There is an interesting thing about living 200 miles from the nearest Wal-Mart, Barnes and Nobel, or Borders. (Or even decent library) Â Buying a book becomes an event.
I can pick up a paperback at my local grocery store. You can bet that I study the selection every week when I buy my milk and eggs. I pick up the trashy romances, the fantasy novels with interesting covers, the fast-paced adventure reads.
But I don’t have the opportunity to spend an hour completely surrounded by the smell of newsprint. The hush of people lost in different worlds even while they’re all in the same room. When I’m picking over my choices, I’m jostled by young mothers chasing their toddlers and interrupted by people reaching past me for the TV Guide.
I can spend hours pournig over Amazon. I add and remove, weigh the benefits and liabilities of new vs. used, lament shipping costs and do my best to get over $25. And if I do, well then, it’s my duty to take advantage of that free shipping isn’t it?
Books are not something taken for granted when you live surrounded by 200 miles of wide-open, empty God’s Country. They’re precious. They’re what you run to check your P.O. Box for every day. They’re read leisurely to make them last. Out here, beyond the beyond, books have not yet lost their luster.
