Friendship of Books

t's rained all day; now they're calling for snow - again. At least I spent part of yesterday in the garden getting ready for spring. I plan for these days mid-summer, hunting yard sales and prowling used book stores picking up interesting vintage gardening books I challenge myself not to read until I'm snowbound and ready to go somewhere new.

That's one of the beauty of books; I can read a passage and see the scene in my mind's eye, relishing lush dialogue and paint strokes words leave in a paragraph. It's as easy to travel to 18th Century Paris in an art book or learn about 20th Century British gardening tips in color illustrations, all at my own pace. And I can easily turn a page and go back to see what I've missed instead of regretting not making that mental trip before I left.

So today was the day to take out my stash for this winter: a couple of gardening books; the story of "Rhubarb"  by H.Allen Smith, a loan from a neighbor, and a charming dark brown leather-bound book I quickly tucked away in the drawer after I found it for fear I would break my promise and peek. Settled into the sofa with a cup of tea, a blanket and a couple of cats, I opened the pages of "The Friendship of Books," dated 1911. Tears came to my eyes as I thought about all the people who almost a century ago must have prized this little publication of poems and essays about books, the chapters echoing books being "friends at home, inspirers of heart, educators of the mind, teachers in life, companions in pleasure" and "silent friendly spirits." They don't have to be many; I remember my mother telling me about my grandmother'sthree prized books she had growing up, reading them so often some of the page edges were worn thin and crumbled.

Today when we're all twittering and so "connected," it's refreshing to sit back, set all troubles aside and be reminded of the wonderful, quiet friends waiting on shelves to keep us company.

Charlotte