Used bookstores. I've known them intimately since I was a child. Imagine the excitement I felt finding this measure of financial freedom, discovering a way to sell something I no longer wanted to own something I really did want. On a regular basis, I would gather all of the books with which I could bear to part, wait for a family trip to the plaza where the used book store was waiting just for me, and sell my wares. I could sell a boring Nancy Drew and find an exciting Black Stallion, sell a ho-hum Hardy Boys Mystery and stumble upon The Black Stallion Returns. I could meet new books, consume them, build a relationship with them, and determine whether I wanted to continue that relationship, or if I just wanted to use it to acquire a new one.
Some would say that a used book store is just a paperback library. I suppose there's some validity to that. But there's something--something not-quite-explainable--that's different. The mystery of the hunt, the thrill of the find. And, too, the pressure is gone. I can take a book home, find that the relationship is too precious, and choose to keep that book! Mine! As a child, I would read each book carefully, never bending the cover, breaking the spine or dog-earing the pages, because the trade-in value would go down with every bend, break and dog-ear.
Library books...well, it just wasn't the same.
I hadn't been to a good used bookstore nearby since my childhood. There's an antique store with a fairly good selection, but it's not a used bookstore. There had been a pretty decent used bookstore downtown here, but from what the owners say, they were "chased out" by the conservative members of this community and simply couldn't make a living. Apparently the "conservative" contingent didn't like the Tarot, Gender Studies and Astrological selections. I don't know. I'm from the "conservative" contingent, I suppose, but I shopped there often and knew the owners by name. Ah, well.
Recently, I discovered another used bookstore while taking my kids into the "bigger" city (still small town) for the rehearsals for their roles in a musical there. Being a small town, everything closes by 5:00. But Books In Stock is open until 9:00, so I found it by necessity, the necessity of not spending another minute at Wal*Mart or McDonald's.
One step inside, and I was hooked. Hooked! It smells like my childhood! Like Black Stallion, Black Stallion Returns, The Secret in Miranda's Closet, The Red Badge of Courage, A Wrinkle in Time! Deep brown, worn-soft shelves are packed with paperbacks, hardbacks, books on CD and on cassette, categories indicated by hand-written signs suspended above each of the aisles. The bookcase ends hold photos of people traveling all over the world representing the store by sporting a shop t-shirt. "Books in Stock is known is Holland!" or "Books in Stock is known in Portugal!"
I wander from shelf to shelf, looking for old friends, new friends, maybe even avoiding a few enemies. It's a stroll through time. Look! There's Richard Bach! Oh, and the treasure of seeing Steven Cosgrove and Robin James in the children's section. Peace Like a River beckons from the fiction section, and I argue with myself--I should own it, even though I read and re-read the library copy. Yes! A bunch of Magic Treehouse books for Monet who has been devouring them like candy! And Bruce Coville and Diana Wynne-Jones books for Bard. There are loads of Dorling-Kindersley books, most for under $5. All of the paperbacks are half-priced or the prices are marked with pencil on the inside.
Still, I'm able to accumulate quite a bill, though not as high as any I've had at Border's or the local independent bookstore. Here I am again, I think, buying books when I have no money. Books or food? Well, beans and rice are pretty tasty.
Just out of curiosity, I grab a trade-in form at the counter. I've come to a place in my life that I really don't want to part with any of the books I own, though we have way, way, way too many books (Can one have "too many" books? Isn't that like having "too many" flowers or "too many" children?) Most of the storage facility we used while we were living in the cabin was filled with books, in addition to the ones that overflowed from the shelves at the cabin. Most of my storage problems now are from not having enough bookshelves. I use books as bookshelves. We have books stacked in bedrooms, the Creative Room, the fruit cellar, the laundry room, the kitchen. I like them. I adore almost every one of them. And if I don't like them, other people probably wouldn't either, so why get rid of them?
But Bard gets hold of the trade-in rules, and now she's going through her books, weeding out duplicates (She informs me that we have 65 copies of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe) and counting the benefits and costs of trading in books she hasn't read in years. I see myself sitting there on her bedroom floor, evaluating each book, weighing its worth, dreaming of its value in trade, deciding in advance what books she'll be seeking.
In the end, I sort through some of mine, too. I toss in a book about the evils of Hallowe'en and its foundation in witchcraft and druidism, a book someone gave me on how to love my husband, and a Spanish copy of Your Fertility Signals, given to me by the author (a great book! I just don't know anyone who speaks Spanish and I have three copies of the English version already).
I let Bard handle the transaction. She writes her name and indicates that we'd like any unwanted books back. If we're staying for a while, the clerk informs us, she'll have our trade credit amount ready for us before we leave.
Of course we're staying for a while!
I find the I Hate Mathematics and Math for Smarty Pants books, the Book of Facts and Comparisons, Talk So Your Kids Will Listen and Listen So Your Kids Will Talk, several books in the Something Queer series (books I used to read while waiting in the doc's office as a kid, and whose star, Fletcher, could be our basset/beagle, Snoopy), a book of must-know magic tricks for Edison, and a few more Magic Treehouse books for Monet. Bard found a stack of her own.
I figured we'd been there long enough when I nursed The Baby to sleep, we'd borrowed the bathroom key four times, and Sweetheart had finished looking at every Golden Book on the rack. I had already tallied our total...over $50.00. But our trade-ins would take a big hunk out of that. Oh, the wonder of a used book store!
At the counter, after three of us have wrestled our stack onto the countertop, the clerk pushes my trade credit slip towards me. She points to the "fiction" total. $2.49! And for the nonfiction, a whopping $4.49. What??? I look towards the door where they have placed my bag of unwanted books. It's almost full, including The Davinci Code given to me by my brother-in-law and Making Your Children Mind without Losing Yours, which I bought there last week and disliked within the first chapter! I was banking on that one! I looked at my huge stack of potential purchases and told the clerk, in a mournful tone, that I'd like a few minutes alone. Bard and I took ten minutes to sort, to set aside the poor souls that couldn't come home with us, to think and rethink our choices, and, finally, to call the clerk back over.
My final total came to $35.64. I picked up the bag of books Iwe had brought for trade, the rejects that weren't wanted by the bookstore, and I felt depressed. How much had I paid for these books new? And now they weren't even worth a dollar at the used bookstore? Some of them I'd never even read! Excellent condition! I read the sign posted above the counter, the sign that read my mind. "Why Didn't We Want Your Books?" with several reasons listed. I deduced that "my" reason was "deemed not saleable." The clerk offered to dispose of the books for me. No, I thought. I'll take them home and give them a proper burial. Deep on a back of a bookshelf.
I'll probably try again next week. If I can afford it.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go reheat my beans and rice.
