Stark Mad, Raging Book Zeal

Words cannot describe the epicness of this bookstore.

My husband and I stumbled upon this gem while lounging around downtown Vancouver on our honeymoon; we'd just arrived in the city and weren't familiar with it in the least bit. We made the desperate mistake of trying to drive downtown and find somewhere to eat. After a couple of testy moments, some anxious fist clenching, and ten Canadian dollars, we were finally parked and on our way.

We passed this store a couple of blocks away from the parking ramp. It was destiny.

It doesn't matter where we are, both Brock and I are always drawn to bookstores; it's usually even more so when we're visiting new cities. They always offer a greater variety of books, new covers and pages explored by people we can only imagine as fragments of a being, someone maybe not so different from ourselves. It brings a whole new level of excitement.

The outside of this particular store was seemingly normal; there wasn't anything particularly unique that drew us to it. There was a vintage collection of Penguin books on display in the window that caught my eye, but it didn't seem to be anything unusual.

And then we walked through the door; it was heavy, solid, and creaked a little on the hinges. It had the old fashioned pull down curtain to cover the window, the kind you see in movies from the 1950's. The entrance was narrowed to the shape of a V by two book shelves, and the only way to get into the center of the store was by following a narrow path created by piles of books on the floor.

This was the design of the whole store; piles and piles of books everywhere. If there was someone else on the same path as you, one had to step aside to let the other squeeze through. And they had books ranging from every genre and time period.

Despite the masses of books piled anywhere there was room, it was relatively well organized. Each section of the store was divided by genres and each individual genre was in alphabetical order, even if some of them were located on the floor or on top of the bookshelf.

At one point, I picked up a tiny prayer book dated 1766. The pages were yellow and frayed but the binding was impeccable; the cover had turned to a dingy brown and the gold lettering on the front had been touched by time so severely it was barely legible. The soft scent of antique was unforgettable.

There were even older books encased in glass shelves as well. I can't imagine what date they have printed on the cover, or what was inside. It was a historian (and book geeks) dream come true.

We could have spent hours in this book store, but in the end the thrill of a new city called us out. I desperately wish we had a store like this in Sioux Falls. A small part of me - wait, who am I kidding? A large part of me selfishly hopes I have a room in my house that looks like this, someday. I don't care if people call me a hoarder - I would be proud of hoarding books. But I wouldn't just hoard them; I'd also share them. Or maybe I'd open up a book store like this.

There's something magical about sharing books. I recently read The Fault in Our Stars by John Green; in one section, the character Hazel argues:

"Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book."

I can't tell you how many times my evangelical book zeal has turned me into a mad, raving person; the glint in the eye and saliva foaming at the mouth, people politely trying to change the topic before the Book Nerd really goes overboard. I get frustrated when I see the glaze over in their eyes and can practically see the thought bubble coming out of their head: "Oh God, here she goes again."

Occasionally, I'll run into the fellow book nerd who will really listen and share my enthusiasm; I feel sorry for my husband because he's often the brunt of my zeal. He's been forced to read many a book he probably wouldn't have chosen on his own. I don't think he minds too much.

Oh, and about the book store - I didn't buy anything. I restrained myself, knowing full well that my suitcase was already at it's brink without five additional books. Brock bought The Prestige by Christopher Priest for a mere eight Canadian dollars.

I don't even remember the name of the store, or if I even looked to see what it was called, but I'll never forget it.

A Game of One or Many?

Uno has taught me one life lesson: when you cherish something, cherish it with your whole self.

If you don't know what Uno is, it's a fairly simple and fun card game; it requires the players to match colored cards in their hand with the card on the top of the pile and the goal is to be the first person out of cards. To add a little spice, there's also skip, reverse, draw two, and wild cards - these are the value cards. They're not technically named "value" cards in the rules, but that's what I've come to known them as after working at Children's Inn.

Every kid I know loves to play Uno. Heck, every adult I know loves to play Uno. I had never really looked at it as a game to teach a lesson. One child changed.

I was playing a fast flying game of Uno with two kids in shelter; one had just recently learned how to play and was still getting the hang of the strategy. His hands were small and wasn't able to hold all seven (or more) cards in his hand at a time; he'd lay all the cards he "didn't want" in a pile on the table and he'd hold his value cards in his hand. His value cards were, of course, the skips, reverses, draw twos, and wilds.

When he'd discarded all the cards he didn't want, he was usually forced to look into his pile of value cards. I'd encourage him to lay these card. He'd stubbornly shake his head and tell me he'd rather draw a new card. I explained to him that in order to win the game he'd have to lay these cards down. He didn't care. He wanted to hold them; he was willing to sacrifice winning the game so that he could hold on those value cards.

These cards meant something to him; he cherished them because they had worth, they were his treasure.

It's moments like this where I realize these children have lessons to teach. I don't know this child's back story; I don't know where he's been, what he's seen or experienced. But he valued these cards as if they were gems; he refused to let them go and he wanted nothing more than to hold them, look at them, and enjoy them while he could.

Maybe, in a life where we take so many things for granted, we can follow this little boy's footsteps. Shouldn't we all value the things we love with the relish this boy did?

Going Hunting

I love hunting.

Hunting for books, that is. I grew up in a small Midwestern town with a family tradition of pheasant, deer, duck, sometimes even gopher hunting. It's a familiar concept to me. It's not one, however, that I've ever understood.

At the ripe age of ten, I was required to help cut deer. Not only was the site of the dead deer hanging from the rafters of our garage, eyeballs wide and staring, skin and fur stripped from the bone, enough to scar a young child, but I was also forced to help cut the thing up. My dad would strip the muscle from the bone and bring it down to the basement; from there, my mom and whoever else they recruited for the tedious task, were responsible for cutting the fat off and running the meat through a grinder.

Let's just say, I'm now a vegetarian. And even though the idea of walking into our garage and seeing those many deer hanging is one I tend to avoid, I must admit I have appreciation for the art of it. After all, hunting can occur in different forms and, for me, it takes the shape of the book.

I could spend hours of every day just traveling from one book store to another in search of a great read. I enjoy big book stores like Barnes and Noble, but it doesn't contain the same thrill as a local shop where you never know what you're going to get. Local book stores can contain anything from antique classics to off the wall contemporaries; sometimes they have what you're looking for, but most often they don't. And when they don't, you sacrifice your personal desires and you explore. That exploration can lead you to a multitude of books you would have never imagined dreaming before. Through that search of the unknown, you land on the couch with this exploration in hand, unsure of what treasure you'll uncover, whether they'll be laughs or tears, or both. It's a thrill.

Hunting for books is different from hunting for animals in the action of it all. Books don't perk up their ears at the crack of a twig or the odd scent in the air; they don't turn and run at the sound of a gunshot. Instead, they reach out for you. They sit on the bookshelf and, if you listen closely, you can hear them calling out to you; they're begging to be read.

If you're anything like me, you'll listen to their demands. Sometimes, the result is rough and gamey, other times it's sweet and tender. But it's always a surprise.

Not to mention, skinning a book is nothing like skinning a deer. Forget the tangible, I'll take the blood and guts of my imagination.

To be human is to ____________________.

What does it mean to be human?

To be human is to fill in the blank.

NPR argues that to be human is to tell stories. I agree. To be human is to write.

But it's a terrifying struggle. Writing is like a giant three-headed monster, always terrorizing, always pulling me under and pushing me back up again. It's a struggle, a fight. I feel the call but I resist - why? Because I'm scared. It means opening myself up to criticism, opening up my deepest thoughts and desires to an audience. As the 90's song famously said, it leaves me "cold and shamed, lying naked on the floor."

Cliche, maybe, but I think cliche's have truth to them - how else would they be cliche?

In any case, I thought graduating college would leave me certain that this idea of being a "writer" would probably vanish. But still it plucks away at my brain. Maybe dealing with insecurity is a part of being human. In any case...

The whole reason I wanted to start this post was to talk about storytelling. I'm reading the book Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer and it's really got me thinking about the meaning of storytelling.

This story, especially, seems all about history - how does history influence us, how does it change us, how does it change our future and our family? There's moments where the story is very nitty-gritty and, frankly, disturbing. But then I think, isn't that sort of what life is like? Nitty-gritty and disturbing?

It also made me start thinking about who storytellers are and who they can be. Sure, not everyone is a great writer. But everyone has a story to tell. Alex, for example, is terrible at English and incredibly unreliable; he's also compassionate and endearing. He says he's born to be a writer - and maybe we're all born to be writers. Writers of our own history and our own future.