Inscription kept book on the shelf

Several years ago, my sister-in-law in Minnesota instituted a rule: If a new book came into the house, another book had to leave.

That struck me as draconian at the time.

But since then I’ve watched our own bookcases become overloaded, with volumes placed horizontally on top of vertical volumes and with still more books stacked up on available flat surfaces around the house.

Obviously, my sister-in-law — one very smart woman — was on to something.

My wife’s solution to the overcrowding is to use her e-reader and the Evergreen system of Indiana’s public libraries, downloading mystery after mystery and escapism after escapism.

But I’ve never warmed to my equivalent device. (Just for the record, they are Nooks, the Barnes and Noble attempt to compete with Amazon’s Kindle.)

I’ve read some great stuff on my Nook: John LeCarre, Leo Tolstoy and Martin Cruz Smith come to mind.

But for every book downloaded to my Nook, there are probably half a dozen that I’ve acquired in print, good old tangible, hold-it-in-your-hands-and-smell-the-ink print.

That’s why the bookcases are sagging.

It was clear in February during a pandemic that the time had come to cull the shelves. It was a difficult chore and painful at times, but it was long overdue.

Connie had a supply of boxes, and I was determined to fill them.

Work started in my study, working from left to right among the shelves. At one time, the way the books were arranged made sense. Then more books arrived. And more. And chaos took over.

The upper left hand corner of the tallest bookshelf starts with Shakespeare, and all of that was to be preserved. Then came my continually growing collection of poetry, everything from volumes acquired more than 50 years ago when I was in college to recent collections. Old favorites like Billy Collins and Ted Kooser and Mary Oliver and George Bilgere were safe. In fact, all of them were safe.

Then came books related to my international work over the past couple of decades, books that provided much-needed historical and political background. Those too were safe.

So what filled the boxes?

A little of this and a little of that: Books by British authors I had never read, a slim volume about Indiana place names that are derived from Native American tribes, a spy novel that was a piece of junk, some books I’d received as gifts that still looked brand new, a few duplicates of others found on the shelves.

Before long, I’d filled a box and it was time to head upstairs to the landing.

There, two tall bookcases greeted me on the west and two smaller ones greeted me on the east.

The ones on the right were easy. I knew we’d keep them all: Travel guides and nature guides. Books on Italy and France. Books on butterflies and birds and dragonflies.

But the bookcases on the left provided an abundance of candidates for disposal.

What’s the right rule? If you read a good mystery and might recommend it to a friend, is that enough reason to save it? If it was so good that you can’t let go of it, is that reason enough?

The box was beginning to fill up.

And then I saw Ralph Nader.

Not having ever been a real Ralph Nader fan, I grabbed “The Ralph Nader Reader” to dump it in the box.

And then I wondered where the heck it came from.

The answer: My mother-in-law.

Connie’s mother lived just across the street from the campus of a small college in Illinois. And when there were guest speakers on campus, she often attended. And when she attended, she often bought the speaker’s book. And when she bought the speaker’s book, she often asked the author to inscribe the volume.

I opened the Nader book and found a healthy scrawl: “To Jack Ronald. For Justice! Ralph Nader.”

It went back on the shelf, for now. There’s no way I was going to disrespect my mother-in-law’s great and generous spirit.

But, just the same, there’s no way I’m going to read the book.

Don’t tell Ralph.