4 minute read
JWOW
Marked by a Book
By Rebbetzin Faigie Horowitz
Bookmarks used to be thing you made for Mother’s Day back in the day. Bookmarks used to be a day camp crafts staple, fast, easy, and cheap. Bookmarks were not for real people, I thought, because I didn’t see anyone in my life using them. They were items sold in museum gift stores and in Barnes and Nobles for people living the genteel life described in novels. I associated them with fireside reading, cozy afghans, and overstuffed armchairs.
Potato-peeling people didn’t use bookmarks. People who ran to catch public transportation didn’t use bookmarks. People who gobbled several books a week and couldn’t get enough of them didn’t use bookmarks. They were in too much of a rush.
Dog-earing books to save the place was verboten, not for menschen. You just finished the chapter and hoped for the best when you went to sleep. Part of the delight was figuring out where you were and rereading whole passages the next time. You eased out of your own workaday prosaic life and sank into familiar rich chocolaty thick slice of cake when you reread those pages. Aaah. That was great! Now the anticipation of what comes next in the story.
Sometimes you were smart and plucked something nearby like a tissue or an envelope as a placeholder. But during the busy years, migrating facial wipes and paper were the enemy; they were quickly deposited into the dustbin lest housekeeping be lax. It was easier to control the clutter and mail detritus than the kids. Books were treats then, escapes from grinding busyness, mom’s night out inside. And cheap therapy for life’s stressors.
For the kids, they were bridges to other worlds, adventures, and fantasy. Books were important and vital, in any shape, state or form. One of my son’s first words was spoken when we passed 60th Street and 17th Avenue. “Books! Books!” he shouted, seeking the wonders of the library. The kids loved books even when I did the choosing. There was a period when I was the one with the time and the means to get a new stash quickly (read: Mommy-the-driver who could get to the source before six o’clock closing time of the children’s room).
I was both dismayed and proud when one daughter had a severe response when her friend returned a National Geographic volume that we had purchased. It came back to 1718 46th Street with staples marking the dog ears. Said daughter turned
very serious and had some choice things to say to the young lady neighbor. My daughter respected books! Oh, be joyful, young mother, thought I. Nachas!
Then my taste changed – or was it me? Social science books no longer held appeal. Historical novels were simply history. A strong sense of place became very important. Memoirs held my interest. I stalked new books by authors I liked because I felt comfortable with the familiar foibles, psyches, and speech patterns of their characters from earlier volumes. And then, when I suddenly had a lot of time on my hands, I started a writing group to force myself to write.
It was not long afterwards that I received an arty bookmark as a gift from
one of the occasional members of the writing group. Accompanied by two slim volumes of poetry by her favorite poetess, the gift’s function was a token of thanks for hosting her daughter’s vort in my house.
I was underwhelmed. Bookmark? Me? Not my lifestyle!
Did she think I had the peace of mind for Mary Oliver’s spare trills on the natural world? Did she think I marked my books with a proper bookmark? What was she thinking? That I was truly a literary type?
At least the bookmark might be useful, I concluded after perusing the books and putting them on the shelf. And it was. For a short while. Until it disappeared into the cavern under my bed, never to be sighted again. But I had had a taste of civilized reading, of marking a pause, and picking up again at the end of the day with calm and without skimming to find the place. And it was nice. And I felt like a grownup.
Other bookmarks could do the job, thought I, picking up free promotional cardboard rectangles at events and stores. They did, and they didn’t. They didn’t enhance the experience of reading like a beautifully rendered art masterpiece under thick plastic with a silk tassel at the end.
End of the bookmark period. I am now a real grandmother, and like all ancients I save things and use them for practical purposes. I won’t say “hoard” lest I sound hoary and crone-like. These days, wide ordinary rubber bands hold my place in a book. They are free and plentiful in the neighborhood where they arrive daily along with the morning post. Where else do you see plain gummy beige rubber bands these days?
I prefer to call this a sign of cool bobbyhood, repurposing rubber, a natural resource. It’s a green habit! It’s upscaling! It’s good for humanity! After all, bookmarks are now digital items, holding your place in the document, the net, the cloud, whatever you call it. When books become Kindled and bookmarks fancy cursors, why shouldn’t someone with a sense of herstory pause her place with a soon-to-be artifact, the amazing, expanding literary rubber band?
