Day: August 26, 2022

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About My Relationship With Books: Part 3

Cursive is not my strong suit. My printing suffers from sever bouts of illegibility as well.
This is the “lost” book today, as homely as when I originally “lost” it.

I once, accidentally-on-purpose, “lost” a book I had checked out from the Delta City Library because I wanted it for myself—and I wanted it right that minute. I checked it out knowing I had no intention of bringing it back. I know kids do things like that sometimes, but I must confess I was 36 at the time. It was in the year 2000, and I had just moved back to Delta from Maryland. I hadn’t bought my Hombre truck yet, so I couldn’t drive out of Delta to find a bookstore where I could try to get my own copy of the book. I couldn’t order it online because I needed it NOW. And I probably wouldn’t have been able to find a copy anyway since the book was not in print at the time. Two weeks later, I out-and-out lied when I confessed to the librarian I had “lost” the book. I paid the fine for losing it, which meant I paid the cost of the book—something like $26. Thus, I can truthfully say I bought the book, even though we all know I “lost” it with purpose and with glee.

And just what was this extraordinary book which so caused me to confiscate it for my eyes only? What book did I decide Delta library patrons could be deprived of, for my selfish benefit? It was a book about taxidermy—a field I couldn’t care less about. Its title was HOME BOOK OF TAXIDERMY AND TANNING, written by Gerald J. Grantz, published in 1969. I have no idea what specifically caused me to even pick it up and start thumbing through it s pages when I first encountered it on its library shelf. I could see from its check-out card that the book hadn’t been checked out for almost a decade before I borrowed it, so I didn’t feel too guilty for wanting to “lose” it. All I know is that when I opened up the pages of the smelly, misshapen, ugly book about taxidermy, I was inspired by sentences like these: “Spread the scalp out, flesh side up.” and, “Fold the skin once, flesh-to-flesh, roll it up and place it on a sloping surface to drain.” and, “Now fill the shell with chopped excelsior, tamping with a dowel.” I was intrigued by its jargon, and I simply had to have that book right then and there. Its pages immediately sparked in me this brilliant idea to write a book-length series of poems using taxidermy processes and terminology as metaphors for life and love.

Yes, folks, it is creativity like that which keeps me raiding my piggy bank as I approach my 60’s. I am rolling in the coinage. I have distinguished myself as a writer who has ideas about writing the absolutely least marketable books I possibly can. I live for the thrill of finding the perfect words to write the things most people don’t want to read. I’ve got a knack for it, coupled with all the wasted skills. Bearing this in mind, please be assured I’m perfectly content to know that an old book about taxidermy made me a minor thief of public resources, sort of. I got a groovy idea for writing a book of poems out of it—a book which nobody will ever publish or read. And that’s good enough for me. 😆 📄 📝 🖋 📖 🤓

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About My Relationship With Books: Part 2

In college and graduate school, whenever I was down to my last few bucks before payday, I often chose to buy a book instead of buying more practical things like socks and bacon. I’m not talking about buying textbooks that were required for my classes. This went beyond necessary books. I’m talking about buying books that could live on my own bookshelves for all time, but were irrelevant to my immediate academic or practical pursuits. It was common knowledge among my peers at that time that I would choose a book over food in almost every instance. For me, it was a no-brainer to buy a book. It wasn’t difficult to skip a meal or two, every once in a while. Yes, I had access to plenty of libraries, but one of my book-reading eccentricities involves my propensity for making notes in the book margins and underlining or bracketing a magnificent word, or a smart point, or a lovely sentence as I read. Libraries tend to frown on the type of collateral graffiti I perpetrate on books as I read, so I learned young that it was better for me—and everyone else involved—if I have my own copy of a book to read.

So how did I acquire food to keep me alive and passing my college courses when I was broke because I bought books instead of groceries? Trust me when I tell you this: Saturdays are a veritable feast of free food at the grocery store. Saturday is the day I could count on there being free samples of food products being offered to—even thrust upon—customers as they made their way up and down the grocery aisles. Of course, technically, I wasn’t shopping. But I assured myself it was okay for me to sample because I was there browsing for items I would be buying when my paycheck hit the bank and I could return to the store with check that wouldn’t bounce. The key to making this food sampling strategy work was to alternate the stores where I grazed. I didn’t want to become “that suspicious customer” who eats all the samples at the same store every Saturday, and who then ends up being trespassed from the premises forever, with the aid of a kindly police officer. On any given Saturday, I’d browse and sample at 1 or 2 grocery stores—whatever it took to get a not-so-balanced meal. The other days o’ the week were trickier. I discovered that pastry shops and delis always had free samples, so they were good targets, though their offerings were meager and not very filling. At least once a week, somebody in my circle invited me to a bbq or party of some kind, and it was okay to just show up empty-handed and leave with some leftovers. It was okay that I couldn’t contribute to the party-at-hand because when I was flush with cash I could be counted on to repay the meal by hosting the bbq or party myself. We were starving students together, but mostly—thankfully—not all at the same time.

The best how-to-get-food-because-I’m-hungry-and-I-bought-a-book-with-my-last-10-dollars-instead-of-food scheme was the funnest for me to carry out. I only had to use it when I was in college. I’d invoke the pretense of a game of scavenger hunt, for which I was the only participant. I’d write out a list of food items to be scavenged. I stuck with the basics, so as to not make it hard for the strangers I would encounter: a piece of bread, an egg, a slice of cheese, an apple, and so forth. I conspicuously carried my list with me to a stranger’s front door, so I looked legit. I’d knock or ring and the innocent soul would open the door. At which time, I’d inform the stranger that as part of a party game, I’d been sent on a scavenger hunt, and I wondered if they might have—and could give me—one or more of the items on my list. I have to say this about the Weber State University-area communities where I lived while getting my degree: nobody ever sent me away empty-handed. And then I’d take my scavenged treasures home to whatever sketchy house or apartment I was living in at the time, and I would build myself a meal—which I would eat while reading a book.

See what I did right there in that last sentence? I organically ended up right back at books, which is exactly where my higher education food trouble originated. (That’s a writer’s trick.)

BTW Keyboard keys Tie o’ the Day reminds us that books have to be written before they can be read.