Memories, Memories

I am busy sorting through hundreds of books that have been donated for our first NIE (Newspaper in Education) book sale in May.  It's back-breaking work, more than I anticipated, but enjoyable for a bibliophile like me.
One particular group of books has affected me deeply.  Someone, or maybe someones - I have no idea who dropped off most of the books - has donated dozens of books about war.  WW I, WW II, VietNam, Hitler, the Holocaust, and war in general.  I can picture an elderly man who has been collecting and reading all of these books, most of his life, fascinated by the subject of warfare.  Perhaps he is a veteran.  I can picture him staring at his bookshelves, thinking of all the time he's enjoyed reading these books - and then realizing it's time to pass them to someone else.  A reader who will respect the subject.  These books are a legacy.

My father was fascinated with WW II.  He had every Time-Life collection on warfare you can imagine.  For some reason I could never fathom, he did not believe in the Holocaust.  Oh, he believed there were Jews killed, but nowhere near on the scale that we know.  He thought the Holocaust was propaganda.  I never understood how he could pour through those collections of historical fact, full of documentation and pictures and first-hand accounts, and yet think it was trumped-up pseudo-history.

I know very little, actually, about my father. I do know he spent close to two years in Germany in 1950-51......he was a soldier during the Korean War years, but spent all of his enlistment stationed in Germany.  Perhaps he hear, saw, things that caused him to view the German side of the story in a different light.  Or perhaps my father was, simply, a bigot when it came to the Jewish people.  I'll never know.

As I go through these old books, I think of him sitting in his recliner, reading his war collections over and over, and I wonder what was going through his mind.  I try to imagine the person  - or persons - who donated these books, and wonder what caught their imagination(s) about warfare.  I wish I knew who donated the books.

I myself am slowly clearing out my personal library.  Every book I donate has some memory attached to it.  I think of when and why it was purchased.  I weigh each volume carefully, wondering if I am really ready to give it up.  With each book I place in my shopping bag to bring to the Star, there is a small weight lifted off of my shoulders.  We treasure books, and never want to part with them. But the day comes, for all book-lovers, when we know we must begin to let loose.  I am thankful for all of those folks out there who shall remain mostly nameless, who, like me, are gleaning their shelves.  Hopefully, many new readers will buy these treasures and enjoy them once again.  Stories passed on, history passed on, ideas passed on to the next generation.