supportive? Did I offend them in some way by one of my off-hand comments?), over how I acted during my commute (I should've let that person merge instead of blocking them), and even over what I write in this blog (seriously, some of my phrasing in an earlier post seemed potentially offensive to the point I woke up at 3:00 to remove it from the entry).  

I am not sure when my fears changed. There is little outside of myself that I actively fear. I have come to accept that many of the things I used to fear are beyond my control. I can take certain measures to prevent them from happening, but in the end, there is only so much I can do. However, when it comes to dealing with everyday life, I am afraid of screwing it up. I am not really sure what that means except that maybe I am human (which, to be honest, some people have questioned in the past--me included). I want to be the best person I can be, but, typical of my perfectionist personality, anything less than that is unacceptable. Even more, who I am tends to limit my solicitation of support or perspective from others.  Just as I took on the vigil to keep my family safe at night as a child, I feel it is my responsibility to fix all my fears. (Kind of like somehow I got myself into this mess, whatever it is, so I must get myself out.) But unlike storms that eventually dissipate, these fears multiply. While the light of day does much to quiet them, once the shadows begin to creep in, it is hard to dispel them. In all honesty, I wish I could vanquish these shadows, at least long enough to quiet my mind for one good night's sleep.