Old Books

By G. E. Shuman

I love old books. I like books in general, and perusing countless shelves of new books at a huge book store is always a pleasure, of course. My wife, who, very likely, owns more paperbacks than Barnes & Noble, seems to enjoy opening a brand new book for the first time, although she will burn through any novel, new or used, in about a day.
To me, there are many things special about old books. I have not always felt this way. I remember, years ago, walking quickly past the library summer book-lawn sale, wondering why all those people would be interested in musty, dusty old books. After all, there was certainly no new information to be gleaned from them, no possible revelations to mankind that he had not already thoroughly thought through since those old volumes were in print. To me, at that time, old ideas and old, outdated word usage were things to be avoided, not entertained.
Now, as I seem to be on the verge of becoming a moldy-oldie myself, I have learned to love cracking open the pages of an old book. Part of that thrill, to me, is in the very fact of the mustiness of them; the frailty of those elderly pages, yellowed, often stained, and occasionally even bookworm-tunneled. Just the idea that the pulpy pages of an old book have survived, unparted, perhaps for generations, intrigues me a great deal. The probability that I could be the first in many years to ‘hear’ the thoughts of some long-forgotten author fascinates me, too.
I discovered one such treasure in our cellar, several days ago, as we were doing a little late spring cleaning. The book is called Grandma’s Attic Treasures. It was written by a lady named Mary D. Brine, and published in 1885. Think of that. In that old book, which was likely passed to us by family many years ago, I held someone’s written thoughts, which were thought and written before even my grandparents were born. That same day I sat down and carefully read this little, rhyming fictional story of an elderly lady who was unable to part with old things in her home, exactly because of the memories that they held. That lady, if the story were true, would have been elderly shortly after the Civil War. Author Mary Brine portrayed her as feeling just as do many of us, as we hold on to treasures from our, and our children’s youth.
You know, time is a very strange thing. We live by it, hour after hour, as if it were the one and only, all-consuming, all-controlling force in our lives. I have told my English students that this idea is not necessarily so. The ’time’ of our lives can be partially ignored, simply because of the wonderful gift of literature, and man‘s ability to relate his thoughts down through the ages. Communication with people of the past, if only in the direction of from their minds to ours, is a very real thing, and as easy to do as opening an old book. In this way, I have befriended a lady named Mary D. Brine. The fact that her time and mine did not intersect has little to do with that. I have participated in some of her thoughts, memories and imagination, through her own words. In such a way, perhaps, someday, someone will share in my long-past thoughts as well.
This summer, in your leisure hours, I challenge you to sit in the shade with a cool lemonade, and carefully open the pages of a long neglected, dusty, musty book. Be prepared to meet a very old friend, for the very first time.