In August of 2015 I wrote a blog entitled “But What About the Books?” bemoaning the fact that someday the books that lived in my parents’ former apartment would have to be “dispersed”. The books that took up an entire end wall of the sitting room . . . and filled the shelves of the bookcases at the other end . . . and the cabinets below those shelves. Because I am a lover of books and am always hard-pressed to allow even one to escape my obsessive grasp. And now I have at least a million with which I must part.
Granted, I’m not the only one doing the parting, but I’m the one (with the help of my daughter, when she can) who is currently boxing up the world for transport to a planet far, far away (which is my way of saying somewhere other than where they are)—so I’m the one thumbing through the pages to be certain no one used something valuable or embarrassing to mark their place. So far, so good. But you know what I am finding?
Personal messages, handwritten on the inside cover or first page, from the giver to one or both of my parents.
There’s the copy of Someone Cares by Helen Steiner Rice, given to my mother by her dear friend Kenneth Wilkins—or “Miss” Ken, as I knew her. Inside the front cover she wrote “I care and may He keep you in His care” with the date February 16, 1977. I’m not certain what set of circumstances prompted the gift, but given the date, I’m guessing it may have been the sudden death of my Grandfather Shackelford (or Pop, as we knew him) which had occurred the month before. “Miss” Ken and her husband Mr. Freeman lived one street over from us, and every Halloween, she would make the most wonderful popcorn balls—something I’m not at all certain I appreciated then and would give my eye teeth for now. There’s the small book entitled As A Man Thinketh with a beautiful message from my mother to my father, celebrating his induction as the President of the Tennessee Funeral Directors Association—the date was May 20, 1971. And speaking of TFDA, there’s the copy of Diamonds in the Dust, a collection of 366 devotionals she received from Rubye Ann Alexander, a fellow funeral director’s wife who was also a good friend . . . one of those people with whom I grew up going to meetings. She and her husband Mr. Paul often traveled to the national conventions with my parents and Marvin and Tede Rogers from South Pittsburgh, Tennessee. That hefty tome came to live with them on June 19, 2000. Oh, and there’s the tiny little book The Greatest Thing in the World, bearing the simple message inside “To Bob and Bobbie From Pop Christmas 1967”.
And we can’t forget the cookbooks. All 10,000 of them, many of which my mother bought to support an organization or received as a gift from someone . . . or got for free from Fundco when they were a fundraising thing in Savannah. Every once in a while, if you walked into their shop to ask about a print job, you’d leave with an armload of cookbooks. Many of these that were gifts have personal inscriptions and/or my mother’s handwritten notes (so, double the reason to keep and love forever). Most of these I could see my mother using—until I got to The Jewish Cuisine I Love. I mean, really? Looking at some of the recipes, I’m kinda glad I was never offered stuffed milts (aka spleen) or calf brains with scrambled eggs (although I was often fed pig brains and eggs for breakfast . . . which I contend amounted to child abuse . . .) or anything that required the butcher to cut a calf’s foot into three or four pieces before leaving the grocery. All of which could be followed by Cottage Cheese and Noodle Pudding for dessert. And yes, it really does use cottage cheese. And noodles. With some raisins thrown in for good measure. But when I looked at the first page of the book, I found the inscription “Bobbie Jo when we saw this we thought of you. Love, Virginia and Joe Ebb . . . Jerusalem—January 1983”. Joe Ebb was the manager of the funeral home in Selmer for years and Virginia was his wonderfully supportive wife who made plastic canvas Christmas ornaments for the staff Christmas party every year—some of which I’m blessed enough to have and hang on our tree each December.
There are so many memories hidden between the covers of these books, so many treasures to be found. But not every treasure can be held forever. The most personal of these I’m sure we’ll keep, tucked safely away until one day our children will be forced to make these decisions all over again . . . times two since our own libraries will then be added to the mix. The rest will be boxed up and moved out and then a family meeting will be held to determine their final disposition. All of which makes me very sad . . . because one of these days someone, somewhere, will pick up one of those we’ll release into the world, and wonder how anyone could ever let it go.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926. She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
