The Bowlegged Blogger

“Bookshops are peaceful sanctuaries” – Mala Naidoo

I love a good bookstore.

I’ve loved many over the years, but the Jabberwocky Bookshop in Newburyport, Massachusetts, holds a special place in my heart.

When my daughters were young, I’d take them there and turn them loose.

Untethered.

While I wandered among the stacks, exploring titles and authors, they were free to roam the aisles in search of whatever caught their fancy.

I loved watching them.

I’d wonder what it was about a particular book that captured their attention. Was it the colorful illustrations? The promise of adventure? The clever arrangement of words? Or was it something more sensory, like the fresh smell of paper, the smooth new spines, or that striking cover art screaming, “LOOK HERE!” “OPEN ME!“

And then there were those wonderful moments when I’d find one of my girls sitting crisscross applesauce on the floor, a book open in her lap, completely lost in another world.

Quiet.

Still.

Her mind somewhere far beyond the walls of that little bookstore.

There is something magical about watching a child’s imagination take flight while the rest of her remains perfectly still.

The silence is a symphony of wonder.

I’d have gladly paid a whole lot more than a penny for a peek at her thoughts.

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My love for books goes well beyond the stories they contain.

There’s something comforting about holding a book in your hands. The feel of its cover, the weight of its pages, the gentle resistance of the spine when you open it for the first time.

The bookmark that holds your place until you return.

Or, heaven forbid, the folded corner that marks where you left off.

There’s a certain intimacy to the whole business.

A book becomes your book.

It travels with you, sits beside your favorite chair, waits patiently on the nightstand, and occasionally falls asleep on your chest.

And then there’s the bargain we make when we buy one.

We exchange a few dollars for a promise.

In return, we agree to give the author something far more valuable than the purchase price.

Our time.

We settle into our favorite chair, open the cover, and surrender ourselves to someone else’s imagination.

If we’re lucky, we’re transported to places we’ve never been, introduced to people we’ve never met, and invited into lives we might otherwise never understand.

Sometimes we laugh.

Sometimes we cry.

And occasionally, we close the book having discovered something about ourselves.

Not a bad return on an investment.

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Recently, I found myself longing for a good story.

Not just any story.

I wanted something that would move me. Something beautifully written, with interesting characters, a little humor, and enough heart to leave me feeling better about the world.

I wanted a feel-good story.

And I wanted it badly enough to get off my backside and go looking for one.

Now, being a lover of bookstores, I’ve developed a particular fondness for books about bookstores.

I’ve read stories about mysterious bookshops, lost novels, eccentric owners, and peculiar people who spend their lives excavating dusty shelves in search of literary treasures.

I suppose there’s something wonderfully circular about sitting in a bookstore reading a book about a bookstore.

But on this particular day, I wasn’t looking for another story about books.

I was looking for a story that would find me.

So off I went to Barnes & Noble.

I spent a considerable amount of time wandering among the shelves, scanning titles, examining covers, and waiting for something to jump out at me, hoping to be rescued….

Over here!

I’ve been waiting for you!

Nothing.

I wandered some more.

Eventually, I found myself drawn to a display table across from the checkout counter.

There were perhaps three dozen books arranged neatly across its surface, each one competing for the attention of passing readers.

I began sampling the offerings.

A title here.

A cover there.

A quick look at the back.

And then I saw it.

A paperback dressed in shades of blue and coffeehouse ochre.

The Wedding People by Alison Espach

Here I am!

I picked it up.

Turned it over.

Read the description.

Fanned the pages.

Inspected the spine.

Gave the paperback a thorough examination of its overall health.

Everything appeared to be in working order.

And somewhere during this inspection, I became aware of a pair of eyes following me from across the room.

I didn’t look up.

I was busy falling in love with a book.

You know that feeling when you’ve found the right one?

You simply have to take it home, make it yours, and consume it like a warm blueberry pie with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream melting over the top.

That’s how I felt about The Wedding People.

I carried my discovery to the checkout counter.

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The woman behind the counter looked up.

Her eyes were tired and a little red, as though she’d spent the previous evening staying up far too late reading every book in the store.

I immediately liked her.

I imagined what it must be like for a book lover to work in a bookstore.

Like a chocoholic working in a candy shop.

How on earth did she ever get anything done with all those wonderful stories calling out to her throughout the day?

She looked at the book in my hand.

Then she smiled.

“I love this book,” she said. “It’s full of feel-good emotion.”

“That’s great,” I replied. “I really could use some of that right now.”

She looked up at me again.

And for just a moment, something in her expression caught my attention.

Perhaps it was sympathy.

Or maybe she simply understood why someone might be searching for a story that could lift their spirits.

Whatever it was, I had the distinct feeling she was pleased with my choice.

“You’ll love it,” she said.

Then came the inevitable question.

“Do you have a membership?”

“No,” said I.

We finished our transaction, exchanged a few pleasantries, and I thanked her.

I tucked The Wedding People under my arm and headed home.

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She was right.

I love this book.

In fact, I’m enjoying it so much that I’ve deliberately slowed down my reading.

A little here.

A little there.

One delicious bite at a time.

Like that blueberry pie, I don’t want to consume the whole thing in one sitting.

I want to savor it.

But something interesting happened as I began reading.

Early in the story, I encountered a character struggling with feelings and circumstances that, in their own way, resonated with something in me.

And I remembered the bookshop lady.

Her tired eyes.

Her enthusiasm.

The way she’d looked at me when I said I could use a little feel-good emotion.

And most of all, those four simple words.

“I love this book.”

I began wondering what it was about this particular story that had moved her.

Which passages had made her smile?

Which characters had captured her imagination?

Had she found herself identifying with someone in the story, just as I had?

I’ll never know.

But she’d already made the journey through these pages.

She knew the characters, their struggles, their disappointments, and the emotions waiting to be discovered.

And she’d loved it.

In some small way, I hoped to read the book through her eyes, discovering along the way what had made it so special to her.

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I’ve been thinking about that encounter.

And about those afternoons at Jabberwocky, watching my daughters disappear into stories of their own choosing.

All those years ago, I found such pleasure in watching their imaginations carry them away.

Today, I still wander bookstore aisles, hoping to experience a little of that same magic.

The characters change.

The stories change.

And, Lord knows, the reader gets older.

But the wonder remains.

Perhaps that’s what I love most about bookstores.

Somewhere among all those shelves are stories waiting to be discovered, and occasionally someone who’s already discovered one worth sharing.

I went looking for a good book.

I found one.

And thanks to the bookshop lady, I had the added pleasure of wondering what she’d loved about it.

When I finish The Wedding People, I suspect I’ll recommend it to someone else.

After all, the bookshop lady did me a solid.

Seems only right that I pay it forward.

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