Ten Books

“The​ ​sun​ ​did​ ​not​ ​shine.​ ​ ​It​ ​was​ ​too​ ​wet​ ​to​ ​play.​ ​​​So​ ​we​ ​sat​ ​in​ ​the​ ​house.​ ​​​All​ ​that cold,​ ​cold,​ ​wet​ ​day.”​ ​
The Cat in the Hat​​ ​by​ ​Dr.​ ​Seuss

At​ ​breakfast​ ​recently,​ ​my​ ​six-year-old​ ​son​ ​placed​ ​his​ ​soft​ ​little​ ​hand​ ​on​ ​mine.​ ​​He​ ​leaned in​ ​close​ ​and​ ​quietly​ ​confided​ ​to​ ​me​ ​that​ ​he​ ​has​ ​”tons”​ ​of​ ​books​ ​at​ ​his​ ​dad’s​ ​house,​ ​but “we​ ​don’t​ ​read​ ​very​ ​much​ ​there.”​​​ ​This​ ​was​ ​not​ ​a​ ​new​ ​discovery​ ​to​ ​me​—​neither​ ​the​ ​part about​ ​not​ ​reading​ ​at​ ​his​ ​father’s​ ​house,​ ​nor​ ​the​ ​part​ ​about​ ​having​ ​tons​ ​of​ ​books.​ ​​​A​ ​very successful​ ​farmer,​ ​my​ ​ex-husband​ ​never​ ​tried​ ​to​ ​hide​ ​the​ ​fact​ ​that​ ​he​ ​didn’t​ ​like​ ​to​ ​read anything​ ​other​ ​than​ ​farm​ ​journals​ ​and​ ​owner’s​ ​manuals​ ​for​ ​tractors.​ ​​​When​ ​we​ ​were together​ ​as​ ​a​ ​family,​ ​I​ ​was​ ​the​ ​caretaker​ ​of​ ​the​ ​books​.​ ​​​I​ ​selected​ ​and purchased​ ​them​ ​as​ ​gifts​ ​for​ ​our​ ​children​ ​on​ ​holidays.​ ​​​I​ ​made​​ ​homes​ ​for​ ​the​m​.​​​ ​And​ ​I​ ​did​ ​98​ ​percent​ ​of​ ​the​ ​reading. Our​ ​kids​ ​always​ ​had​ ​far​ ​too​ ​many​ ​books​—​I​ ​am​ ​not​ ​at​ ​all​ ​ashamed​ ​to​ ​admit​ ​it.​ ​​That’s why​ ​it​ ​seems​ ​so​ ​strange​ ​that​ ​I​ ​only​ ​brought​ ​ten​ ​of​ ​the​ ​children’s​ ​books​ ​with​ ​us​ ​when​ ​we moved​ ​out.

“In​ ​the​ ​middle​ ​of​ ​the​ ​night,​ ​Miss​ ​Clavel​ ​turned​ ​on​ ​her​ ​light​ ​and​ ​said,​ ​’Something​ ​is not​ ​right.'”​ ​​ ​​
Madeline​​ ​by​ ​Ludwig​ ​Bemelmans

During​ ​our​ ​marriage,​ ​we​ ​lived​ ​on​ ​his​ ​family’s​ ​farm,​ ​in​ ​the​ ​home​ ​in​ ​which​ ​my​ ​ex-husband had​ ​lived​ ​his​ ​entire​ ​life.​ When​ ​it​ ​became​ ​clear​ ​that​ ​our​ ​marriage​ ​was​ ​ending​ ​and​ ​the time​ ​came​ ​for​ ​someone​ ​to​ ​leave,​ ​he​ ​declared​ ​that​ ​it​ ​had​ ​to​ ​be​ ​me​ ​and​ ​the​ ​kids​.​ ​I did​ ​not​ ​argue.​ ​​ ​With​ ​the​ ​crippling​ ​weight​ ​of​​ ​grief​ ​on​ ​my​ ​shoulders,​ ​I​ ​began the​ ​excruciating​ ​process​ ​of​ ​deciding​ ​what​ ​to​ ​take​ ​with​ ​us.​ ​​I was determined​ ​not​ ​to​ ​dismantle​ ​what​ ​had always​ ​been​ ​my​ ​children’s​ ​home​ ​any​ ​more​ ​than​ ​absolutely​ ​necessary. ​That meant​ ​​taking​ ​​the​ ​significant​ ​and​ ​sentimental things​ ​that​ ​comforted​ ​me,​ ​but​ ​leaving​ ​as​ ​much​ ​as​ ​possible to comfort them. ​​​I​ ​did​ ​not​ ​simply​ ​forget​ the​ ​children’s​ ​books.​ ​​On​ ​the​ ​contrary,​ ​I​ ​thought​ ​long​ ​and​ ​hard​ ​about​ ​what​ ​to​ ​do with​ ​them.​ ​​Then I​ ​consciously​ ​left​ most of ​the​m behind.​ I wish I could say I had a meaningful method for selecting the ten we took. In truth, it was more carnal than rational. I picked books that unfailingly made us feel good; books with words so familiar we could recite them, or rhymes that were rhythmically upbeat; books that my children requested time and again because they were rituals as much as they were books. ​​​

I​ ​left​ ​pictures​ ​on​ ​the​ ​wall;​ ​I left toys​ ​with​ ​which​ ​the​ ​children​ ​regularly​ ​played​, even​ ​the ones​ ​that​ ​had​ ​been​ ​mine​ ​as​ ​a​ ​child;​ I left ​the​ ​dining​ ​room​ ​table​ ​I​ ​had​ ​designed​ ​with​ ​an​ ​Amish carpenter​ ​for​ ​our​ ​first​ ​wedding​ ​anniversary;​ ​I left bedroom​ ​furniture​ ​that​ ​my​ ​family​ ​had​ ​given the​ ​children;​ ​and​ ​yes​—I​ ​left​ ​the​ ​books.

“There’s​ ​only​ ​one​ ​way​ ​in​ ​the​ ​whole​ ​wide​ ​world​ ​to​ ​save​ ​a​ ​red,​ ​ripe​ ​strawberry​ ​from the​ ​big,​ ​hungry​ ​Bear!”​ ​​
The Little Mouse, The Red Ripe Strawberry, and the Big Hungry Bear​ ​​​​by​ ​Don​ ​and​ ​Audrey​ ​Wood

These​ ​weren’t​ ​just​ ​books ​though.​ ​​They​ ​were​ ​treasures​ ​I​ ​had​ ​lovingly​ ​hand-picked​ and​ ​inscribed ​with wishes​ ​that​ ​I​ ​imagined showing​ ​to​ ​my​ ​grandchildren​ ​someday​ ​as​ ​we​ ​read​ ​together.​ ​​​”To​ ​Emerson​ ​on​ ​your​ ​third birthday,​ ​with​ ​love​ ​from​ ​Mommy​ ​and​ ​Daddy.”​ ​”To​ ​Isaac​ ​on​ ​your​ ​first​ ​Christmas.​ ​​We love​ ​you!!”​ ​I​ ​left​ ​the​ ​books ​and​ ​left​ ​what​ ​felt​ ​like​ ​little​ ​pieces​ ​of​ ​myself​.​ ​​I​ ​don’t know​ ​what​ ​made​ ​this ​feel​ ​safe.​ ​​Was​ ​it​ ​denial​ ​of​ ​the​ ​permanency​ ​of​ ​the separation?​ ​Or​ ​certainty​ ​that​ ​I​ ​would​ ​be​ ​able​ ​to​ ​return​ ​for​ ​them?​ ​​​It​ ​doesn’t​ ​matter, because​ ​hearts​ ​became​ ​bitter​, ​and​ ​lines​ ​were​ ​drawn​,​ ​and​ ​now​ ​it​ ​is​ ​very​ ​clear that​ ​I​ ​will​ ​never​ ​see​ ​those​ ​books​ ​again.

“I​ ​love​ ​you​ ​right​ ​up​ ​to​ ​the​ ​moon​—and​ ​back.”​ ​​
​​Guess How Much I Love You ​by Sam​ ​McBratney

Books​ ​and​ ​reading​ ​are​ ​intricately​ ​woven​ ​into​ ​the​ ​fabric​ ​of​ ​our​ ​family​ ​life.​ ​​Our​ ​nightly ritual​ ​of​ ​reading​ ​together​ ​is​ ​an​ ​anchor​ ​of​ ​our​ ​routine.​ ​​We​ ​read.​ ​​And​ ​read.​ ​​And​ ​read. Back​ when​ ​my​ ​son​ ​was​ ​a​ ​toddler,​​ ​we​ ​surveyed​ ​his​ ​bookshelves​ ​every​ ​night​ ​for two​ ​or​ ​three​ ​or​ ​four​ ​(whatever​ ​the​ ​negotiated​ ​number)​ ​selections​ ​to​ ​read​ ​before​ ​eyelids got​ ​heavy​ ​and​ ​lights​ ​were​ ​turned​ ​off.​ ​​Sometimes,​ ​in​ ​search​ ​of​ ​the​ ​one​ ​book​ ​that​ ​his little​ ​heart​ ​needed​ ​to​ ​hear,​ ​my​ ​son​ ​would​ ​pull​ ​every​ ​book​ ​off​ ​of​ ​a​ ​shelf,​ ​leaving​ ​a​ ​small mountain​​ ​there​ ​on​ ​the​ ​bedroom​ ​floor.​ ​I​ ​would​ ​pick​ ​them​ ​up​ ​sometime​ ​the​ ​next day​ ​and​ ​return​ ​them​ ​to​ ​their​ ​shelves​, ​all​ ​the​ ​while​ ​muttering​ ​about​ ​”so​ ​many​ ​books”​ ​and “not​ ​enough​ ​shelf​ ​space”​ ​and​ ​”have​ ​to​ ​start​ ​making​ ​him​ ​put​ ​these​ ​back​ ​himself.”​​ ​The truth​ ​is,​ ​I​ ​would​ ​gladly​ ​pick​ ​up​ ​books​ ​every​ ​day​ ​for​ ​the​ ​rest​ ​of​ ​my​ ​life​ ​rather​ ​than​ ​give​ ​up those​ ​moments​ ​spent reading​ ​with​ ​him.

“Well,​ ​I​ ​saw​ ​an​ ​ant​ ​on​ ​the​ ​railroad​ ​track.​ ​​The​ ​rail​ ​was​ ​bright.​ ​​The​ ​ant​ ​was​ ​black. He​ ​was​ ​walking​ ​along,​ ​tickety-tack.​ ​​​(That’s​ ​the​ ​sound​ ​of​ ​an​ ​ant​ ​on​ ​the​ ​railroad track.)”​ ​​ ​​
I Saw an Ant on the Railroad Track ​ ​​by​ ​Joshua​ ​Prince

When​ ​the​ ​books​ ​became​ ​too​ ​numerous​ ​and​ ​the​ ​shelves​ ​filled​ ​to​ ​overflowing,​ ​the​ ​kids and​ ​I​ ​would​ ​painstakingly​ ​sort​ ​them.​ ​​We​ ​examined​ ​each​ ​book​, ​deciding​ ​which​ ​ones were​ ​ready​ ​to​ ​be​ ​donated​ ​to​ ​the​ ​public​ ​library​ ​and​ ​”shared​ ​with​ ​our​ ​neighbors​ ​and friends.”​​ ​I​ ​cherished​ ​those​ ​sorting​ ​days​, ​partially​ ​for​ ​the​ ​obvious​ ​reason​—making​ ​room for​ ​more​ ​books!—​and​ ​partially​ ​for​ ​the​ ​less obvious​: ​seeing​ ​undeniable​ ​proof,​ ​as​ ​my children​ ​handled​ ​each​ ​book​ ​like​ ​it​ ​were​ ​an​ ​old friend, ​that​ they​ ​had​ ​inherited​ ​my​ ​innate​ ​love of literature.​​ ​Small​ ​hands​ would ​brush​ ​over​ ​each​ ​cover,​ ​as​ ​if​ ​by​ ​doing​ ​so​ ​they​ ​might​ ​touch​ ​and feel​ ​the​ ​characters​ ​and​ ​scenes​ ​of​ ​the​ ​beloved​ ​stories​ ​within.​ ​​It​ ​was​ ​hard​ ​to​ ​say goodbye,​ ​but​ ​we​ ​comforted​ ​ourselves​ ​with​ ​the​ ​fact​ ​that​ ​our​ ​books​ ​would​ ​be​ ​waiting​ ​for us​ ​at​ ​the​ ​library​ ​when​ ​we​ ​wanted​ ​to​ ​visit​ ​them​ ​again.

“He’ll​ ​often​ ​drop​ ​in.​ ​​ ​Only​ ​you​ ​mustn’t​ ​press​ ​him.​ ​​ ​He’s​ ​wild,​ ​you​ ​know.​ ​​ ​Not​ ​like​ ​a tame​ ​lion.”​ ​​​
​​​​The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe ​ ​​by​ ​C.S.​ ​Lewis

When​ ​she​ ​was​ ​in​ ​the​ ​first​ ​grade,​ ​my​ ​daughter​ ​established​ ​her​ ​own​ ​library,​ ​complete​ ​with card​ ​catalog​ ​and​ ​shelving​ ​system.​ ​​There​ ​were​ ​designated​ ​spots​ ​for​ ​an​ ​assortment​ ​of genres​ ​and​ ​subjects:​ ​​​history​ ​books,​ ​space​ ​and​ ​planet​ ​books,​ ​books​ ​of​ ​poetry,​ ​Bible stories,​ ​tractor​ ​and​ ​farm-themed​ ​books,​ ​and​ ​series​ ​like​ ​Harry Potter,​ ​Percy Jackson​ ​and The Chronicles of Narnia.​ ​​​One​ ​bookshelf​ ​became​ ​two,​ ​and​ ​then​ ​three​ ​as​ ​her​ ​library expanded.​ ​​Each​ ​family​ ​member​ ​was​ ​issued​ ​a​ ​”library​ ​card”​ ​which​ ​allowed​ ​us​ ​to​ ​”check out”​ ​books​ ​and​ ​read​ ​them, as​ ​long​ ​as​ ​we​ ​presented​ ​a​ ​verbal​ ​book​ ​report​ ​when​ ​we returned​ ​them.​ ​​Even​ ​then,​ ​she​ ​obviously​ ​understood​: books​ ​are​ ​meant​ ​to​ ​be​ ​shared.

“If​ ​only​ ​Madame​ ​SoSo​ ​had​ ​looked​ ​behind​ ​the​ ​curtain​ ​even​ ​once​ ​during​ ​her practice,​ ​she​ ​would​ ​have​ ​realized​ ​that​ ​Alma​ ​was​ ​no​ ​ordinary​ ​cat.” ​​ ​​
​​​​Opera Cat ​ ​by Tess​ ​Weaver

“On​ ​an​ ​island​ ​in​ ​the​ ​ocean,​ ​near​ ​the​ ​land​ ​of​ ​Singapore,​ ​midst​ ​a​ ​storm​ ​of​ ​great proportion,​ ​fifteen​ ​cats​ ​were​ ​washed​ ​ashore.”​ ​​
​​​​​​Castaway Cats ​​by​ ​Lisa​ ​Wheeler

At​ ​about​ ​the​ ​same​ ​time​ ​that​ ​her​ ​library​ ​was​ ​founded,​ ​I​ ​began​ ​reading​ ​the​ ​Harry Potter series​ ​out​ ​loud​ ​to​ ​my​ ​daughter​ ​at​ ​bedtime.​ ​It​ ​was​ ​my​ ​first​ ​time​ ​reading​ ​those​ ​books,​ ​so we​ ​got​ ​lost​ ​in​ ​the​ ​wonder​ ​together.​ ​​​Every​ ​night,​ ​snuggled​ ​up​ ​in​ ​her​ ​bed,​ ​we​ ​would travel​ ​to​ ​Hogwarts​ ​and​ ​join​ ​the​ ​adventure​ ​with​ ​Harry​ ​and​ ​Ron​ ​and​ ​Hermione​ ​and Hagrid.​ ​​​I​ ​used​ ​distinct​ ​voices​ ​for​ ​each​ ​character​ ​and​ ​tried​ ​to​​ ​paint​ vocally ​the​ ​fantastic, vivid​ ​mental​ ​images​ ​the​ ​books​ ​conjured​ ​for​ ​me.​ ​​We​ ​devoured​ ​those​ ​novels,​ ​one​ ​after the​ ​other.​ ​​​Some​ ​nights,​ ​as​ ​one​ ​chapter​ ​turned​ ​into​ ​three​ ​or​ ​four​ ​chapters,​ ​we​ ​read​ ​until her​ ​dad​ ​scolded​ ​both​ ​of​ ​us​ ​into​ ​closing​ ​the​ ​book​ ​and​ ​turning​ ​off​ ​the​ ​light.​ ​​​It​ ​was​ ​such​ ​a special​ ​time​ ​for​ ​me​—for​ ​us.​ ​​Pure​ ​magic.

“The​ ​wand​ ​chooses​ ​the​ ​wizard,​ ​remember . . .”​  ​​
​​​​Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone ​by​ ​JK​ ​Rowling

Since books​ ​had​ ​always​ ​been​ ​a​ ​part​ ​of​ ​our​ ​life​ ​together, when​ ​we​ ​moved​ ​out and​ ​the children’s lives​ ​were​ ​torn​ ​apart,​ ​I​ ​suppose​ ​I​ ​believed​ ​that​ ​in​ ​leaving​ ​their​ ​books, in​ ​leaving​ ​that part​ ​of​ ​their​ ​life​ ​in​ ​place,​ ​I​ ​would​ ​somehow​ ​make​ ​it​ ​easier​ ​for​ ​my​ ​children​ ​to​ ​accept​ ​the idea​ ​that​ ​their​ ​mother​ ​no​ ​longer​ ​lived​ ​with​ ​their​ ​father.​ ​​Even​ ​though​ ​their​ ​home​ ​was forever​ ​changed,​ ​they​ ​could​ ​still​ ​look​ ​over​ ​at​ ​those​ ​books​ ​as​ ​they​ ​climbed​ ​into​ ​bed​ ​at​ ​his house​ ​and​ ​remember​ ​how​ ​things​ ​were​ ​when​ ​all of us were a​ ​family​​ ​under​ ​one​ ​roof.​ ​​​

I​ had ​hoped that​ ​the​ ​books​ ​I​ ​left​ ​behind​ ​would​ ​be​ ​a​ ​link​ ​to​ ​the​ ​past​ ​for​ ​my​ ​kids. Instead,​ ​the​ ​ten​ ​books​ ​we​ ​took​ ​with​ ​us​ ​would​ ​prove​ ​to​ ​be​ ​lights​ ​illuminating​ ​the​ ​path​ ​to our​ ​new​ ​normal.​ ​​​As​ ​one​ ​household​ ​became​ ​two,​ ​there​ ​was​ ​a​ ​necessary​ ​process​ ​of redefinition.​ We​ ​shed​ ​the​ ​things​ ​that​ ​were​ ​no​ ​longer​ ​meaningful​ ​or​ ​useful​ ​and​ ​clung​ ​to the​ ​things​ ​that​ ​comforted​ ​and​ ​steadied​ ​us.​ ​​Even​ ​though​ ​we​ ​only​ ​had​ ​ten​ ​books​ ​in​ ​our new​ ​home,​ ​we​ ​continued​ ​to​ ​read​ ​every​ ​night.​ ​​​It​ ​made​ ​us​ ​feel​ ​like​ ​us.​ ​​We​ ​bought​ ​new bookshelves​ ​and​ ​put​ ​those​ ​ten​ ​books​ ​in​ ​their​ ​proper​ ​place.​ ​We​ ​seized​ opportunities​ ​to​ ​visit​ ​bookstores​ ​and​ ​add​ ​to​ ​our​ ​collection.​ ​​We​ ​made​ ​weekly​ ​visits​ ​to​ ​the library​ ​to​ ​add​ ​variety​ ​and​ ​to​ ​visit​ ​those​ ​old​ ​friends​ ​that​ ​we​ ​had donated​ ​in​ ​the​ ​past—and we still do.​ ​​All​ ​of this​ ​serves​ ​to​ ​reassure​ ​me.​ ​​Although​ ​life​ ​as​ ​it​ ​used​ ​to​ ​be​ ​was​ ​shattered,​ ​we​ ​have picked​ ​up​ ​the​ ​pieces​ ​and​ ​are​ ​making​ ​something​ ​new​ ​and​ ​meaningful​ ​again.​ ​​Looking back,​ ​I​ ​regret​ ​leaving​ ​those​ ​special​ ​books​ ​behind.​ ​I​ ​ache​ ​when​ ​I​ ​think​ ​about​ ​them​ ​sitting untouched​ ​on​ ​the​ ​shelves​ ​these​ ​days.​ ​​But​ ​that​ ​regret​ ​is​ ​seasoned​ ​with​ ​hope​ ​and​ ​the reassurance​ ​that​ ​we​ ​are​ ​growing​ ​our​ ​new​ ​library​ ​in​ ​our​ ​new​ ​home.​ ​​We​ ​are​ ​rebuilding, and together,​ ​​we​ ​are​ ​finding​ ​our​ ​way.

“Stellaluna​ ​was​ ​afraid,​ ​but​ ​she​ ​let​ ​go​ ​of​ ​the​ ​tree​ ​and​ ​dropped​ ​into​ ​the​ ​deep​ ​blue sky.”​ ​​ ​​​​​
Stellaluna ​ ​by​ ​Janell​ ​Cannon