Needing New Bookshelves (memoir)

A snapshot of my dad then: a tall and thin middle aged man, balding from the forehead and standing in the doorway of my bedroom, holding out a thin book to me, dark brown eyes crinkled in a smile of satisfaction: Well, I told the man in the store about you, how old you are and what all you like and he said this book would be good for you. A snapshot of me then: sixteen, stretched out on my bed, open book by my side, music playing softly in the background, dark brown eyes crinkled in a smile of relief: Thanks, I’m really glad you’re home.
But the book…I wasn’t even sure that my dad knew exactly how old I was at the time, and I was absolutely sure that he had no idea what I liked. My dad, though, whose reading repertoire was limited to one book, THE book which was so often the source of our Sunday morning arguments, had struggled with the task of what to bring his only daughter, from this, his only out-of-town business trip. Knowing it needed to be a book was the easy part; figuring out what book it should be was the hard part, so he did what any responsible dad would do: he asked the first book store salesman he could find. Not a bad strategy, one would think, unless one knows that most mall book store salesmen could just as aptly sell shoes or cars or electric massaging office chairs. This bookstore salesman had filled my dad’s hands with Nancy Drew and the Secret of Shadow Ranch, for the little girl he had described.
I was no longer that little girl, but I read it because he brought it to me. I covered whatever handbook of mischief (The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test), rebellion (The Scarlet Letter), or waywardness (On the Road) was on the top of the bedside stack and placed old Nancy Drew right up there. I read it in one night, cover to cover, and I remember it to this day: the story of a mysterious phantom stallion terrorizing a pay-to-play western ranch and scaring everybody outta their city slicker minds, until our girl Nancy has the smarts to find the silver glitter paint and the guts to track that bad equine down to its even worse owner, eventually busting him and taming that fierce beast into a model of temperament and conformation. This was true old school Nancy Drew, not the savvy Mustang driver but the pre-boyfriend version of the sleuth. I was right, my dad knew neither my age nor my interests; my reading maturity had skipped right over Drew, and the love he wanted me to have for horses broke right along with my arm when I fell off of our mare at eleven years old. I appreciated the sentiment as I read his inscription in the cover, but my sixteen year old self was convinced, my daddy was holding on to a girl I had never and would never be.
I was wrong about that though; his book selection ended up fitting me more than I would have imagined then. My disgruntled teenage heart grew out of itself, and a sense of adventure like Nancy embodied meshed with my maturing self. I came to find my own kind of Deliverance on the Chattooga River and continue to learn valuable lessons from the adventures I have there still. The love of horses my dad always envisioned me having also became a reality. Although I never will be The Horse Whisperer, I find peace in the company of those gentle, intelligent, and wise animals. I won’t pretend that his buying me that book was some meaningful way to tell me he knew what I was deep down; he didn’t, and he wouldn’t have pretended to, but he made a gesture beyond what he wanted for me and gave me something he thought I would want for myself.
That sentiment, embodied in a copy of Nancy Drew and the Secret of Shadow Ranch, is the kernel of my relationship with my dad: he always wants what is best for me regardless of what he wants for himself. When I think over the small gifts he’s given me-a pack of peanut M&Ms hidden in my book bag in high school, a twenty dollar bill tucked into my car console in college, or a sticky note of encouragement posted on my steering wheel the day I moved to Virginia-I realize the large gifts that make me a happy and productive adult, and one Nancy Drew book is a small brick of that foundation. I have a whole bookshelf of small bricks that have added to that foundation, and, although my dad didn’t give me all those books, he did build that bookshelf from the remnants of a crate he came across at work before I was ever born. Together, that bookshelf and I grew up. As the shelves filled, my mind filled.
My dad giving me that book became more than a symbol of my childhood; it became a staple of my adult life. The calm and peace I feel when I spend time with my dad is rivaled only by the similar feelings I have when I read. With my dad, I am able to talk about my concerns and he always calms my worried and confused mind. He’s a constant friend that I trust and depend on unconditionally. With my books, I am able to immerse myself in a different world, full of ideas and experiences that help me escape my worried and confused mind. Reading is the unconditional friend that satisfies my questions and curiosities. Although each accomplishes it in different ways, both are able to give me relief from a tumble of disconnected thoughts. Tonight, as quiet music trickles into my ear and the warmth of home envelopes me, I fall into a world of words that holds the same safety and warmth that the little girl in my heart finds when she hugs her daddy.
A snapshot of my dad now: an older tall and thin man, balding from the forehead, standing in the doorway of my house, dark brown eyes crinkling with pride for his grown up daughter. When I get more retired, we’ll build you more bookshelves together. A snapshot of me now: twenty-eight, stretching out to hug him goodbye, dark brown eyes crinkling with gratitude. Great, I have a big stack of books that can fill it.