The Book Stacks

Today we have a guest post from the lovely Amanda Ford, who is currently on virtual tour for her book Kiss Me, I’m Single. Today Amanda talks about her love of books…

***

Since this is a site devoted to the love of books, I thought I’d share a story with you about how I came to love books. The story starts with my mother on a date with a man, her first date with this man. He took her to a bookstore in Seattle’s edgy Capitol Hill neighborhood. My mother has forgotten the name of that store now. She has not forgotten, however, that as she reached for a book on the shelf, he placed his hand on hers, sending a flood of energy through her muscles and marrow. That was the first time my mother experienced the transformative power of a simple touch. The man bought that book for my mother that afternoon, and six months later he moved into our house and stayed for nearly a decade.

They say that diamonds are a girl’s best friend. I guess it depends on the girl. For it is not that stone that makes me swoon. No, if you want to build a home in my heart, if you want to cross the threshold to my unyielding affections, you need only make one modest offering: Buy me a book.

I attribute the fact that I my knees buckle when presented with a paperback to the arrival of that man. His name was Ashoka, and I was four years old when he unlocked my mother’s heart and keyed his way into our home. By her late thirties my mom was both a widow and divorcee.

Her first husband died unexpectedly of a heart attack when they were both twenty-nine. Just out of college and frugal when they married, they gave up the pomp and circumstance of diamonds and opted for matching gold bands that they exchanged along with their vows. A few years after her first husband’s death my mother met her second husband-my father-and although she was truly still a grieving widow, he managed to woo her with a gleaming engagement ring.

Soon after their wedding day, I was born, and even sooner after my birth, my parents divorced. Faced with the prospect of raising a daughter alone, my mom decided to pawn her fancy ring, needing money much more than bling. But it turns out my father’s diamond was actually plastic, a humiliating fact she learned after the jeweler peered down at her ring for four seconds and then looked up, loop still attached to his eye, and blunted her with, “It’s fake.”

That’s probably why she fell for Ashoka. Having learned that marriage vows cannot protect one from catastrophe and that diamonds aren’t always what they seem, my mother needed something she could trust. That something was the exact thing that Ashoka offered; that something was knowledge. Ashoka brought books into our house by the bag load.

Through those pages he introduced my mother to writers, philosophers and dreamers, to activities, skills and techniques that taught her that she was not merely a pawn to Fate’s wild will, but rather an active player, an architect, a conductor with the power to direct her own life as she chose. Ashoka took me to the library to obtain my first library card, an outing that remains one of my most vivid, exhilarating childhood memories. By introducing us to the books he loved, by encouraging us to ignite our own reading romances, Ashoka woke our minds and softened our hearts.

Nine years after moving in, Ashoka was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins lymphoma and died one year later. His last gift to my mother was a hardback book about papier-mâché filled with vivid color photographs. That was fifteen years ago and to this day my mother still opens that book, using it as inspiration for the craft that has become her passion in the years since Ashoka’s death. Today my mother specializes in papier-mâché bracelets and bowls that sell in art galleries and boutiques around Seattle. She learned the art form from that book, and every time she finishes a new creation we marvel at how his spirit always imprints itself upon each piece.

For me, as I approach thirty, I often long for Ashoka’s advice on how to navigate the stormy waters of adult life. Luckily he was not the type to give a diamond ring and call it good. He was the type to buy books and pile them in stacks upon stacks. At my mother’s house we have room dedicated to his collection. Whenever I need guidance, I pull one from the shelves and let Ashoka speak to me through the words he cherished while alive.

I cannot say whether a diamond ring will ever hug my finger. I can say, however, that any man who arrives barring books will remain with me until I gasp my final breath.

Amanda Ford is the author of Kiss Me, I’m Single. You can visit her at her website by clicking here.