Attachments

I watch myself weed books from my shelves. Sehr komisch, I think. Very funny. 

It is my belief that I should hang on to no more books than I have shelves to keep them on. And by shelves to keep them on, I don't mean stacked on the washstand next to my bed or stacked on top of and under the library table in the living room. Definitely not on the ironing board. 

I do not have room for more book shelves. Yet new books are being published all the time. Local independent bookstores need my support. And yes, I do use the public library. 

So last week it was time to weed, to make some decisions about all those books on the shelves. I began with the books closest to the back door, the ones on the shelves that rest on brackets hooked into supports that I screwed into the studs 30-odd years ago during Kris's nap. Surprisingly, they've held up, despite occasional landslides.

Two of these shelves hold fiction, horizontally stacked, a mix of read-a-long-time-ago, want-to-read-someday, ought-to-read-someday, given-to-me-by-a-friend, and picked-up-for-free-or-for-cheap. When I need something to read, like when I've finished a book at 10 p.m. and need something to fall asleep with, I look here. And then go look somewhere else. Clearly some of these books can and must go. 

I stand on the kitchen step stool and pick up a book from the shelf. What is this? Where did it come from? What sort of intellectual pretension or passing fancy made me think I would read it? Is it diverting historical fiction, or the predictable kind I have no patience with? Sherwood Anderson—really? I read the first chapter of that little piece of Americana a couple years ago on vacation and could not make myself read more. Time to get rid of it. Jonathan Franzen's "Crossroads"? That big book stays on the shelf for now, if only so that I can continue to congratulate myself for getting through it. 

I notice that after a dozen or so books I'm completely confused. Why do I return some to the shelves? Why do I  drop others into the brown paper bag on the floor--the bag that will surely split when I take it out the back door? 

There is no logic here, no rational basis for holding on to some books and not to others. It's comical, quizzical, completely subjective. Are there hidden rules for keeping or discarding books? Why am I so attached to some and so finished with others? I seldom get rid of gifts from friends and family. Books that opened my mind about something tend to stay on the shelf. (I may need to pry open that crack again someday.) Books I dearly want others to read stay, too. But the ones I give up on? A crooked smile is often the only reason I've got.

Kept on the shelf: a Faulkner (seriously, I ought to read some Faulkner); "Hamlet" (recently reread, but I dumped the book of criticism I read alongside it); "Cloud Cuckoo Land" (well-woven story, bright shiny book from last Christmas); an Elena Ferrente novel (50 cent purchase, likely to be engrossing). 

What to do with fiction read long ago? There are two or three books each from Anne Tyler, Jane Smiley, Alice McDermott, Louise Erdrich -- books I collected and read as they were published, some of them decades ago. Many of these went into the bag for the library book sale.

There was a pile of novels by Sue Miller, and I happened to flip open the cover of one, wondering about the copyright date. Inside, on the fly leaf, I found an inscription, because the book had been a Mother's Day gift to me in 1990. The message, written by my husband in my three-year-old son's voice. It began "To the ultimate Good Mother," a reference to Miller's previous book—the one that led me to mention this title to Lon. It went on, "Me and my baby sister/brother [I was pregnant at the time] know you really like to read lots and lots. So we got you this book because we want you to be happy on Mother's Day and all the time, not just a couple while."

"A couple while." I'd forgotten how Kris said that as a preschooler. 

The inscription. Lon gave me many books through the years. I should look for more of these. 

Both Lon and Kris are gone now — Lon died in 2006, Kris in 2017, five years ago this month. 

The book was titled "Family Pictures." 

I kept it. 

Fiber management

I now own a loom. Not one big as a pantry, like you'd see at Colonial Williamsburg. Not even a floor loom like you'd see in a college art department. Just a tabletop loom, with a weaving width of 15 inches. Bigger than a toy, it has all the working parts of larger looms — warp beam, fabric beam, beater, reed. harnesses, heddles. The central frame that holds the harnesses (four of them) is called a castle, a term which is easy to remember because of the way it stands above all the activity of the moving parts below. 

It's all very pretty; the wood is beautiful. I bought it secondhand from someone whose deceased wife was a weaver.  I kinda know what to do with it. I took a two-day class last fall and made a small sample of plain weave, rib and twill on this type of loom. There are more classes in my future. I've bought the book that teachers recommend and yesterday morning reviewed the section on warping the loom, step one in any project. 

Warping means putting on the thread or yarn that runs lengthwise in the cloth. It's a process where a beginner relies on the experience of teachers, not because the basic concept is complicated, but because you're working with maybe 240 pieces of yarn, each one 4-6 feet long. You can imagine what a sorry mess you'd have on your hands without a method for measuring and moving, anchoring and finally threading each end through the slots of the reed and the holes in the heddles. You do all of this with care and thoughtfulness, checking frequently for twists and mis-counting. Mistakes can be fixed, but it's easier not to have to.  

I am itching to put a warp on my loom, but unsure if I any of the yarns I already have will make a good first project. Unfortunately I am never averse to ordering more yarn, especially if that's what's needed to assure a successful project. I shopped online last night at three large yarn and weaving suppliers and ended up completely frustrated. I found a beautiful cherry-red yarn at my favorite vendor's site, but the warping pegs I wanted to buy were out of stock. The vendor with two kinds of warping pegs to choose from, both in stock, did not have yarn that inspired me. And when I found both yarn and pegs at the third vendor's site, I could not place the order because I already had an account that I couldn't log into. 

After a brief respite on Twitter, I picked up my knitting.

I spent a couple hours yesterday afternoon on another fiber project: reclaiming yarn from moths and mothballs. Last fall I was gifted with several tubs full of yarn left after a house sale. Some of it -- 29 balls of Koigu (nice stuff) -- smells nauseatingly of mothballs. I spent a couple hours unwinding the balls back into skeins that I could hang in the sun. Brought them in overnight, thinking the smell was gone. Stuck my nose in them this morning -- they're back out on the patio. Tomorrow, maybe, they'll get a soaking in vinegar and more sun.

Deliberate tasks, determined reclaiming of old stuff. Two days into retirement and I remind me of my grandmother. And yes, she'll laugh and approve when I finally end up tossing that yarn in the garbage. I'll feel younger and more extravagant when the new yarn -- yes, the website worked for me today -- arrives in the mail later this week.