Today is the first Wednesday of the month, which means I tidy the family room prior to the monthly guild meeting. I like hosting the meeting — it means at least one room gets cleaned every month.
You’d expect me to have of books, on many bookshelves. But I don’t.
A year ago, we began to renovate the family room. Take down the vinyl-covered drywall, tear out the ancient carpet (and whatever it held). The first step, as you can expect, was to remove the books from the bookshelf. It’s the kids’ bookshelf.
The final step was supposed to be putting the kids’ books back on the shelf.
Except, between putting the shelf back in the room and actually hauling the books up from the basement, other things were put on the shelves. It has crafts and some large playsets. Not books.
There’s a small glass-fronted case with older, leather-bound books — books that might become collectors items. The dining room shelf has cooking, medical, and handyman books that I need at strange times. There’s half a shelf of shorthand books. And maybe three other shelves of miscellaneous. All the rest are in the basement, in boxes with varying levels of accuracy in the labels.
Not what you’d expect in a storyteller’s home.
Then I looked further. The living room table is mostly books. The library bag is stuffed to the gills.
So maybe we’re doing okay after all. We don’t have books, we have reading.
All is well.