My daughter gave me a book for Christmas. A wonderful gift for so many reasons, I began reading it immediately. About a quarter of the way through … well…life and dishes … you know.
Today I picked it up again and quickly slipped into its characters and plot. This was not one of those, “I have to read while I am standing in the kitchen and getting lunch ready things.” I wanted to savor, to enjoy the escape of fiction, to leave all of the other minutia of everyday life aside for a while. Besides, the book cover says that it is funny and I need funny right now.
I made this re-entry into fiction a small event, accompanied by a pot of tea, my favorite spot on the love seat where the little pillow fits my back and the lamp light is perfectly over my right shoulder. About 20 pages in, the phone rang, followed by the doorbell. When was the last time someone rang our bell? Then I remembered that I had begun to work on the income taxes the day before. I put the book aside, marking the page where I left off.
Now, with what did I mark my place? You would think it would be a bookmark. I have one of the largest collections of bookmarks in the Western world. OK, that is an exaggeration, but I do have a goodly-sized bookmark collection, something I treasure. They represent a wide swath of remembrances from a crumbled and finger print marked one created by my daughter when she was ten years old that extolls kindness to others and one that marked the opening of the public library in downtown Syracuse. Most are paper but several are leather and one is metal. Some are plastic and one of these contains pressed flowers from a neighbor’s garden. There are two made with faux jewels that dangle outside the book’s covers to remind you where you left off. They catch the light as they lay sparkling on the cover, calling you back. There’s an exquisite paper bookmark that I bought in a winery on Lake Chelan in Washinton State. Created by an artist’s hand, it is a work of art. In fact, each of my bookmarks is a work of art, encapsulating a thought, a special quotation, a drawing or painting … something that calls your attention to it, an expression of a particular reality in a small form. Each can stand on its own but is designed to be a marker for another type of art. A kind of marker of memory.
I give books at Christmas too. Each year I pick about eight books that I would like to read from the Bas Bleu catalog and send them to my sister, hoping that she would send them back to me. Yes, that does seem a bit duplicitous but then, most years she gives them to other people. I usually include a bookmark or two.
It was about 10 years ago that I stepped up my Christmas bookmark game and made a special one to accompany my sister’s gift. It was crocheted out of a filament of fine thread, wound with slender ribbons and finally embellished with the tiniest pastel flowers that my size 14 crochet hook could manage. My sister asked me if I really thought that she would hide this in a book. I was complimented and conflicted at the same time. I’ve thought that it might be a good idea to reproduce this tour de force for myself, but I had the same thought. Why would I take the time to craft this piece and then hide it in a book I which is probably why my cherished collection lies upstairs in a box that is rarely opened.
So, what did I use to mark the spot where I left off in this year’s Christmas gift book? An outdated coupon for borax. Go figure.
