Date: 2005-01-28
To: books, books, and more books
Miles today: 0.0

7:30pm1.28.05¢¢¦Muir is the United States¢s evangelist of nature, adapting the language of religion to describe the plants, mountains, light, and processes that he so loved.¢ -- WanderlustSo very true. His sermons on the natural world, every living thing his audience. To have been able to carry on a conversation w/ Muir, or even hear him speak, or simply observe him, absorbing the world around him. What a wonder that would be.So, Solnit and Wanderlust have led me to yet another author. She mentioned, in her description of narrative writing by long-distance walkers, Robyn Davidson and her traverse (physical and intellectual) across the Australian Outback. Being, conveniently enough, in Borders as I read this section, I ambled on over to the travel section, not really having high expectations, for a relatively obscure book about a relatively obscure subject. Well, fortune smiled on me. (Well, it smiled on my mind, anyway; it sent more of a smirk to my wallet.) I open up Tracks, intent only on perusal, not purchase. Immediately, I¢m confronted w/ this pearly gem: ¢There are some moments in life that are like pivots around which your existence turns -- small intuitive flashes, when you know you have done something correct for a change, when you think you are on the right track. I watched the pale dawn streak the cliffs w/ Day-glo and realized this was one of them. It was a moment of pure, uncomplicated confidence -- and lasted about 10 seconds¢¦ I experienced that sinking feeling you get when you know you have conned yourself into doing something difficult and there¢s no going back.¢ I was hooked. That¢s all it takes. (See how easy I am to please?) So, now Tracks will join the ever-enlarging pile of books occupying my apartment floor. Books I should read, books I want to read. Books coming highly recommended -- thanks Mom, Dad, Break, Ray, and everyone else who¢s contributed a suggestion or two to my bedside stack. (And, I should add, as an incurable bookworm, I¢m always amenable to more recommendations. One can never have too many books. So, fire away your favs to me.) Honestly, I¢m beginning to suspect that some little elf slips into my apartment when I¢m at work, unobtrusively tossing in another title or two to the precarious stack. I suppose it was inevitable, though, that I¢d inherit this need and compulsion to surround myself w/ books. A cadre, a veritable corps of security blankets, so to speak. It¢s a genetic predisposition, a Schultz family flaw, or favorable feature, depending on your viewpoint. My paternal grandparents¢ house was stuffed to the brim, every corner and cranny crammed, no gap or crack to small to remain unfilled, w/ books (¢¦among other things. Like a lifetime supply of old peanut butter jars, stored and saved, just in case. Or a showroom floor¢s worth of (nonfunctional) kitchen appliances -- a broken stove, a few irreparable air conditioning units, a disfunctional microwave, 3 fridges that couldn¢t chill milk in Antarctica (One of them, to give you an idea of its age, w/ a McGovern bumpersticker blazoned across the door -- my parents first fridge. Another of these non-utilitarian frigidaires doubled as a wine rack, for the homemade wines my grandfather used to make. My brother and I stumbled across this stash a few years ago. Do you know what 25 year old dandelion wine tastes like? Vinegar. Uber-concentrated¢¦ vinegar.) Visiting their house was always an adventure; from attic to basement, w/ a little patience, you could find a diamond amidst all the coal. Every room contained books -- shelves from floor to ceiling, every flat surface, exposed or otherwise, would soon become a depository for a book. And yes, this included the floor itself. Even the pantry in the basement, w/ its convenient shelves, bore as many spines of novels and biographys as it did spines of cereal boxes and cans of soup. This impulse to possess books was inherited by Dad, and, by the time I came around, he and Mom already had quite a healthy supply. Mom tells a great story about how I, convinced that you had to be literate before you started school (some sort of weird pre-requisite), taught myself to read in the week prior to kindergarten. Yeah, I was a high-strung little toddler. But, good ol¢ Mike Mulligan and his trusty steam shovel, along w/ Dr. Seuss¢s emerald eggs and pork, pulled me through. And, I haven¢t stopped since. I¢m starting to compile my own little library, though considering the amount of relocating I do, having so many books can be quite a hassle. But, I¢ve got a few more thousand to go, before I catch up w/ my parents. One summer, Matt and I, in a herculean effort, created a library database of all the books in their house. I think they¢re hovering just above the 5,000 mark right now. It was a superb system, all books catalogued and shelved by subject -- the living room houses Philosophy, Science, Music, and Mystery; Art and Architecture reside in the den; Matt has Sci-Fi, along w/ his collection of Chess books; Becky¢s got Bios, Poetry, Psychology, and General Fiction; me? Classic Literature, Native American studies; Mom and Dad store the Travel, Mythology, and History books. And, sprinkled in every nook and cranny that can fit a bookshelf are the odds and ends. As I said, a great system. That is, if it was maintained. The tendency to simply store books in stacked piles is, apparently, too great to overcome. Plus, it would take a full-time librarian to keep the database updated, considering the continual incoming flow. And when Becky visits? W/in half-an-hour, she¢s deshelved at least a dozen books, which will continue to accrue at the base of her bed, until the minute she leaves. So, in theory, it¢s a great system. At least, we know what we have. Where we have it? Well, even if you can¢t find it, chances are something¢ll catch your fancy while you search.