Another Reason I Collect Books

The mailbox contains the usual circulars. Someone promising to make me money by buying my farm, land, house, or lot. A window company promising to save me money. The Baptists down the road promising to save me. I tuck the fire-starters under my arm and reach for the distinctive heavy package: another book.

In my library, while new books do still get added, every title has to fight for limited space. At this stage in my collecting life, I am more frequently engaged in the act of upgrading books already on the shelf than buying ones not yet read. Perhaps I possess a paperback of a well-loved or valued work. I’ll search out a hardback or first edition copy to replace the one I own. To fellow bibliophiles such actions need no justification. For all others, well, what strange lives they must lead.

The title I extract from the mailbox on this day is a hardback first edition of the classic The Civil War in Louisiana by John D. Winters (Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge, 1963) that replaces my old, worn paperback. Halfway back up the long driveway, I pause to open the package. The book is in excellent condition and the dust jacket intact. I flip the book open, stopping at the title page.

On that page is an inscription from its author to another historian. I stand there for a long moment. Serendipity seems an insufficient word to capture the cascade of coincidences I’m experiencing, there on the gravel driveway this summer afternoon.

How has this volume from 1963, published by my alma mater, LSU, made it into the hands of a Hudson River rare books dealer in New York and then ended up in my possession, on a small farm in East Tennessee? And how have I come to own the dedication copy of the book between two professors … both of whom taught me, but at two different schools?

I had taken Professor Winters’ course on the Civil War in 1981 at Louisiana Tech University in Ruston just a few years before his retirement. The other professor, a very entertaining lecturer, had had me as a student in classical history at LSU in 1982-83.

I have fond memories of that time and both professors, especially the one from LSU. Sunday mornings in those days would find me, like many, at Coffee Call for a weekly breakfast of beignets and café au lait. The classical history professor was often there, along with his wife and newborn. I would sometimes stop by their table and say hello, and he was always gracious to me, this kid taking up his personal time.

I get back to the house with my book, sit down at my computer, and look up the classical history professor. And I am shocked again. A reasonable assumption after so many years would be that he has long since died, his personal library dispersed. But I discover that he is still alive at age 89, and still listed as an active professor in the LSU History Department—complete with email address. I dash off a quick letter describing who I am and how I’ve come to be in possession of the book he formerly owned. Three days later I receive this reply:

Dear Brian,

I am pleased that you have the dedication copy of the book. And, I’m glad it brought back such good memories. It is quite a good book.

In the way of an explanation: Before I met my wife of 48 years (the one you mentioned having met), I was married, and my former wife refused to give me my books in the divorce settlement. That may explain how the book you have serendipitously fell into your hands.

I wish you all the best and enjoyed hearing from you. It is always gratifying to know that my teaching made a difference in someone’s life.

Sincerely,

It turns out that my LSU classical history professor was originally from the Northeast, which finally explains how the book he owned, the book written and dedicated to him by another of my professors, this one from Louisiana Tech, ended up in the hands of a New York book dealer. His note, along with an explanation by me of the connection of these two men and myself, is now tucked inside the volume. Chances are, it will mean nothing to anyone else.

But for me, books, printed matter, ephemera make unexpected connections and have meaning that exceeds their textual content. Forgive me my stand on this small hill. I refuse to embrace a world where this sort of magic can no longer happen—where this book, or my father’s Bluejacket’s Manual from WWII (with commissary invoice and a packet of sewing needles between the pages), or an uncle’s copy of a Jimmy Carter book (with a written exchange between them and tucked into the pages) are not just so many lost bytes in the ether.

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Reading this week: Everyman Remembers, by Ernest Rhys ( first editor of the Everyman’s Library)