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Found Books
You know the feeling. You’re visiting a family or staying at a hotel, and you spot books. They draw you, and you pull out the most appealingly packaged volumes, start thumbing through, and read random interesting passages with no thought of discipline. Sometimes, you actually commit yourself to one. You sit down with it and read long sections, so absorbed that you stay up way past your bedtime. Case studies and examples are irresistible. Or you borrow the book, take it home, and read it from cover to cover. Can your found books and how you read them tell a story about your life?
My story away from home started with . . . well, no, actually, it goes farther back than that. After I discovered reading, taught by my mom in our village home in Northeast Thailand, I always picked up books at friends’ houses. What else are you going to do when there’s no TV? One of my earliest memories was of a family visit with German friends in the mountains. In the kids’ room, I saw the row of colorful picture books and hesitated, remembering that this family spoke German. But I took a look anyway, and although the letters looked English, I realized I couldn’t decipher the text. My mom caused some momentary confusion when she said, “Did you see the books?!” And when I picked one up hopefully with the same indecipherable result, she laughed and said they were in German.
There were also the Disney read-alongs I fell into at my parents’ colleagues’ house in another village: The Hobbit, Sleeping Beauty. So refreshingly different from our Johnny Appleseed and Gingerbread Man, I thought. Once I was old enough for boarding school, our family always stayed at the Chiangmai Guest House. Amongst a few books in the stairwell was The Yearling. The local color tale of the little Florida boy who adopted a deer was my companion every time we visited there. The novel was long enough that I had only time to read a small section and put it away again for our next visit. It was a bit of a slog for me, as I didn’t understand the references to phrases like “corn pone,” had a hard time enjoying the accented dialogue, and didn’t relate much to the character. But it was a book, and it was in English.
Traveling through the Midwest with my family as a 15-year-old, I picked up a Corrie Ten Boom book called Prisoners, and Yet . . . I was well acquainted with Ten Boom’s The Hiding Place, and exclaimed with surprise how much I was enjoying this work. Our hostess, a pastor’s wife, told me I was welcome to take it with me. I had been so travel-weary before entering the house, crying and reluctant to go in, and yet here was one of the sweetest ladies I’d ever met. I was glad to have the book and the memory of kindness.
Not all of my found books turned out to be good experiences. As a young woman, I stayed at my aunt’s house in Florida, our overnight itinerary before going to Disney World the next day. On her shelves, I found a strange but interesting book by M. Scott Peck. He was a psychologist or psychiatrist and had some unusual claims and case studies. I skimmed and skipped around, but I still stayed up way too late doing so and ended up a tired tourist at the happiest place on earth. Years later, on a day trip to Glacier with my sister, I picked up a true crime book by Anne Rule. My sister had brought it along as leisure reading. It was riveting, sure—but the play-by-play of the cold-blooded crime was haunting and awful. I ended up reading for hours, and leaving the park late to face a long drive with the sun low in the sky.
There are so many found books in my life. I read at my mom’s; I read at my sister’s. Both sister and brother-in-law bring their own complement of books into the marriage. And all family members are up for a good discussion of the contents. Last time I stayed at my sister’s, I took down a sociology book packaged for the layperson and sampled the interesting parts until probably past midnight. Did I have regrets? Yes. Was it fun at the time? For sure. And my brother-in-law and I discussed the contents later on, as I had a quibble about one of the carefully argued claims.
In your travels, what books have found you?
Published in Literature
During the fall and winter every Sunday was at Great Grandma Mary’s house to watch the Dallas Cowboys. Our entire Family would be there: GrandParents, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, babies, Friends, You name ’em; averaged about 50 people every Sunday. And everyone brought “a dish.”
One of My Cousins and I were practically raised like Brothers. We were born only 25 days apart. We grew up reading and reading to each other and swapping and sharing books.
At Great Granma’s house She had numerous books. Cuz and I would spend most of Our time picking books and reading on those Sundays.
When We were about 10, one Sunday Great Grandma Mary told Us that We could pick “any” 3 books to take Home with Us. Cuz picked His three. I picked three of Her dictionaries. She told Me I couldn’t take those because those weren’t “books” and they weren’t part of the deal. I told Her, “You said, ‘Any 3 books.’ Now, I’m sure if You looked in the dictionary under the word ‘book’ you’ll find a definition including a dictionary.” We went round and round. She finally relented. I took those 3 dictionaries. They were Her childhood dictionary and college dictionary. I still have them right Here. Some of My most cherished possessions.
The Secret Lives of Colour, by Kassia St-Clair at a B&B. Short writings on the history of individual pigments, how they were discovered or created and the changes wrought with them, a color whirl of a book that is easy to nibble at.
Great story, Jimmy Carter.
What a relaxing book for a B&B. And interesting, too.
My three maiden aunties lived in the old family home for many years after their parents died, and many of the books from their childhood still occupied their original places on the shelves. I discovered Beatrix Potter there, in a complete series of the Tales (must have been very early editions) on a shelf halfway-up, where the stairs turned. I sat there for hours on each visit, loving the stories about the little animals and the beautiful watercolor illustrations.
Granny and Grandpa had what they called a “box room” on the third floor of their house, and I found ancient editions of Grimm’s fairy tales up there, as well as Arthur Ransome’s “Swallows and Amazons.” When I was at boarding school, I’d spend the holidays at Granny and Grandpa’s and I’d sleep in what had been my uncle’s room, which still had many of the books of his youth and early adulthood in it. That’s where I discovered John Buchan, P.G. Wodehouse, and Richmal Crompton’s “William” series of books about a group of incorrigible British kids.
I’m a real sucker for books about other parts of the world, especially when they have lots of beautiful photos, and I’ve discovered many at the homes of friends and family. As well as cookbooks. I love cookbooks of all sorts
The summer I was 15, I worked in an uncle’s peach packing house in South Carolina and stayed with my grandparents in their old home. I have always loved reading – anything from the back of a cereal box on up. In a vestibule between two of the bedrooms, there was a bookshelf with various books that my Aunts and Uncles had read growing up. I went through them all.
They ranged from Tom Swift, Edgar Rice Boroughs (Tarzan, Land that Time Forgot… ) and the Hardy Boys to GK Chesterton and Shakespeare. It was a very eclectic summer and I loved them all.
About that time, we lived in Cincinnati, Ohio and my favorite thing to do on a weekend was to take the big ‘City’ bus (as opposed to a school bus) to the main downtown library. It was 4 stories tall and like a treasure trove. I would start at the index cards and find some pointers to books on dinosaurs or space or biography and those links would lead to others until my time was up and I had to come home.
In a house in New Delhi, I came across The Greening of America. This was 1980, and already it was weird. I never did ask the homeowner what he thought of it, or even how he acquired it. He traveled overseas a lot, and probably bought it in an airport.
I think he also had Future Shock on his shelves.
My wife and I always bring around five books each with us when we travel, so other people’s books never even stand a chance.
That’s my story, too. While I was growing up, we always had more books at home than anyone else I knew. I now look back on it as a rather meager collection, but we always made heavy use of local libraries, too. I have stories about that.
But now I’m trying to remember if there were places where I read other people’s books. I would definitely look at other people’s bookshelves, and still do.
My maternal grandfather often gave me books, sometimes books he had read himself, sometimes books he hadn’t read and wouldn’t have given to me if he had known what was in them.
My best friend from childhood and I used to walk to our local Carnegie Library on Saturday as kids for story time. My favorites were the Dr. Seuss series. I loved the way the place looked, big wooden shelves and tables all polished, and the smell of books. We would pick a couple to take home, then head to the candy store. It was great!
My dad read Grimm’s stories to me when little so I’d get to sleep. I loved the drawings as much as the stories. I wanted to live in a cottage in the woods. My aunt gave me subscriptions to Children’s Reader’s Digest, filled with stories, riddles and puzzles. Encouraged to read at a very young age taught me to love books and reading.
My sister visited me a few years back and pulled this old tattered book off my shelf called The Red Station Wagon, a quirky 50’s murder mystery that I’d never read. She took it to the beach with us and so I read it, found sand in the pages, and made a copy of the vintage cover. I wrapped a gift to her in it and some Mexican hot cocoa (it was part of the story). We’ve shared books over the years and always have stories to share what we’re reading. Loved your post!
I grew up around and upon horses and enjoyed it immensely. But they are too expensive to keep as pets or toys and so I haven’t had a horse in almost 30 years.
About a decade ago I was waiting to see a bank manager at a local branch. Outside his office was a book on equine dentistry. I was immediately engrossed. Bad teeth can affect a horse’s behavior and performance more than most people realize. Fascinating stuff. I was reluctant to put it down when my appointment started.
I debated trying to talk the bank manager out of it, but decided it had little value without a horse to go with it. Sometimes when I’m in the bank I’ll go back and look – it’s still there as of a couple months ago. Maybe someday…
There’s an example for me: found magazines. I liked reading trade magazines before they all went online. In a dentist’s office I might read dentist trade rags. While waiting for my car to get fixed I’d read automotive trade rags, etc. Fascinating stuff.
Due to time and space, I didn’t bring up my favorite found books memories. Any time our family passed through Bangkok, we would stay at a guest house for missionaries. That complex was chock full of attractions for a child, but one of the best was a low wooden cupboard with double doors built into one of the living room walls. It was made to display picture books side by side, but somewhere along the way, had gotten stocked full and remained overflowing, with books in every cranny. Every year, I re-read the same picture books–like the wry one I remember with a “fortunately . . . but unfortunately” theme–and discovered new ones.
For reasons about which I can only speculate, I was grounded for my 6th grade year. During that year I read, at least as far as my skills permitted, our father’s set of Collier’s Encyclopedia (1956, I think). I had a real sense of accomplishment when I got to the last article, “Zwingli” as I recall. It changed my life, not always for the better.