There’s Nothing Quite Like a Book Sale

One always can tell the change of seasons by when the used book sales start up in early summer.

That is, almost always.

In recent years I thought I’d gotten somewhat desensitized to the allure of the words BOOK SALE. After all, for several years when I have attended book sales the majority of the “finds” are books I already own. While there’s nothing wrong with swapping out a trade paperback for a hardcover edition with gilt pages, the joy is a bit dampened compared to that of finding a book one doesn’t own. (Janine is French, I’m thinking of you.)

Yet this year, as book sale season sails by uncelebrated, I find myself feeling empty, like a certain vital part of my existence is missing.

I am fortunate to live during a time when books are so available, even when every brick-and-mortar store or library has been closed. New reading material is just a download or an online purchase away, right?

Except to download or to order, you must have a sort of target book in mind. It’s simply not the same as waiting in line for the library to unlock its doors first thing in the morning, elbowing past a bunch of “vultures” (secondhand booksellers—you know who you are), into a room of variable size with tables and cardboard boxes crammed with books.

That initial moment, where you see the books, is sometimes overwhelming—and I don’t just mean because said vultures are often in need of a shower or four. A dozen questions bubble up in your head:

• Where should I start?
• What is out there?
• I wonder if they have _____ title?

Before venturing inward, I always scan across the tables for any signage—no, not the prices, though come to think of it that’s a bit useful as well—that signals how the books are organized. Often there are little labels showing what genre is in a certain section: Fiction, History, Mystery, Foreign Language, Cookbooks (always lots of cookbooks!), Romance, Sci-Fi, Children’s, Teen, Audiovisual…

Personally I always look for and then make a beeline toward the Classics.

Fortunately my taste in books is often diametrically opposite the “target” books of the vultures. They like Harlequin Romances, for instance. But that doesn’t mean that “my” section of books is devoid of other people getting in my way. Usually, a snail’s conga line of people inch around the tables. Most people, like moi, know that there are certain unspoken rules and rhythms one must follow. For instance, if you are interested in a book and want to read the back, the front flap of the dust-jacket, or even a chunk of the text, absolutely do not under any circumstances stand at the table where you found it, blocking the way of the rest of the people and forcing the tenuous flow of traffic to an ungraceful stop. It simply. Isn’t. Done.

For those who are ignorant of the rules—or, even worse, disregard them!—there is only one response acceptable under the banner of quiet in a library: the Death Glare. I find that this is most effective if I slide my glasses to the tip of my nose and look over the rims, Librarian Style. Somehow my glare is more potent when not filtered through the lenses of my specs, though ironically since I am near-sighted I am glaring at what seems to be a lumpy blur. Luckily, the lumpy blur doesn’t know it and often is forced instinctively to cease the offensive and uncouth behavior in order to allow me to finally get to that section of the table.

Only rarely have I actually found a worthy rival for a certain book. Once I found a picture book tucked away in a cardboard box under the table. When I went to look at it to see whether it was a certain title I wanted, my arm was nearly karate-chopped clean off with the spine of a Betty Crocker cookbook. It seems I had nearly encroached on a young mother’s book stash, and she practically dive-bombed me like a momma bird when her nest is threatened.

That reminds me of another tip for going to a book sale: BYOBB. Bring Your Own Book Bag. Cardboard boxes are apt to be rifled through since that’s where most book sale volunteers or employees store the books that they couldn’t fit on the tabletops.

The BYOBB principle is also useful because it’s easier to ensure the quality of the bags you bring yourself, rather than any paper or plastic bags the people at the checkout counter may provide. (Some sales provide canvas totes, but it’s not always evident beforehand, and besides those totes may be only sold separately and not automatically come with your purchase.)

A quality book bag, of heavy-duty material and thick handles (the narrow ones cut into the skin given a decent amount of book-weigh) is essential for any serious book hunter. Sure, nowadays I may only buy one or two volumes. But the fact remains that one never knows when a bookish windfall may be found at a sale. It might be like the olden days when my mom would bring me and my siblings to the Downtown branch of our public library and we’d walk away (or, more accurately, stagger away) with half a dozen grocery bags’ worth of literary loot.

(She had to bring us, not just because we were budding bibliophiles, but because she needed to use us as pack-mules to get those books back to the car. One time we had to call my dad to take an early lunch break and bring the mini-van downtown, as we had too many books to fit in the sedan. I seem to recall my dad suggesting something about leaving one of us kids at the curb…he was probably joking. That wouldn’t have freed up enough room to fit the excess books, anyway.)

With these fond memories in mind, I look forward to when I am once more able to crane my neck over a table full of books, inspecting the words on each volume’s spine for the word Janine.

In the meantime, I will be thankful for the other blessings of this time of year, of course: longer days, sunshine, warmer weather (up to a point; let’s not get crazy now), and the greenery that spreads across the great outdoors with the silent but undeniable assurance that life is beautiful and resilient. It reminds me of the Narnian prophecy: There will be Spring again.