When I was a
littlie, she weekly bought me a Little Golden Book when doing the
groceries. They were only 20c in those days and the supermarket stocked them on
spinners I think, near the checkout so kind (or harried, with screaming
children) mums could select a title at the last moment and pop it into the
trolley. As I grew older, Mum donated to me all her own childhood books (most,
now, alas gone) and kept me well supplied at birthday and Christmas times. I
remember one Christmas receiving a big suitcase full of books! All read by the
end of the long holidays, just in time for my birthday and a new supply. And
whenever a new Enid Blyton came out, it would appear in my book case—oh yes, I
had my own special bookcase, made by Uncle John. Still have it, by the way,
although, in a house of built-ins, it is now used for CDs.
On our holiday
of a lifeline to Surfers Paradise when I was nine, Dad took my brother and
sister to the beach while Mum and I trailed through all the bookshops looking
for more Enid Blytons for my collection. All gone now. I had left them in
storage at my grandparents when I grew out of them and they went all mouldy so
Dad had to turf them. I have never replaced them. And I have never forgotten
those mother/daughter forays into bookshops, looking for another elusive title.
Guess I still have that in me: as a bookseller, we are always on busman’s
holidays/weekends off in other bookshops.
When I was at
school, a company called Ashton Scholastic sent around lists to subscribing
schools and the students would select what they wanted from the catalogues.
Parents would then send in a little cheque and voila! a stack of books would
turn up every month or so. I loved receiving those catalogues, reading the book
blurbs and then choosing which ones I wanted to read. My mother loved reading
and she never stinted on my catalogue selections. Perhaps too, as my siblings
were not overly interested in reading, she had enough funds to cover the
selections for just one avid reader.
To my dying
day I will be grateful to my mother for providing me with lots of books,
constantly!
Mum always had
her nose in a book. As do I. I often gave her books as gifts and, as we had
similar taste, I would read it first, leaving a little Vegemite stain (I was
and am a Vegemite kid) and my personal guarantee that all the words were there.
I can no longer pass them on to her but I have a friend who, like me is a
voracious reader, and in many things our tastes coincide so, if I think she
will like something, I put it in ‘her pile’. Sometimes, I even find myself
choosing books deliberately because I know she will like them! It is wonderful
to share something with someone you know will appreciate it.
Like me, my
mother would always make time each day to read. If she could not, it was as if
someone had cut off her last breath. I have the same feeling if deprived of
time to read. Of course, there came a time when her last breath was cut off,
and, naturally, almost to the last she was reading. On that terrible night,
that first terrible night that heralded a new life without my mother, I picked
up the last book she was reading. She had left her bookmark in it and I
continued to read. I finished the book for her and turned down the corner
(don’t tell the collectors or book purists) of the last page she had read. It
was Bryce Courtenay’s April Fool’s Day and perhaps not my first choice
for the last days of a life, or for the first days of my grieving but
strangely, it did help as I focussed another family’s struggle with love, life
and loss. It still sits on my shelf. I won’t read it again but it triggers
memories so I will not part with it.
Mum and Misty 1995
Mum and Me 1980
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