Whenever I get all my chicks together under my roof, I force them to sit with me in the dining room while we go through the book-cases, book by book. If it is a book they want, they write their name in it (all has been peaceful so far, but we haven’t gotten to the bookcase of books they all ready in that magical period between 8 and 12). If I am ‘done with it,’ they take it home. If I am not done, they put it back in the shelf. If nobody wants it, I might keep it anyway, but with each book-case I grow more ruthless.
We’ve managed, um, three bookcases in about a year. I’m not exaggerating.
At this point, I’ll be 90, should I live that long, before we are through.
So tonight I decided to go through a bookshelf on my own, one I am pretty sure has nothing any of them want, except possibly the sons-in-law might want one or two. Here are the titles of the books I culled (it’s a little bit like a journey through my wishes and dreams leading up to his house which is little enough like the place I initially pictured):
The Not So Big House: A Blueprint for the Way We Really Live
Plus a couple books on knowing your antiques, refinishing furniture, and repairing furniture.
I think I’ve decided we live here, and I’m old enough to be myself without needing permission from a book.