Old Books, Old Stories

I collect used children's books. I bought my first one in Minneapolis last october as a birthday present to myself. It was a 1932 edition of the "Secret Garden". Since then I have slowly gathered small collection of used children's books from various towns/cities that I've travelled to. A couple weekends ago, my friends and I went white water rafting in Wisconsin. On our way home from the river, we stopped in a little antique store that also sold home-made fudge. I think we mostly stopped there for the fudge, but as soon as we walked in the door, I noticed the 2 shelves of used children's books in the corner. After a few minutes of browsing through every major disney publication from the 1970's, I finally found it: Andersen's Fairy Tales.

It is a collection of Hans Christian Andersen's stories. The once green cover now has a faded grey tinge to it. The binding is coming apart, the pages have faded to a yellow tea-stained shade. The red color of the letters on the cover still holds some of its original brightness.

I decided to flip through the book today, maybe read a few stories. For most part I found most of my childhood favorites except the Little Mermaid, which was not included in this collection. I also found two umexpected surprises - newspaper cuttings from the local newpaper of Amberg, WI. The first was a poem by Charles L. H. Wagner called "Mother". The second was an announcement and it read:

"Miss Jeanette Huebner has been engaged to teach in the Amber school in place of Mrs. Edward Retor who has resigned and will move to Davenport, Iowa, where her husband will take a course in the Palmer school of chiropractic."

This is part of the excitement of buying a used book - it is filled with stories other than the ones in print. I wonder if the two cut outs are related. I wonder who the owner of this book was, and how they were accquainted with Miss Jeanette or Mrs. Edward. Perhaps the child who owned this book was a student of one of those teachers, or maybe a family member? I will never know, but a part of their story now resides in my suburban home some 50 years later.

There is no printing date on this book. But after doing a little bit of research on the company that printed it, I've figured out that it is older than 1949. For now I leave you with the peom I found within it's pages:

Mother

The years are silvering her hair,
But not her soul;
Her eyes reveal the youth still there
And in control.

The years make faltering her feet,
But not her mind;
For wisdom's words she voices sweet,
With love inclined.

The years have robbed her cheeks of bloom,
But her bright smile
Still drives away the clouds and gloom
That age defile.

The years have stolen lips of red,
But oh, her voice,
Yet colorful, brings joy instead -
By far my choice.

The tyrant years have failed indeed
To steal her charms;
I'm still a child, and years recede
When in her arms.

Along the Peshtigo River

The stars were crowded in the sky, miles of flowing black velvet studded with twinkling jewels. I stared up at Cassiopeia through the car window, her imperfect jagged "w" shined brighter in this sky. When we finally found our cabin, it was almost midnight. There are no street lights in these parts, and in the shadow of a moonless sky, it was near impossible to read the small street signs.


And then I heard it. As soon as I stepped out of the car, the sound of the gushing Peshtigo, whispering secret messages to the stones in its path. It's the kind of sound that could fill anyone with wonder. It was a constant calming sound, like the rhythm of dhikr mending a broken heart.




We spent the day white water rafting on the Menominee River, some forty minutes away from our cabin. (another entry on the actual rafting experience will follow...) Upon our return, it was time to explore the area around us, so we set out hiking along the Peshtigo.


The path was uncarved, slushy and unpredictable. Some areas were dense with over grown tree roots, slippery leaves, and rocks covering most of the sleek path. Ocassionally there were clearings on the banks, with large stones that could sit on. I came across such a clearing, and stopped to spend some time sitting on the river bank. I just stared at the water, fascinated by it's movement, the way it weaved through the rocky river bed. I don't know how long I sat there, however I do know that they were some of the best moments I've had in a long time.