When, at 19, I packed my seabag for Honolulu to sign articles on my first merchant ship, I took along a few books from home as ballast. When more ballast was needed, I walked the short distance from our berth at Pier Four to Froggies and Jellies — two used bookstores — where a brace of paperbacks could be had for the price of a Budweiser. Thus had my compulsive book-buying habit begun in earnest.
That was over 30 years ago.
I did not always treat them well, and many books from my earliest seagoing days have been marred by less-than-clean hands at the end of a tank-cleaning shift or during hasty coffee breaks, or sometimes on the sly, while standing a gangway watch.
Now that I no longer ship out, I’m kinder to my books. They still travel with me, on busses and planes; they keep me company in town — while others shop — and on hikes. They no longer live in a dark closet, in banana boxes; they now even have a dedicated room. Overall, their lives are more stable, much improved, not unlike my own.
To sit in a room furnished almost completely with books is to be confronted with an entire personal history. They’ve traveled widely, outlasted friendships and romances, nursed me through illness. Indeed, they are old friends, with R-value to boot.
They can also be the ruin of you. If I told you that, after three years of pandemic-bred book buying fever, it’s entirely possible to whittle away a bank account with four and five dollar books, you must believe me. If you’re tempted by any kind of research project to simply buy your way through a bibliography, you should not unless financial ruin by university press is your goal.
Fortunately for me, my local librarians intervened to remind me of a nice service, the interlibrary loan, which keeps bibliophiles like myself out of the poorhouse.
Three days a week, library staff converge at the Frenchman’s Bay Library, a stone’s throw away from Taunton Bay on the Sullivan side, to facilitate the flow of knowledge.
Despite dependency on a patchwork of private donations, book sales and the annual Souper Chili potluck to make up shortfalls, their predominant attitude seems to be “Damn the torpedoes!” If there’s a book in demand, they’ll do their level best to get it.
Last September, when getting my hands on David Cook’s superb “Above the Gravel Bar” meant spending more than I could afford, Christina and Cyndi came to my aid.
Bankruptcy would certainly have diluted the delight I found in following Mr. Cook down various Maine waterways in his canoe. As he poles, portages and paddles his way along, an older, deeper knowledge of a familiar landscape emerges, as if from a palimpsest.
When I was temporarily finished with Penobsot Nation lore and keen to return to the warmer waters of the Bajau, coastal nomads of Indonesian and Sulu Sea regions, I found Cynthia Chou’s “Indonesian Sea Nomads” via Rutgers University Library.
Since September, the list of borrowed books has grown considerably.
Don’t for a minute think I’ve actually stopped buying books. I’d call it “supplementing,” as one would mix a little green wood in with the dry to make the woodpile last the winter.
What surprises me is how much pleasure these new, migratory species have given me. It turns out you don’t have to possess a book to love it. And more often, the book possesses you.
On a recent, sunny Saturday morning, I got a call from Christina with the news that Resil B. Mojares’ “The War Against The Americans” was in from UConn.
Having exhausted Dr. Mojares’ excellent journal articles via the free digital library, JSTOR, I’d reached the point where having his books on hand was essential.
Like a teenager on a first date, I bounded out the door, drove like mad and returned home with my treasure. It doesn’t take long to feel proprietary toward a borrowed book, so I have to watch myself to remember not to take the usual liberties with them. They certainly don’t belong at the dinner table, especially if I’m eating spaghetti. I have to start using bookmarks and not drape them over the arms of couches. The bathroom is best avoided altogether.
In short, I’ll need to keep UConn and other libraries in my good graces or risk running out of fuel before spring.
Durin Chappe writes in the shadow of Schoodic Mountain, in Downeast Maine.
Durin Chappe writes in the shadow of Schoodic Mountain, in Downeast Maine.
