I can’t remember not liking books. Before I went off to Kindergarten I remember trying to figure out how to decode those symbols that described the illustrations. I know that whenever I was sick for any length of time my mother would always buy one of those Illustrated Junior Classics books for me. They were, and I believe still are, beautiful things to behold and hold in your hands. (Life’s a zero sum game. I guess my mother felt that something had to balance out those shots in the butt that the doctor (who made housecalls by the way) administered.)
Now I buy my own books . . . and take my own maintenance medication. Do you suppose there’s a cause and effect relationship here? At one point I called myself a book collector. But I fear, as my wife has long suspected, that I have become more of a book amasser. Oh, I’m sure that within my amassing there is, indeed, a beautiful colletion. But there are so many books, that will never, ever be “collectible” or turn valuable. A very close friend of mine has a wonderful collection of Hemingways and Steinbecks that grows more valuable by the year. Ernest and John never did all that much for me, and by the time I realized that First Editions of Ayn Rand and Margaret Mitchell would be neat to own, they were priced well beyond what this teacher with a daughter in college could afford. This is not to say that some other newly discovered favorites haven’t increased in value. Each of Simon Scarrow’s historical series is increasing in value, John Wilcox’s Simon Fonthill novels are escalating, and I STILL believe that Robyn Young’s Crusader series is a sleeper. Yet these are still not the most treasured books in my collection.
You see, as you grow in anything, whether it be in your occupation or in your avocation, there are people who simply mean more, make more of an impact, deserve a bigger place in the shelves of your heart than others.
Some of the most precious books in my collection are the ones that are written/signed/inscribed by Don Bruns, Judy Clemens, William Kent Krueger, and Deborah Atkinson. Call them peer-mentors if you will, but the memories, the talks, the frustrations, the meals, and the beers (or occasional wines for the womenfolk) all come back in a swirl as I look on the shelf or pick up one of their books and hold it.
When I taught I was so fortunate to have had some wonderful mentors and peers. As I’ve gone through the adolescence of my years in the mystery genre, there are feelings and books that mean so much more than others. I’ve been a very lucky person to have “amassed” such memories in hard cover form. They may never attain the value of a signed First Edition Hemingway or Steinbeck. But I guess that’s why priceless can not be assigned a value.