Contributed by Alys Culhane
I was stocking books at the Vagabond Blues/Koslosky Center first floor bookcase when a woman came up next to me and began examining books in the nonfiction bookcase.
“Interested in taking a book? I asked.
“Not today,”
“Sure you don’t want a book?” I asked.
“No, I have too many books at home,” she said.
“Me too.”
I wished her a good day and she made a beeline for the Vagabond Blues Café.
I remained deep in thought... Did this woman, like me, have hoarding tendencies?
There are numerous boxes of books in our main cabin, our goat shed, and my writing cabin. They contain kid and young adult books that I’m going to send to villages later this month. Our main cabin contains books that I either have read or am going to read.
When, on Saturdays, my husband Pete and fellow Bright Lights Book Project volunteer Bill Schmidtkunz salvage books at the recycling center, I take books for future reading. The problem is that I go home with a box of books a week, and part with three books a week.
Why is it, I wondered, that they call those who have more books than they will ever read hoarders? Those who own used bookstores and have stacks of books everywhere aren’t called hoarders. Nor are those who have a multitude of bookcases in their homes called hoarders. I suppose that if I had more shelf space that I’d be called an erudite reader.
Hoarder. I considered having a tee-shirt made. Instead of having Dr. Suess’s Thing One and Thing Two on it, I’d instead have Hoarder One and Hoarder Two emblazoned on the front.
Hoarder. I considered joining a twelve-step program and hoping up onto the fourth step. Yes, I’d say, “I’m Alys, and I have a problem.”
Hoarder. Hoarders don’t limit themselves to books, or do they? I don’t collect anything besides books. I do not save baloney strings, tin cans, plywood, or puppies. Recyclables do go VCRS.
A self-related definitional change came about in a serendipitous fashion. And with it came a much-welcomed change in perspective.
Anchorage resident Cheryl Chapman one day came by the Meeting House on Bailey Street in order to pass on books. I met her previously, when I went to Anchorage to pick up books that she wanted to donate to the BLBP.
Cheryl was indeed a kindred spirit. I say this because we talked books for several hours. She also dropped off some very good literature books that she brought up with her when she moved up to Alaska from Dallas, Texas.
She reminded me of poet Mariann Moore, who too was a knowledgeable reader and writer of poetry. In fact, she was very familiar with Moore’s work and, as well, that of Theodore Roethke.
“I have a book I want to send to you,” she said before we parted company. “It’s called, “The Girl who Read on the Metro, and it’s about those who, like us, pass books on to others.”
A week later, the book appeared in the mail along with a thank you card. I opened the package and examined it. Author Christine Féret-Fleury’s hardcover book was compact, and approximately 100 pages in length.
I placed it on my bedside stack of books to read, and a week later, moved it to the top of the pile. Anne Fadiman’s Ex Libris, Madeline Martin’s The Last Bookshop in London, and Kim Michelle Richardson’s The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek (all books about women who get books into the hands of appreciative readers) would have to wait.
I read The Girl who Reads on the Metro while backpacking in the Yukon’s Tombstone Range. Actually, I read it in the car late at night because heavy rains put a damper on the backpack trip. In this fictional account, the central characters stay true to their main mission in life, which is to pass on books to others. Such individuals, as defined by Feret-Fleury, are called Passeurs, which is French for “those who impart books to others.”
This includes Martin’s central character, who owns a bookshop in Paris, and Richardson’s central character, who delivers books by horseback to those on her WPA route.
A cloud lifted as I realized that I was not a book hoarder. Rather, I was a passeur who too was adept at finding the right book for the right person. I was sorely tempted to hang onto Richardson’s book. However, I knew that it was one that other passeurs might enjoy. So I’m passing on The Girl who read on the Metro to an individual who I am sure, when she’s done, will pass it on to yet another kindred spirit.