Books tell story of a father who loved to read

It was time. 

The box of books that belonged to my late father had been sitting in a downstairs room of our home for years now. Why do I still have these? I’m not going to read them. No one wants them. They're taking up space. So, give them away. 

I carried the box upstairs, placed it near the front door and announced I was taking it to St. Vincent de Paul.

"Someone who loves book should have these," I said.

Most old books don’t have much value. But my father didn’t collect them for value. He collected them because he loved old books. He was an avid reader. He found great joy in visiting bookstores and thrift stores in search of great novels and mysteries. I think it gave him a sense of purpose.

Before taking the box of books away, I opened it and looked inside. I pulled out a few, and then a few more, and read through the titles, authors and publication dates. 

The hardback covers were worn and wrinkled, but intact. 

“In The Days of Giants,” by Abbie Farwell Brown, 1902. 

“The Devil Learns to Vote: The Story of Montana,” by Christopher P. Connolly, 1938.

“Parris Mitchell of Kings Row,” by Henry and Katherine Bellamann, 1948. 

“The Lone Scout of the Sky,” James E. West, 1928. 

Several paperbacks, he had wrapped in plastic and attached small stickers with notes in clean, neat handwriting. 

“Portrait of Rene,” Harris Davis. My father’s note attached to the cover read, “C 1956, 1957, 1st PT.” 

“Whistle Stop,” Maritta M. Wolff. A note read, “C 1941, 1946.” 

“When The Gods Are Silent,” Mikhail Soloviev. The note read, “C 1952, 1954 1st Print.” 

My father loved these books. He was proud of them. He was not a professor of literature. He didn’t even graduate from high school, forced to drop out and go to work at a young age as the family was poor.  

But he believed in books.  

For decades, he collected and stored them. He offered them as gifts. He often ended his nights by sitting and reading, with a glass of beer on the table. 

As he knew I loved running, he mailed me old running books. One was “Fred Fenton Marathon Runner” by Allen Chapman. Another was “Gils Dodds The Flying Parson,” by Mel Larson. I still have them on a shelf next to pictures of my father and other reminders of him. 

When he died, not many wanted his books, and he had hundreds, if not thousands. Most were given away. My older brother took some to a bookstore, but the owner declined to buy them. I’m not even sure how I ended up with this last box of them, the final holdouts, remnants of my dad, a testimony to one man's passion.

I put the books back in the box and closed it. 

I shook my head. I couldn’t do it. I couldn't just give them away like they were only books. They were part of my dad. They were a reflection of his life. In ways, they told his story.

These books belonged with family. 

I carried the box back downstairs. 

Perhaps I can find a shelf for them.

And maybe one day, I’ll even read one of them.  

My father would be pleased.

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Bill Buley is managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at [email protected].