I’m wondering if I can successfully tie a simple community book sale to a veritable lightning strike. Today is just an ordinary day, one on which the local public library is holding a semiannual fundraising event. A year ago the same thing was happening, on a very similar fall day. I remember it well; I’ve decided there are no days when one's life cannot drastically and unexpectedly change. Further, one never knows when one’s path is about to be set.
On that beautiful day one year ago, I had several Saturday morning errands to run. I needed gasoline for the mowers, to make a stop at the bank and to pick up a few items at the store. The usual short-cut I take happens to be a less-traveled side street, and then through the parking lot of the local public library. On the way through, though, I couldn’t miss the banner over the entry walkway of the library. “Book Sale Today” it proclaimed, in large, red, hand-painted letters. “Hm,” I thought, “I haven't been to a book sale in years.” I didn’t consider stopping, either, and went straight on to the bank.
However on my way back, I thought maybe I should. In years past I'd watched for these book sales, and Saturday has always been the last and the busiest day. The best choices would likely be gone, and the prices would be halved to try to clear out as many of the donated books as they could. As I'm seldom in town during the week, Saturday was generally the only day I'd ever been able to go and look at what they had, anyway. I decided to stop, if only for old time's sake. It had always been with the family before, so it would seem different.
Entering the library, I realized it had been so long since I'd been there that I didn't even remember where, exactly they held the sale. I inquired at the desk, and then of course I remembered. Through the green door and downstairs to the basement. Down I went, past the childrens' story room and childrens' books section. And there it was, in a musty, squarish room with pastel-green block walls, the books arranged on tables and chairs and even stacked on the floor, and with incomplete book sets displayed in cardboard boxes. They could have sold books for another full week at least, although the room was nearly full of browsing people.
I ran into an old friend there whom I hadn't seen for at least a decade, so we shook hands and carried on a brief conversation. Then I looked around, and at first, nothing caught my eye. I didn’t know if my browsing skills had atrophied that badly or if, in fact the magic was gone. I was about to leave when I spotted a book on the historical progression of mechanical devices. That looked interesting, so I picked it up. Then I noticed there were more novels than anything else. At last it occurred to me that here was an opportunity to pick up an inexpensive novel or two, as examples of successful works. I'm never too old or too far along to learn at least something.
So after a few more minutes of browsing, I selected a paperback copy of Seabiscuit by Laura Hillenbrand, because it was marked “#1 New York Times Bestseller,” and James Herriot's All Things Bright and Beautiful. I'd expected that like everything else, the prices would be three to five times higher than the last time I'd been there, so I had a twenty dollar bill ready. But for some reason, the things that are most worthwhile are sometimes the least-supported, and the presumed values were still far too low. The half-off price totaled thirty-eight cents. I donated a dollar and felt embarrassed. If I'd had a five or even a ten, I'd have given that to the attendant.
Call me a rebel, but I sometimes read books from the middle toward both ends when I'm curious. When I got to my car, I opened James Herriot's book and started to read. It was something about veterinary work, and I had opened to an engaging story about saving the life of a bull calf that later grew up and almost took the vet's life. I closed the book and headed for home. When I got there, I'd been thinking about the power of a good opening to a story, but even more importantly, a strong ending. So before I went on to my next task, I opened the back of the book, and on the very last page I read:
“The shops were still closed and nothing stirred in the market place. As we left I turned and looked back at the cobbled square with the old clock tower and the row of irregular roofs with the green fells quiet and peaceful behind, and it seemed that I was losing something forever.
I wish I had known then that it was not the end of everything. I wish I had known that it
was only the beginning.”
I'm afraid I can't quite explain how that affected me. I will never forget the moment; for the first time, I knew I would be writing for the rest of my life. For the first time, I realized what power I have at my fingertips when I do. For the first time, I did not doubt that my writing would be read.
Photo credit: ~Brenda-Starr~ / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND
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