The Library of Mum and Dad
And other transient things you assume are permanent
Years ago when yet another Guardian article mentioned the Bank of Mum and Dad, I was moved to point out on my blog that I had never had access to one of those but I did have the Library of Mum and Dad and I probably appreciated that more.
My parents could never resist a second-hand bookshop, a charity shop, a library book sale. My mother in particular was reluctant to get rid of books and by the time I left home they had a few thousand crammed into their bungalow. They’ve moved twice since then, and yet somehow never managed to divest themselves of the 1980s computer manuals, the motoring guides to southern counties they had no desire to visit again, the pig-keeping manual that nobody needed in the first place.
Over the last 28 years I’ve made periodic visits to borrow books I’d be hard pressed to find elsewhere, or to browse their fiction shelves when I was looking for something new. Given that my dad is a good judge of what authors I might enjoy, it’s been a wonderful resource. It was my introduction to Douglas Adams, Raymond Chandler, Anthony Trollope, Bill Bryson. I went there when I was looking for Angry Young Men, local history, Pre-Raphaelites, economics. There is a complete set of Maigret paperbacks, and a few Ross Macdonald novels I haven’t got round to yet. I didn’t think that mattered; I didn't think there was any hurry.
My mother died in December; she hadn’t been able to read for a couple of years by then. My dad stopped buying physical books a couple of years ago too, finding it more convenient to browse online and have instant access to an e-book. I knew the library had stopped growing, I just wasn’t expecting it to shrink.
I read about Swedish death-cleaning in the Guardian a while ago. That’s the one where you realise you’re getting on a bit so you start clearing out and passing things on so that nobody has to deal with your lifetime of clutter all at once when you die. It’s a good idea, not only freeing up space but also reminding you of what’s hidden at the back of the cupboard, prompting you to look through photo albums and leaf through the assorted paperwork in the drawer — invoices and school reports, newspaper cuttings and ticket stubs, each one unearthing memories.
Whether my dad’s consciously following its principles or not, that’s how I’ve ended up thinking of his recent activities. Every time I visit there are gaps on shelves and side-tables, and he hands me more photos and keepsakes to take home. Inevitably, the paring down has reached The Library of Mum and Dad. He’s been taking bags of books to charity shops, throwing some tattered old ex-library volumes in the bin. Already two small flat-pack bookcases have been emptied and given away. He could do the same with a third if he felt like shifting the remains of its contents to the gaps on the largest bookcase, one of the ones that he made himself.
I want to tell him to stop (‘Not the books, father!’) but it’s his living space, so unless I’m going to offer a new home for the library1 I don’t get to dictate what happens to it. I have, however, requested a reprieve for the Wodehouse and the Simenon. When I move to a house2, I might have room to take those ones in.
Like your parents themselves, you think their treasured possessions will be around forever. Until one day you visit and that lovely old coffee table has gone, revealed as ‘not that nice actually’ when the piles of magazines that usually covered it were shifted. Or the book on Wensleydale (the place not the cheese) that you had on the To Read list but not in a priority position. Or the ornament you’d never expressed an opinion about but assumed would be yours someday.
There’s a lesson in here somewhere. It might be something to do with always reading a book you’re interested in as soon as you’ve identified it on a shelf. Or maybe about the transience of everything you’re fond of. It could even be a warning not to take libraries for granted. I haven’t got time to work it out now though, I need to thin out my bookshelves so I can rehouse a couple of Edwardian books on British birds that I just can’t let go.
Sadly I’m not, I already own more books than our flat will comfortably hold, though I’m clearing out some of mine to house a few cast-offs
This has become the new Billy Bunter’s postal order in our family. One day though, it will happen.
Very late to this, but loved it and its poignancy. And I've the same flat-pack shelves behind me as a type, groaning with books and journals and vinyl records. I wonder what my children will make of them when I'm no longer sitting here.
I like many of the authors mentioned. I inherited my Dad’s English, Philosophy and poetry books - he used to be an English Lecturer and taught short story writing. He took us to the library every Saturday as kids. He enjoyed Raymond Chandler and Carver too!