childhood – Snopes

After reading a New Yorker article that questions the dwindling presence of bookstores, I began to reminisce on my childhood bookstore. I begged my mother every day to take me to the bookstore. Buying a book was much more satisfying to me than checking a book out at my school library—I got to keep the treasured story on my bedside table instead of returning it to the librarian and had the ability to reread the intriguing plotline whenever I wanted.

Upon entering my bookstore, I entered a haven—a comforting atmosphere surrounded by thrilling tales of adventure that captivated my adolescent minds. The employees greeted me with welcoming smiles, and I bee-lined for the children’s section, selecting as many books that I could fit in my arms, plopping down in the middle of the bookshelves on the carpeted floor, spreading out the books, admiring the eye-catching covers. The fresh stories dawned beautiful pictures on crisp pages; I buried my nose into the binding to inhale that fresh new bookstore smell (everyone knows and loves that smell—there’s no denying it). I had an allegiance to my bookstore—feeling guilty if I visited another location to buy a book. The New Yorker article states, “Those of us who cherish our local bookstores do so not simply because they are convenient—how great to be able to run out for milk and also pick up the new Karl Ove Knausgaard!—but also because we feel a duty to support them, because we believe in their mission.” It was about more than just the book—it was about the whole experience. The bookstore fostered my love for literature at an early age. The nurturing environment encouraged reading, which made me feel comfortable among the books. From there I jumped into stories that kept me interested in books. From E.B. White to Judy Blume to J.K. Rowling—my passion for literature grew with each visit.

Today’s diminishing presence of bookstores makes me nervous. My childhood bookstore went out of business eight years ago. The vacant building broadcasts a dusty “For Rent” sign collecting dust on the milky, dirty windowpanes. The market for books is changing. The rise of the Internet and online shopping carves a convenient path for delivering books directly to my front door. But where is the experience in that? The bookstore environment encourages a love for the text, for the characters, for the author. The experience is irreplaceable—strolling through the shelves, observing colorful book covers, searching for the desired author. It’s lugging an armful of books to the counter. It’s carrying a new story out of the store. It’s bending the corners of pages. It’s inhaling the unique smell. The welcoming atmosphere encourages reading; the bookstores foster a love for literature within the minds of children.

I believe in the mission of bookstores. I believe in creating a pleasant domain where children feel comfortable diving into a book, expanding their imaginations through exciting plotlines. I believe in promoting the importance of children’s literature, for it stands as the platform from which children cultivate a greater love for reading, expanding their palate through adult literature that spans from different centuries and continents. Instilling a love for literature at an early age fosters a lifelong love for it within our children. Despite society’s technological advances in the book world, there is still a need for bookstores.

Where do you stand? What cultivated your love for literature? What happened to your childhood bookstore?

by Bella Zuroski

This Christmas, my family all packed into the car and ventured three hours east through heavy Western New York snows to spend the day with my dad’s side of the family. After dinner, I curled up in front of the woodstove with Mona, my Aunt Ellen’s sleepy pit bull. After about an hour or so of typical after-dinner conversation, my cousin Gena’s husband Derek asked me if I had my pick for Best Book of the Year yet. I had no idea what he was talking about, and experienced a slight panic – was this a thing I should know about? Gena looked at me expectantly. She is an English professor, so I was sure she expected her English major cousin, a senior in college, to know about it.

Best Book of the Year was not the big, official “thing” I had imagined. It was a tradition started by my Uncle Greg (Gena’s dad), who passed away last spring. It’s simple: at the end of each year, he and his friends would all get together to discuss the best book they had each read that year. This was the first year that would come to a close without Greg at the helm, and I could sense that Best Book of the Year had gained extra significance because of that.

When I tried to come up with my pick, I felt embarrassed. Sure, I could name a heap of books I had read for class. But had I read anything else on my own outside of the brick walls of Payne Hall, Washington & Lee’s English building?

I will never forget the rainy afternoon when Greg handed me my first copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, or the bright summer day when he sat down next to me on the old concrete stoop by the front door and gave me Betty Smith’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I read those books day and night with no regard for sleep or any other apparent priorities. I had no cell phone buzzing in my pocket or plans to make – just the pure, unbridled delight of more pages to turn. As I struggled to come up with a Best Book of the Year that hadn’t been assigned on a syllabus, I realized how much I missed the little girl who used to get lost for hours, days, even whole summers at a time in the pages of a book.

As our lives get hectic, it is easy to forget how to take the time to get lost in a book. It starts to feel like there is no time for anything outside of our daily routine. Are you a college student, tired parent, professional, and/or someone who has to read a lot for your job or in your daily life? If you are, I am sure you know how flipping on the TV or playing another round of Candy Crush often seems easier than opening a book.

There is magic in language that cannot be found anywhere else. In the hustle and bustle of life, this magic can be easily forgotten. Greg was the person who really showed me what it means to be a reader. I think we all have our own Greg – not necessarily the person who taught us how to read the letters on the page, but the person who helped us to see the magic. Recently, I saw a post on his Facebook page that said, “Book of the year just isn’t the same without you.” When I clicked on this woman’s profile, Facebook told me that she lived in Seattle, Washington. Missing Greg, my heart swelled in bittersweet happiness when I thought that somewhere, somehow, he had crossed paths with this woman and shared that same magic with her. This Christmas, I received a very well timed reminder to never let that magic go.

Next year, I promise to have my pick for Best Book of the Year ready. Will you?