The Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap Read Online Free PDF Page A

personal library for inventory. From a life lived in the Arts and Academia, Jack and I owned a few thousand books, some of them rather obscure and wonderful. Husband and wife looked each other in the eye and swore it went downstairs to the shop if: we had owned it more than three years but not read it; if we had read it but never reread it (even if we intended to someday); or if we’d never used it in research.
    I write scholarly articles and Jack records weekly programs for public radio, besides running an annual tour to Scotland and Ireland for folkies; these facets of our lives require some research. As traditional performers, we sometimes taught at folkie meccas like the John C. Campbell Folk School and Swannanoa Gathering, so if we’d cracked open the spines even once for such purposes, the books stayed. But we dispatched without mercy favorites, gifts, and “important reads” we had intended to get around to someday. Even works autographed by writer friends went in. (If you’re reading this Jane, Theresa, et al., we’re sorry!)
    Before you think too badly of our ruthlessness, stop and consider. Love expressed through a thoughtfully chosen book lingers, along with the memory of its imparted wisdom. Giving up the physical item doesn’t sever anything. As for that beloved childhood copy of Charlotte’s Web, where do Fern and Wilbur live: on the page, or in your heart?
    When Jack and I began culling our collective books, we learned a lot about each other’s previous lives. Bookshelf anthropology can be fascinating; how many times have you scanned a friend or associate’s bookcases to discover similar—or disquietingly dissimilar—tastes? I used to ferret out kindred spirits in the Snake Pit that way. A volunteer working with one of our music programs came in one morning and said, “Hey, you’ve got Ethnomimesis in your bookcase! I loved his interpretation of identity versus ego, how songwriters singing about issues to prove they’re rebels just parrot popular opinion. So ironic!”
    I practically leapt over my desk to embrace her, then took her to lunch.
    Jack certainly enjoyed culling my books. “As near as I can tell, dearest, your life consists of making bizarre items for bazaars—or planning to—and reading boring ethnographic tomes,” he said, chucking Crocheted Finger Puppets atop Vladimir Propp’s Morphology of the Folk Tale in the “for bookshop inventory” pile.
    “I have squandered my academic existence learning how to analyze someone’s speech, discern their underlying biases, pick up on geographic background, and detect hidden agendas while missing the point of everything they had to say,” I answered, waiting until Jack bent over another box before surreptitiously removing Puppets from the shop pile and stashing it under some laundry. “Being an ethnographer is a noble profession, but it tends to encourage people to turn over rocks looking for hidden meanings, instead of just listening.”
    Jack winked at me. “I know, dear. I live with you.” He stood, stretched, stepped behind me, and pulled Puppets from its hiding place. “You spend a great deal of time analyzing inner voices while crafting things from wool.”
    “Oh, good one,” I responded, dashing to the bathroom and retrieving Jack’s copy of Positively 4th Street from where he’d stashed it beneath the ancient claw-foot tub. I tossed it lightly against my palms, eyes narrowed. Without a word, my husband set Crocheted Finger Puppets on my “keep” shelf, and I handed over Positively 4th Street . We understand each other so well.
    About fifteen hundred volumes went downstairs, even after all the wheeling, dealing, and ferreting out of hiding places. (For days, I encountered Jack’s books lying atop cabinets and stuffed behind house-repair projects. He never found mine because I hid them in my yarn stash.) Having our personal collection in the shop not only made us instant inventory experts, but it turned the whole