Book Collectors Are Haunted by the Books They Let Slip Away

Most garage and yard sales that advertise books usually have Reader's Digest Condensed books selling at $2.00 each, boxes of Harlequin Romances selling for $2.00 a box, or not enough books to pay for the word "books" in the ad. For the first time, a couple of months ago, I read a slightly different ad. This one said "Christian books." Since religion is one of the genres that I specialize in, I thought I would give the sale a chance.

I had to drive about eighteen miles to get to the sale, and even though I arrived thirty minutes early, several people were already there. The sale was one of the best I had ever been to for religious books, and it had a few non-religious books as well. While going through one box, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a large Walt Disney book in another box. It appeared to be from the 1940s.

Since only one other person was looking at the books, and he too was concentrating on the religious ones, I thought I would finish with the religious books and then take a look at the Disney book. About three seconds after making that decision, a woman who had to this point been negotiating the price of a bed, turned around, spied the Disney book and grabbed it.

In spite of my loss, I made out well that day. I bought a lot of books and paid only a quarter a piece for them. Nevertheless, like a fisherman, I was haunted the rest of the day by "the one that got away."

Worse than the occasional single book I have let get away from me since I became a book collector and seller are the two housefuls I let get away before I got really serious about books. I am especially haunted by daydreams and nightmares of an old house in the heart of the heart of New Brunswick, Canada, not far from that blue, pulsing artery called the Saint John River. In the old house an old man sits in a rocker. Every so often, he takes a swipe at his nose with a handkerchief. Behind the old man are rows and rows of bookshelves. On the shelves are books-no paperbacks, no cloth-bound-only leather bound books from the 18th and 19th centuries. The books are religious, exactly the kind of books I specialize in.

I saw the books when I was attending college in New Brunswick back in 1976. A friend of mine was going out with the old man's grand-daughter. He borrowed a car one day and drove me out to meet her and to see the books.

Apparently, the old man wanted to get rid of the books. My friend and I wanted them, but the logistics of taking charge of that many books were beyond the abilities of both of us. Neither of us owned a car, had any money or had a place to store them. I am sure the old man is dead now and the books disposed of. In an event, I no longer remember how to find the house.

In 1978 I let another whole houseful of books get away. I stopped by whim at a second-hand shop in Gloversville, New York. When the owner saw me looking through the old books and magazines, she came over to talk to me. When she found out I liked books, she told me that she owned a house in the city that was full of them.

"There's no electricity in the house," she said. "But if you ever want to go through the books, just call me; and we'll go down there with flashlights."

I had every intention of going back right away; the same kind of intentions that pave the road to Hell but not the road to Gloversville. I hesitated, then lost the lady's phone number. When I finally went back to Gloversville her shop was closed, and I couldn't locate her. I am not even sure if the books in the house she owned were any good, but one thing is for sure-I will never know.

Of course, not every book that has fallen off of the hook has been worth lamenting. When I first started selling books, I lost a whole station wagon full because the guy selling them didn't like my offer. He had some good books but no real treasures. Later, I was relieved that he had refused my offer because I realized it had been more than twice what it should have been.

But the relief that comes when some "minnows" fall back deservedly into that great ocean of books is small consolation, especially for someone like me who keeps thinking that in one of those two housefuls of books there may have been a large marlin or even a great white whale.