Find Yourself in a Bookstore

Bookstores and booksellers became a part of my life decades ago.  In the mid 60s there were few places a questioning young woman in Birmingham, Alabama could go to feel even remotely associated with the events described on the nightly news.  California might as well have been on another planet. Gene Crutcher’s bookstore was as close as I could get to associating with these dangerous ideas and times. He was the first man I ever met who had a beard!  And, he wore sandals! 

There, with Gene’s casual conversations and biting commentaries, I, of the Holden Caufield era, discovered Eric Hoffer’s True Believer and Voltaire’s Candide, both weighty books with lasting impact.  Along with these came Orwell’s 1984 which changed forever the way I reacted to newscasts, governments and anything smacking of group loyalty. I found through Thoreau’s Walden the beginnings of my personal life’s vision.  No crowded velvet cushions for me! My best friend Karen and I would carefully select our titles, then retreat to our suburban rooms to read, write, talk and generally hold forth for hours.

At Crutcher’s I also discovered Mason Williams’ music and poetry (still a favorite) and first saw his poster, full-sized, of the Greyhound Bus.  It weighed ten pounds or so and came folded in a box.  Outrageous and somehow, just right. I also found Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s Coney Island of the Mind and moved in my mind a bit closer to California.

Cruthcher’s wife some times worked in the store with him.  She was my first encounter with a free-spirited woman and though I found her intimidating, she was also intriguing in her self-assurance and quiet disregard of social norms. She didn’t rail; she simply dismissed these norms as irrelevant. 

Years later, I still think of the Crutchers and the cramped, untidy bookstore that opened on to one of Birmingham’s quaint little nooks.  Stepping outside the store in the area known as Five Points South, I could almost imagine myself in the beat district of some large city.  In truth there were only a few cobblestone streets and an unremarkable statue.   But it was something and it was the best we had.

Now independent bookstores have become almost non-existent.  A few small, prosperous tourist towns still have some but the owners are usually too busy behind computer screens to chat and certainly revolutionary talk is bad for their bottom line. Most of the floor space – carpeted in muted tones – is devoted to children’s books and self-help.

I have found several pleasant ones, but they are not Crutcher's. The owners have wisely accepted their place as value-added for the tourist trade, offering mild conversation about local sites and events. But I, too, have changed. I have become a quiet visitor and observer, unobtrusively carrying my own revolutionary thoughts and not in need of theirs.  Perhaps we both move around trying not to give offense, call attention.

I found one of these independent bookstores in Homer, Alaska.  It was new, carefully lighted and decorated, organized and inviting in its own way.  I found several new books.  I learned from the owner that Amy Tan was going to be in town that week for a writer’s conference.  This was a nice experience and a little “bit" I could add to enhance my image as a traveler, not just a tourist when I got home.

But the real kick, the fun, the punch came from another Homer bookseller.  His open-air store looked more like a swap meet booth.  Gravel floor, tie-dyed curtain walls, mismatched and unsteady tables with a jumble of tattered books in no particular order.  I bought something here as well, Tom Bodett’s End of the Road since the book is set practically in the spot where I stood.  But mostly I was buying the time to keep this bookseller talking; buying the time to take in the place more fully. I was also buying time because for those few moments I was back at Crutcher’s; I was still young and full of everything.

Another fine independent bookstore is in Grand Marais, Minnesota.  It’s tiny by any standards, but brilliant flowers spill from flower boxes and out every carefully polished window is a view of Lake Superior.  I visit each time my husband feels the need for a north woods week of trout fishing. Here a happy, accidentally-found-the-perfect-book-I- never-heard-of-before moment occurred. A book titled Fishing With My Old Guy!  This was too fine.  It is a very funny and touching book by Paul Quarrington. My husband and I both read it there in a cabin at Trout Lake, Minnesota and it became a metaphor, a tag line, for the week.

Now, though, I mostly rely on used bookstores for the unexpected find, the life-changing book, the new favorite author. Some of these used bookstores are adjuncts to a local library, raising money by selling donated books.  But still they are treasure-hunt places for me and the thrill of discovery is still powerful.

What are some of most recent discoveries? Bobos in Paradise, by David Brooks. I have always enjoyed Mr. Brooks’ commentary in the New York Times and on The News Hour. I expected the book to be well-written, intelligent and insightful.  Even with those expectations, I was amazed.  The humorous comments alone (even those that felt uncomfortably close to describing me) made the book worth reading.  His conclusions about life in this country at the hands of Bobos are re-assuring as he describes the Millennials, my daughter’s generation, perfectly.  I finished the book thinking, “Maybe things will work out after all.”

Another I am currently reading is a Robert Penn Warren novel, Band of Angels.  I rescued it because it seemed wrong for this author’s book to be on the fifty-cent rack! An outrage. I must buy this book to protect his dignity. I started reading.  The first forty or so pages were an effort, dreamy recollections of the narrator’s childhood. But suddenly in mid-paragraph the entire plot exploded and I went from dutiful reader to can’t stop now!  Set in the south during the time of slavery the twist of plot reminds me of Kate Chopin’s short story, Desiree’s Baby. 

So after many decades, I am still finding myself in bookstores… and yes, the pun is intended, In fact, when the need to find myself arose again in early retirement, my first impulse was to volunteer at my library’s used book store. I feel right at home there and why not?  In a sense I’ve been there all my life.