Love Among the Bookcases
Many
people pass their leisure time in their living rooms. Others
congregate in their kitchens. In my house, however, visitors can
most often locate my husband or me in the library. Despite our
contrasting interests, we both feel most comfortable in our cozy
room of books.
The term
“library,” I should explain, is used loosely. We do not have row
upon row of book stacks, nor is the dewy decimal system in place.
Old cases, rescued from a crumbling school building, do line the
walls, though. They stand out dramatically, a honey-colored wood
against the dark mahogany of the walls that my husband prefers. The
cases house a myriad of books. Chemistry and other science texts,
sci-fi novels and philosophy books mingle with poetry anthologies,
classic Greek dramas, and popular literature. Their multi-colored
spines, like bleachers of spectators, greet us every time we enter.
Two
stuffed dark leather chairs reside in the room, softened a bit by
the addition of pillows and throw blankets. One sits by an antique
table once belonging to my mother-in-law, and topped with pictures
of my parents and brother. The other, flanked by stacks of notebooks
and typing paper, sits behind a large desk. The desk is of mahogany,
and it bears itself with the authority of a chairman-of-the-board.
On the other hand, it is not quite as tidy as one would expect in a
piece of that stature. Due to many half-empty glasses of Coca-Cola
and the occasional teacup, its glass top is marred by circles of
condensation. His and Hers disc holders sit side-by side, although
many of the discs themselves are strewn about the desktop. Papers
peek out from drawers left slightly ajar, and pencils are sent
rolling if anything is disturbed.
Despite
the mess, we still manage to keep our lives in order: I always know
which stack of notes belong to me, and which pile of ungraded papers
belong to my husband. He knows where to find The Encyclopedia of
Microbiology, and I can easily locate Wuthering Heights. Somehow,
nothing gets lost.
