Don't you just love old books?
Maybe you can't judge them by their covers, but you can love the covers for their own sakes. The colors. The art. The well-loved, much-handled textures.
I have a lot of books, and I can't bear to part with them.
Some of them are from the bookshelves in my parents' house.
Some of them are from the bookshelves in my great aunt's house. I spent a lot of summer days with her, learning to embroider, and crochet, and tat. And I was intrigued by the treasures on her shelves. And she was eager to talk to me about them. Some are inscribed by family members from when they were Christmas gifts. At least one has notes written in the margins by my great-grandfather about the Nebraska farmland that was his stomping ground, brought to life for me by books written by a local author. The funny thing was that I was acquainted with the author...fell in love with her stories, drawn as if by a magnet...from my school library several states away. I was surprised to see her titles and name on my aunt's shelves. She was surprised that I was already acquainted with them. She sent them home with me to love into the future.
I gladly accept that responsibility.