I have loved books for as long as I can remember. Not only do I love reading them, I also smile at the sight of their spines dressed in brightly-colored jackets on the bookshelves. I take pleasure in the feel of the pages as they slide through my fingers, some slippery like silk, and others calloused like hard-worked hands. The smell of the ink mixed with the paper’s wooded past tickles my nose as my ears collect the faint sound of rustling, word-filled pages.
My guilty pleasure is buying books, even when I have far more than I could read in a year–perhaps two or three. Bookstore visits are fraught with temptation that must be resisted.
“Only one or two,” I admonish myself as my eyes grow wide at the sight of the tables and shelves, heavy with volumes begging to be bought.
Before embarking on my motorhome travels, I had more than 700 books crowding the shelves of my house. Some were old friends that had to be parted with in order to live my new, mobile life. There isn’t much room for books in a motorhome. Still, I managed to stuff a couple of boxes filled to the brim into the motorhome’s tiny cubbyholes.
This doesn’t mean that I only enjoy printed books. Now I read them on my tablet when I’m traveling, and listen to them on Audible while I’m walking or driving in the car. Back then, I didn’t have a tablet, and hadn’t yet heard of Audible.
Now that I’m no longer living in the motorhome, I find more and more volumes creeping onto the shelves, multiplying like rabbits, overflowing their allotted space. If only there was more time! Then I could read them and pass them along. But could I, really, pass them along? Some of them, certainly. Others, no. Some will remain my trusty, bookshelf friends.