Long ago (let’s say 50 years) and far away (let’s say the coal regions of Pennsylvania), my mother thought a fine Saturday’s entertainment was to go antiquing. You never knew what you would find. One man’s trash is, after all, another man’s treasure. From the time I was a tot, I learned to keep my eyes peeled for underappreciated artifacts.
Whenever there was a free Saturday, we’d pile into the big, white Buick wagon and strike out in a different direction, sometimes to an estate auction advertised in the paper, but more often at random. Antiquing was an opportunity to see new countryside.
And so, one Saturday we found The Book Barn. A looming, listing structure in need of paint, it was filled to the gunnels with books, which, books being heavier than hay, explained some of the listing.
An indiscriminate bibliophile, my mother was ecstatic, but, confronted with a catacomb of mouldering manuscripts, a bit bewildered as to where to begin. Always eager to strike up a conversation with a fellow book fiend, she approached the lanky, tattered, old fellow behind the crate-formed counter.
“Are there any good books here?” my mother asked, a sly salvo inviting an open-ended discussion.
The parchment skin crinkled at the corners of his eyes. The hoary stubble winked as his hollow cheeks twitched in amusement.
“I don’t mean to brag,” he wryly replied, “but I’ve never read a book in my life.”
For Lisa Renee, in response to I’m With Stupid.
