Last night, I attended the Centenary Book Bazaar just blocks from my house. I look forward to it all year long. It's my Christmas, my New Years, my very special day. Imagine a colossal dome filled with thousands of books. Imagine the smell of old paper filling the air. Imagine the prices are anywhere from .25 cents to 4.00. Imagine the chattering and camaraderie between fellow book lovers. Imagine the canvas bags, totes and strange storage devices.
Here's mine before the sale.
It's not my design. Crystal, my book fair partner, is responsible for designing the deepest, widest, easiest to maneuver shopping cart. This is a laundry basket, zip tied to a rolly thingy. I suppose it was handy before they started making luggage with wheels (the rolly thingy, not the laundry basket). We got quite a few comments on it. I could tell people were jealous. Maybe next year we can sell them.
I love the conversation. These are things overheard or spoken directly to me.
My wife and I got stuck at the grocery store on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving
I don't really need this copy of Wuthering Heights, but I can't resist.
What is this place anyway? Why are all these people here, oh my god, there's like so many books
You ran over my toe with the rolling laundry basket, lady
I drove up here from New Orleans just for this sale. I'm not sure yet if was worth it.
This last one was from a woman that was ahead of me in the checkout line. She had eight large bags filled with books. I bet she had at least 200 books. I felt like an amateur, a lightweight. She admired my laundry basket and I asked her how she managed to move around with eight bags of heavy books. All she said was, "it wasn't easy." I was intrigued but I could tell that she wasn't about to give up her secret. She was committed.
This is my loot, my booty, my haul and plunder.