The real thing

Surveying my cellar, I realize how necessary is a good cleanout. The room is large enough so that I have saved many things “just in case” – you know how it is. But when ten years go by and the cases never arise, out these things should go.

I get a mental handle on the larger items that need to be given away, taken to the second-hand shop or sold. Then I tackle the boxes and boxes of manila folders. Documents from more than ten years ago – most of them go to the trash. Then I begin on the “memorabilia” folders. I find items I had forgotten all about, some triggering nostalgia and some no longer memorable and to be tossed. As I look and read through Christmas and birthday cards and letters, I feel how good it is to have an actual card in the hand, written in the sender’s own penmanship. I remember finding the card in the mailbox and opening the envelope, full of anticipation. I notice the stamp. Many cards found a place on the kitchen table for a while, both nostalgia and decoration. Old friendships, long-dead relatives, family concerns from long ago, major and minor events; all come back to me as I read. I picture the sender sitting at his or her desk, pen in hand, expressing himself or herself in forming the letters as well as in words.

And today? This is the era of e-mail and online cards, easier and

quicker and fine in their way. But something important has been lost, I feel. The present generation has lost the opportunity to experience communication as it was, and we older folks have lost something tangible and meaningful.

There is a parallel in the book world, as e-readers gradually replace the hardcover and paperback book world. The convenience of course is great, from the light weight of the reader, the speed at which one can have a desired volume at one’s fingertips and the many volumes that find a place on one’s reader. But I do not think I am alone in wanting a book I can hold, whose pages I can turn and flip back through manually. I like to see my current read on my bedside table. I like the books residing in my bookcases, varied as to size, color and thickness. Meaningful decoration, a treasure trove, a spring of nostalgia. I remember reading this book at the beach, that one on a trip. I note that the font was generally smaller in the early paperbacks, which were themselves truly pocket sized. The pages are getting brown. All tangible, material, almost symbolic. I cannot get rid of even the books I will never open again.

A friend a bit older than I said that she thinks the printed book will not disappear in our lifetime. I certainly hope not.