In Praise of Indies

This is not one of those stories where the supermodel tells you she was home alone with her cat on prom night.  I did go to prom and I kissed a boy. But at the same time, for most of my childhood, I was the kid in the corner of the room curled up with a book, not the one joining organized sports teams or taping up teen idol posters. I can't remember if the term "nerd" was alive in the early 70’s, but you get the picture.  Drawing horses and reading were my two favorite past times.  Let's just say that doesn't set you up for a membership in the Gossip Girl cool club.

 

Many childhood afternoons, I rode my bike to the Delmar Public library in upstate New York. The librarians and I were on a first name basis. They helped me select piles of books that introduced me to imaginary lives, mysteries, history and biography.  Double bonus, Ellen Harris, the cool Mod Squad hippie-ish children’s librarian was also our occasional babysitter.  Checking out books with my own library card had the grown up élan I associated with whipping out a credit card.  And when I devoured those reads at home, I inhabited alternate universes, fed my head and stretched my vocabulary.

 

I married a man whose career took us to many different cities.  In each one I acquired a succession of library cards to match my growing collection of state driver’s licenses.  And eventually, as a mother, I would haunt the children's sections of my town libraries once again, directing my kids toward timeless reads like the Babar series, the Wind in the Willows or The Lonely Doll, a childhood favorite.

 

And while we were regular patrons of our libraries, it was the local bookstores that became my personal sanctuaries, my mental watering holes.  Back when mothering four children could feel like fighting against the undertow, I would have described a perfect day as “being alone in a bookstore.”  I still would.

 

I am drawn to bookstores the way others migrate to clothing boutiques or shoe sales.   Here's what happens. The door opens, the bell tinkles and a beatific look overtakes my face.  I love the absence of a shopping soundtrack. There is no migraine thumping bass in the Abercrombie dressing room, no “Nine Inch Nails” blasting away so as to quicken hand tremors and force premature surrender of the plastic as I plot my exit from mall girl hell.

 

 

Nope.  This is bliss. The hushed interior, the shelved cache of rabbit holes into other worlds and other lives.   Sometimes there is an espresso machine puffing in the back, a worn comfy chair, an invitation to sit and linger.  And the books!  All those crisp hardbacks lined up like soldiers, the distressed pine tables groaning with proven paperbacks, the old faithfuls in the back, arranged by category. And those colorful jackets!  Oh, the books that catch my eye like stained glass.   Even an artfully designed “so-so” read can seduce like a painted whore in soft light.

 

And then I'm jonesing like an addict entering a crack den.  Books are my crystal meth.   Friends and family members have had to literally tug me out of bookstores on occasion.  I can get that gone.

 

Bookstore employees in the towns in which I’ve lived came to learn my tastes and recommend new or unfamiliar titles.  We'd parse reviews like bookies at the track.  There was small talk and gossip, the questions about each other’s children and families or a mutual friend.  At some point in the conversation I'd feel like the party's social climber, making polite conversation while scanning the crowd for bigger game. One eye was always running up and down the shelves looking for the latest read or a book I’d kept meaning to add to my list.

 

When I became a published author in 2007 with the release of In an Instant, I appreciated the value of libraries and bookstores from a different perspective than that of customer.  On my first book tour I had the pleasure of meeting some of the owners at iconic independent stores like Powell’s in Portland, Andersons in Naperville, Politics & Prose in DC and Book Passage in Marin County.  Numerous Barnes & Nobles welcomed me to the back office to sign stock, then un-stacked the chairs and invited people to come meet me on the PA system (always a slightly awkward moment to be a literary blue light special).

 

I learned to grow comfortable with popping unannounced in places like the Concord Bookshop outside of Boston or Bookshelf in Truckee, CA when visiting my brother-in-law, to introduce myself and sign their copies of my books.  That was me, yesterday, in the airport bookstore, bedraggled and puffy-eyed, pointing at the glam-ish author photo in the inside flap to convince the clerk who I was while aggressively offering to “sign some stock."  Ahhh, the joys of self-promotion.

 

Our Indies are the conch-holders, the pulse-takers of their communities.  They are a taproot for the book clubs, schools, the ladies groups and readers in their areas. They are the aggregators, event planners, gatekeepers and bulletin boards for the cultural happenings in their area. 

 

Many bookstore proprietors have put their own personal touches on my tours, driving me to a venue, offering a cup of tea or allowing me to "pick a book for my girls" after a talk (thank you RJ Julia in Madison CT).  How could I ever forget Viv and Roger at Rainy Day Books in Kansas City who demonstrated how they grease the folding table so we could slide and sign all 500 books with assembly line speed?  I’ve kept up with many of these folks personally and I consider my relationships with them a great privilege.  They are book people. That makes them my kind of people.

 

 

On September 11, Hyperion published my first work of fiction.  I was over the moon when Those We Love Most made the New York Times Bestseller list and I was pleased, ok, totally pumped, to read the reviews.   And then my publisher told me that I'd been selected as an “Indie Next Pick” for September.  Reading that list and the insights into the titles continually reminds me why our hometown bookstores are gems, why they really matter.  It's because the owners and staff read the books, they delve deeper, they comment and discuss, they start and advance the conversation.  They get excited.  I like to hang out with people who get excited.

 

As I crisscross the country on a book tour schedule that pals have exclaimed "makes them tired just to read," I'm gearing up to visit with old friends and add some new ones.  I’m eager to meet readers and friends at Big Hat Books in Indianapolis, Common Good Books in St. Paul, Elm Street in New Canaan, and Tattered Cover in Denver, to name a few.  I can’t wait to walk back through the door of the Book Stall in Winnetka, Illinois, the picturesque town in which we lived that formed the basis for the setting of my first novel, Those We Love Most.

 

In the spring I’m determined to get to Just One More Page in Arlington, VA, Brookline Booksmith in Boston, People of the Book in Austin or maybe Bookends in Ridgewood, New Jersey, if they have a spare night.  And Ann Patchett, you Patron Saint of Bookstores and personal She-ro of mine -- just say the word and I'll use my frequent flyer miles to get to your beloved Parnassus Books in Nashville.

 

Arcade in Rye, New York is my hometown store.  We try to buy most of our books from Patrick, who also happens to play in a jazz band.  School-assigned reading, my personal picks, gifts for friends, books on tape all lead me and my family to Arcade.  Shopping local is the only way we roll and the doors are open because many townsfolk feel the same. I hope you shop local too, those of you who are still lucky enough to have bricks and mortar bookstores in your hood.

 

 

These are scary times for bookstores.  Scary times for library funding.  Scary times for reading.  All of us who love to hold books and turn a page, borrow them from the library or read them on tablets (it's OK, really it is) we need to join hands and squeeze tighter.  It’s more important than ever to be a patron or customer, to re-discover the magic of getting lost in the stacks, of finding an unexpected surprise at the suggestion of a bookstore employee or a librarian.

 

And here’s why: I believe books can do good. Lives are made richer by teachers and librarians, by bookstores and the people who love books, recommend reads and encourage reading.  Reading itself may be a solitary endeavor and writing a solo enterprise, but stories have the power to connect us, sometimes in places we didn't know we could.  Stories move us.  Poems and essays, art and conversations, all of it enhances and advances our world. They are as wonderful an elixir as a walk in the woods.

 

Books simply matter.  And so with that, I’m off to pack my suitcase.  Here's hoping I see you on the road.

 

www.leewoodruff.com   facebook.com/leemwoodruff   twitter@LeeMWoodruff

The Last Summer

My father’s face brightened as the yellow whaler pulled up to the dock with my 14 year-old nephew at the helm.  “That…was… my… boat,” he choked out a full sentence as the mental connections attached and sputtered, like wires in a flashlight, illuminating the memory.

 

 

It was the boat my father had hopped on for years to escape the confines of the shore.  He’d taken us all for rides, including his nine grandchildren, especially when their tired mothers needed a break.  At the wheel of any vessel, out on the blue green waters of the lake, my father always found peace.

 

This is likely the last summer my Dad will be able to come to the mountains, his favorite place in the world. Dementia or Alzheimer’s or whatever corrodes his mind in a slow erasure is scrambling the circuitry.  The predictable routine he endures at his assisted living facility in Boston is lost here at the lake.  There are wide open spaces and wooded paths, vast stretches of time with inactivity, then the sudden flurry of all of us around, conversations swirling like individual eddies that confuse and capsize his cognition.  “All this noise,” he says, looking up at me helplessly.  The frustration and anger, the weepiness of past summers has mostly passed.  In those moments it was painful to watch him, like a drowning victim, capsized by the fear of his mortality.  My father is childlike now, a simple man.

 

Disease, we call it.  And it is a “dis” ease, an uneasiness among us all at bearing witness to this gradual loss, this diminishment.  He can no longer communicate beyond simple phrases.  The hands that once dug in dirt and were callused from chores, are soft now like a babies.  His limbs and extremities are roped with veins that break easily and form angry bruises just under his paper-thin skin.  In the absence of fluid language, his arms swoop through the air like a conductor, fingers flitting a secret sign language, in an attempt to express himself.  His wide, eager smile breaks my heart.

 

My children are the fifth generation to return to this lake each summer.  And it is inconceivable to me that my father has been asking to “go home” to the assisted living facility.  But this IS your home, I think, the home of your heart.  This is the your “sacred” place, the spot where you found joy and sanctuary. Remember when we’d spy the first sliver of lake and burst into song as the station wagon crested over Tongue Mountain? Can’t you feel your roots in this land? I want to ask him. But he would only look perplexed at such a probing, complex question.

 

We three sisters know the family generational lore by heart.  Our nook on the lake is where I was conceived, where my father, hiking alone the year before he met my mother, almost slipped and plunged to death while climbing a rocky cliff.   “If it weren’t for a lone root on that sheer rock, none of you three would be here,” he’d remark solemnly during our annual pilgrimage to that spot by boat.

 

There is nothing at all easy or comforting about being around my father now.  So many of my friends and contemporaries are traveling in this middle place, the valley of mid-life, with aging parents.  We are all at various stops aboard the orphan train.  The details may be different; Alzheimer’s, stroke, cancer, a sudden fall, but the broad-brush strokes are the same.  Losing a parent is tough, primal stuff.  You only think you are prepared.

 

“Don’t ever let me go into a nursing home,” my Dad said repeatedly when he would return from visiting his own mother in an almost vegetative state.  “That’s not living. Just take me out back and shoot me,” he’d exclaim with a pained expression.

 

Humans were built for survival.  We are wired to desire just one more day with the people we love.  We are war-like creatures, spoiling for a fight against death.  But at what point can we truly recognize that the scales have tipped, that there are now more bad days, more days of pain or confusion or difficulty than the good ones?

 

This is heavy stuff, you say. You bet it is, and so let’s tiptoe away to another thought for a moment. This is what I really want to know.  In the end, if you are scared and addled or in pain, does a life well lived mean anything?  Do all of those precious memories, the summer afternoons where you held your grandbabies high over your head on the bright beach, the mornings you woke your young daughters at dawn to fish, the walks down the aisle with each girl, the boat rides with the wind in your hair… does any of that count for us at the end?  I hope to God it does. I hope that it brings comfort and calm and a sense of purpose in some small measure.

 

 

My father sits next to me as I write this, staring out at the lake in which he’ll no longer fish or swim or captain his boat.  I hope that, like muscle memory, those images of a life well lived, of happier moments, are playing in his head like an old time movie, reminding him that even though this hurts like hell, he is loved.

 

Note:  I wrote this piece last summer and the seasonal timing didn’t work out to publish it until this year. I had also wanted to see if Dad would return this summer, giving me a happy reason to revise this post. Sadly, 2012 was the first year of my life that my father didn’t come to the lake.  And he was missed.