There are bookcases all around our house.
A delight when we did some minor renovations a few years ago was to have built in bookcases for our own needs. There are other bookcases. Two I leave alone. Another two are mine.
One I assembled myself. There were screws left over. It can have a dangerous tilt and houses chargers, Aquaerobics gear, magazines and heavy unread books to provide stability.
The other has some of my childhood favourites – LM Montgomery, Ethel Turner, Johanna Spry. There is my collection of Women’s History, some anecdotal cookbooks, some specialist knitting and embroidery books and collections of poetry and short stories. Relics of past studies such as Thucydides and the Venerable Bede add gravity.
The custom made bookshelf has art books, sporting books, 1920s literature, travel guides, a collection of film and theatre, books on the Kennedy era, a number of Bill Bryson’s musings, indigenous history, all the Tin Tins, most of Flashman.
The thing is I don’t stop acquiring books, so something’s got to give.
My pathology centre where I am, unfortunately, a frequent visitor, also is a collection point for the Lifeline Book Fair. All the charity shops in town have a book section much loved by our summer visitors.
There is also a second-hand bookshop which will give credit for books. I already have too much credit there. The local library will take books in good condition or pass on to Lifeline any they don’t need.
Friends will take copies but usually, insist on returning them. Any given to my daughters have to be passed on.
There is nothing for it but decide what no one will want to inherit, or what I will never read again and bag into lots I can lift and take myself off to places where second-hand books are welcome.