I Rescue Books
(Just don't tell my husband!)
I rescue used books the way some people rescue animals. They are, simply stated, the perfect companions. I don’t have to walk them. I don’t have to feed them. They come house-trained. And I never have to worry about who will care for them if we want to get away for the weekend.
When I hold a used book in my hand, my mind tells me it’s just a book, but my heart tells me it’s my new best friend and my new best friend needs me. When I carry that book to the register, I’m not buying it. I’m saving it. I’m rehoming it. I may swear to my husband I’m only fostering it until it finds its forever home, but let’s be honest — once that book crosses my threshold and snuggles its way onto my bookshelf, it isn’t going anywhere.
In the three years we’ve been in California, I’ve adopted what certain people I’m married to might characterize as an “absurd” number of used books. I’ve visited some fabulous book rescues — some who don’t understand might call them “bookstores,” but I beg to differ. I’ve rehomed tomes from The Last Bookstore in downtown LA (22,000 square feet, two stories, 250,000 books) . From Bart’s Books in Ojai (the world’s largest outdoor bookstore, over 130,000 books(!)). And from BookOff, which may be a chain but always has a good selection of essay collections and humor on its shelves. BookOff also happens to be across the street from Randy’s Donuts (the BEST donut shop in the world and if you doubt me, just try Randy’s apple fritter — and you’re welcome very much), which makes every trip to BookOff a win-win — and provides excellent cover whenever I go to BookOff.
These used book havens have made a liar out of me. Drives to LA to visit our younger son somehow always involve an unexpected (from my husband’s perspective) detour off the 101 when we get near downtown. (“Oh! Traffic on the 101 again? Wait, are we near The Last Bookstore? I had no idea!”)
When my husband and I drove up the coast for a few nights, he thought I spent my days at the hotel spa. Actually, I drove to Ojai so I could spend the morning at Bart’s Books. (If he asks, the spa was spectacular.)
And BookOff? As long as I bring home an apple fritter from Randy’s, the husband doesn’t even notice the used books. It’s hard to see anything else when you’re eating an apple fritter as big as your face. (They really are that big. And they really are that good.)
I’ve got such a habit, I almost rescued a used book from a Free Little Library in Vilnius, Lithuania, until I realized all the books were in Lithuanian, a language I neither speak nor read. As I write these words today, over a month later, it still hurts when I realize I let such a small detail stop me.
There should be a support group for people like me. The only problem is, anyone who would join a support group for used book people also has a home filled with used books, and they’d probably bring used books to the meetings, which means the meetings would go something like this:
New Group Member: “Hi, my name is —”
Me: “Hey — is that a used copy of Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad About My Neck? In hard cover? I’ve been looking for another copy to join the two I already own. What condition is it in?”
I’m not sure what the meetings would accomplish, but there’s a good chance we’d all go home with some books.
The used books I’ve brought into my fold in the past three years chronicle how my writing and I have changed. I moved to California channeling the essays of Joan Didion, but now my shelves are filled with books by two Ephrons (Nora and Delia), Mindy Kaling, Sara Vowell, and David Sedaris, to name a few. I found my funny in California.
But at least one book on my shelf reminds me how some things stay the same. Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf.
I arrived in California with my collection of Virginia Woolf’s books intact — almost. I’d somehow left my copy of Mrs. Dalloway in a box in a storage unit back in New Jersey. I really hope I poked airholes in that box. The thought of Mrs. Dalloway languishing in a Home Depot carton is the stuff of nightmares. Seriously. I have this recurring dream that I’m watching an episode of Storage Wars and one of the junk (vintage?) dealers bids on a forgotten storage unit filled with stuff that looks an awful lot like my stuff, pulls a well-loved copy of Mrs. Dalloway out of a box, and tosses it over his shoulder as he mutters an estimated price, “I dunno, a quarter? Fifty cents?” Earlier this year, I broke down. I rescued a “new” used copy of Mrs. Dalloway (Thank you, Bart’s Books!) — and placed her on my shelf.
But don’t worry, Mrs. Dalloway in New Jersey. Mrs. Dalloway from California and I are coming to get you. With our second cross-country move in three years on the horizon, I’ll now have items in storage on two coasts. But my books? Joan, Nora, Delia, Sara and David (and Virginia) and all my friends are coming along for the ride — including (especially) Mrs. Dalloway. I can’t wait for her to meet the other Mrs. Dalloway.
But please don’t tell my husband — he’s been wondering why some of the boxes I’ve packed weigh so much. I just tell him it’s all the winter clothes I haven’t worn in three years that I’ll be needing again. (“Those sweaters are hea-vy! Here, have another apple fritter!”)
One more thing before I go….
I wanted to share that this little Substack of ours (and I say “ours” because it’s nothing without you reading it) won Second Place in the Online Humor category in the National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ 2024 Columnists Contest.
It was a lot to absorb. When I checked the results, I didn’t check them once. Or even twice. I checked them three times. And, if I had to be honest, I’ve re-checked them several times since, just to make sure no one’s changed their mind.
A few hours after I found out, I was walking with my husband. I can’t remember exactly what we were discussing – probably what happened with the seagull and the sandwich in Helsinki (that story’s the gift that keeps on giving in my household) – when I said out loud something I’d been wrestling with in my head.
“Technically, this means I have an award-winning Substack,” I said.
“Technically?” my husband responded.
“Well, if it won an award—”
He looked at me. After thirty years, he didn’t have to say anything. I knew what he was thinking. (“If it won an award?) But, of course, he also said something. “You need to get a better ego.”
He’s right. His position on the whole seagull/sandwich incident aside, I’ve got a really smart husband. And an ego I’m putting on notice — don’t go too crazy, but it’s okay to pat yourself on the back for the good stuff.
I used to be a serious person who worked with words for a living. Now I get to play with words for fun. I get to send them out into the world and, 76.2% of the time (according to my estimates), make people laugh.
Thank you for reading — hang on a minute [checks list of winners again just to be extra, extra sure] — my award-winning Substack. Without you, it’s just words.