Notes From a Second-Hand Book: Reflections on Life

“Awful,” someone had written inside the second-hand copy of Pigtopia. “Couldn’t read.” Instead of discouraging me, though, the negative words had the opposite result, and I tucked Pigtopia into my bag.

I had discovered the book at the library of my mother-in-law’s retirement home. Classics and women’s fiction mingled on the shelves with historical works and recent bestsellers, creating an eclectic collection with instant appeal to a bibliophile like me.

In fact, the handwritten note reminded me of what I like about used books, imagining the lives of their readers and their emotional journeys from love to hatred to indifference. In other words, the soul of the book reflected in its audience. So it was inevitable that I borrowed Pigtopia. I had to know what had elicited such an unfavorable response.

A few days later, I cried as I finished the book, brought to tears by author Kitty Fitzgerald’s imaginative style and heartbreaking story. “Mesmerizing,” I almost scribbled on the inside cover, next to the original note. “I couldn’t put it down.”

It wasn’t the first used book that I’d unearthed that contained a message from a previous reader. Often hidden in books from my Uncle John are index cards crammed with notes, observations about the material and points that he wants to remember. I cherish these revelations, retaining the cards as bookmarks.

Random lists are also often inserted into books and forgotten, word definitions, to-do lists, or even a library periodical request from a bygone era before digitization. My favorite bookish keepsake, although sometimes most melancholy, includes the pensive musings of a loved one no longer with us, written on a paper napkin and placed inside a bible, to be found years later.

Perhaps this is why I write, because words have infused me with wonder my entire life. I am in awe of the people who capture universal emotions and the complexities of existence with innovative storytelling, entrancing readers like myself. This ability forces us to devour their writings, seeing in our minds and hearts what the author is trying to convey.

Sometimes even an inscription can enhance and personalize the reading experience. “Christmas, 1982,” my Aunt Janean wrote on the inside cover of The Meanings of Modern Art. “To Erin, who ‘would rather be active’ but would perhaps enjoy reading this when she was inactive.”

My aunt had seeped her message in irony. She knew I loved to read but that this specific tome, bordering on being a textbook, would prove a challenge, particularly during winter, when skiing dominated my life, almost even displacing my devotion to books.

And, although I read her gift, my aunt was right. The natural world continues to draw me away from books; yet, it also enhances my literary world as ideas tumble through my mind while I’m skiing, snowshoeing, kayaking, biking, or hiking (for outdoorsy adventures, visit my other website – Northern Michigan Biyaking).

These observations often become the inspiration for my own writings from crows fighting a solitary hawk to the magic of skiing through snow as light and sweet as sugar to kayaking around a riverbend and finding a bald eagle waiting for you, not moving, allowing you to admire it before leisurely soaring into the sky.

My stories also reflect where I live—the mountains of central Idaho and the lakes and forests of northern Michigan—and my travels, including two years exploring the United States in a recreational vehicle.

During that time, my husband and I experienced many adventures, like kayak-camping on remote islands and crisscrossing rugged mountain-bike trails. The two-year sojourn culminated with the publication of Mountain Biking Michigan.

Ultimately, my life will always be split between books and nature, the two melding together with surprising ease. At one end, I’m drawn to the piles of second-hand books growing throughout my house with whimsical mayhem, a mishmash of subjects in no particular organization. Resurrection Men by Ian Rankin is sandwiched between David McCoullough’s John Adams and Tom Wolfe’s Right Stuff.

I look forward to learning their secrets from historical mysteries to plot twists. The process feels similar to slipping into my skis and sliding into a wintry world of deep powder, where each turn takes one farther into a magical wooded glade and a narrative of your own making.

While reading, skiing, hiking, biking, and kayaking, I’m constantly searching for hidden notes, whether slipped between book covers, revealed by animal prints, hidden amongst snowflakes, or scooped up by a kayak paddle. These layers within our world are always present, waiting to be observed, but sometimes one must push aside barriers and take a chance.

“Awful,” someone had written. “Couldn’t read.” I chose to ignore that observation and delved in, taking a contrarian approach, deciding to experience life on my own terms, a choice that I will never regret.