A Treasure Trove of Books

 January 24, 2022

I gave my students several prompts to choose from to write some literacy narratives: stories about the way in which people, moments, or events helped shape their sense of themselves as readers and writers.  I thought I'd write to a couple of the prompts along with them.

My tendency toward book hoarding might very well have begun when I was the very young age of seven or eight.  I enjoyed reading, but probably loved all subjects equally at that age–I hadn’t really seen a front-runner emerge in terms of academic interests.  However, a random instance of the right place at the right time probably went a long way toward tipping the scales.

My brother and I were bus riders.  Our parents worked, so we clamored on the neighborhood school bus at the end of each day and got deposited some four or five blocks from our house.  We walked the rest of the way home alongside a handful of other kids from our block, with Gary tasked with making sure I didn’t get lost on the way.

Several weeks after walking the familiar route home, one day we saw a giant orange dumpster parked in front of one of the houses a couple of blocks from our house.  I don’t know why the first instinct of a couple of the boys was to climb up and peek in since we all knew that dumpsters were for trash,  but I suppose they thought they might be lucky and find an old discarded baseball glove or deflated basketball, or even an old broomstick handle that they could fashion into a makeshift sword to wield at the rest of us for fun.

The big dumpsters have metal ladders permanently affixed to the side.  The curious boys scrambled up and surveyed the possibilities.  One by one they climbed back down, scowling in disappointment. Gary asked what they had seen.  “Worthless!” one of the boys grumbled.  “The whole thing is filled with old books!”  My ears perked up.  Gary’s did too.  He climbed up.

“They’re right, Donna! Tons of books!”  He disappeared down into the dumpster and scoured the titles.  He came back down with a few.  I begged him to let me find some books too, and he told me I could as long as I was careful.  I could barely contain my excitement. Once I reached the top of the ladder my eyes were greeted with a veritable treasure trove.  Hundreds and hundreds of books had been tossed in–paperbacks, hardbacks, westerns, romance, classics–as far as the eye could see.  Some of them were missing book jackets or had torn pages, some of them were well-worn and others were in much better condition.  It was as if an entire library had been upended into the dumpster.  I reached down and picked up a book or two to read the back of the dust jacket to see which ones I wanted to take.  I got a little mired in indecision.  How could I just pick a few?

Gary grew impatient.  He started yelling at me to get back out of the dumpster so that we could get home and have our afternoon snack.  Although he was excited by getting a ‘new’ book or two, he wasn’t about to give up milk and cookies because of it.  I told him I was having a hard time deciding.  He said I could just grab a couple now and we could bring a bag the next day and take several more.  That seemed reasonable.  I took two that I had been contemplating and climbed my way back out of the dumpster.  I was thrilled.  Books, for free?  With the prospect of seemingly infinitely more tomorrow?  I’m quite sure that I skipped all the way home, unable to contain my joy.

The next day, I anticipated mining the mountain of books all day long.  Gary and I had both brought bags from home to fill.  After school, we walked quickly toward our intended destination.  We rounded the corner to the street with the dumpster.  It was gone!  All of my excitement was crushed.  Whoever had scheduled the dumpster to be delivered to the house had apparently already had it sent away, presumably to the local dump.  What a waste!  What a travesty!  I had been THISCLOSE to having more books than I could possibly carry, and that dream was dashed in an instant.  Never mind that most of those books were not likely books that would hold the interest and imagination of a seven-year-old.  But the hope that maybe they were…it was heartbreaking.  The books had been there, and then they vanished.  

Years later, and more books than I can possibly count later, I have become something of a book hoarder.  I haven’t read all of my books, though I’ve read many of them, and the fact that I own books I’ve yet to read certainly doesn’t stop me from buying new ones when a new title or storyline piques my interest.  I can only imagine that when I see a new book that speaks to me, whispers its possibilities in my ear, there’s a seven-year-old girl whispering in my other ear, “Take it now while you can!  Who knows if it will still be here tomorrow?”