There is something about an old book. Something about the feel of the dry, brittle pages between my fingers, the worn and faded cover… My favorite thing to do at used bookstores is to browse along the dusty shelves until I find a particularly elderly looking volume. I take a quick peek over my shoulder to make sure no one is watching, and then I creak open the cover to bury my nose between the pages. I slowly draw in the stale, musty scent of age and time, feeling such respect for this tired old book. It seems like I’m inhaling its entire history in just that one deep breath. I try to picture the hands that have held this book before me. If the cover is frayed and the spine bent, was it a book that someone loved? Was it pored over time and again, the frequent midnight companion for one devoted reader? Or perhaps it was such a cherished copy that it was passed from friend to friend, enriching each life along the way.

One of the most remarkable gifts anyone has ever given me is a ragged old copy of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Kathryn slipped it into my hands on my birthday with a note that said: I know you like them old, used and full of history. This was HER copy. This was a book she had traveled with, learned from, and loved dearly for many years. She gave this book its history- and then she gave it to me. A pitifully shabby and completely priceless gift that I will treasure forever.

Another very special gift that was given to me is the book that you see in the photo at the top of this post. It’s called The Children’s Garland, and it was given to me by my mother when I was a young girl. The year she gave it to me the book was 99 years old, and I felt so honored to have it in my possession on its one hundredth birthday. Now it has spent time in three different centuries, hopefully providing each of its previous owners with as much joy as it has for me. I was introduced to my favorite poet through the pages of this book, discovering his famous and extraordinary poem “The Raven” for the first time on page 191. Page 2 was my first exposure to the brilliance of Shakespeare, and page 183 tells the shortest and most tragic love story I have ever read.

I wasn’t the first child to be fascinated by the verses in this book, and I hope with all of my heart that I won’t be the last. I hope that my children grow to love it as much as I do.

The magic of the books I love comes not only from the content, but from the history that escapes with the whisper of each turned page. When page corners are folded or words underlined and smudged, I always spend a little more time with the book opened to that page, trying to absorb a tiny bit of that reader’s experience. If pehaps my own teardrops are added to the last paragraph of a heartbreaking tale, I like to imagine a reader in the future brushing their fingertips across the ripple… and maybe wondering about me.