Slice of Life 4: Bookshelves

This March I am participating in the Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life blogging challenge. This is my first time doing this challenge, and I am loving being a part of this community of awesome, supportive writers!

Against the central wall in my living room stands MY bookshelf. Now, don't get me wrong; I have 5 bookshelves at home, and another 6 at school, but the one in my living room is special. It is central. It is my pride and joy. It is my heart.

My uncle built it for me. He makes furniture from reclaimed local barn wood, and does everything by hand. This bookshelf is so large and took so long to complete that my aunt nicknamed it "The Behemoth." It was the primary occupant of their deck for several months because it was too large to go anywhere else. It is painted with white milk paint and waxed, so you can still see the wood's natural pattern, but it also shows its age. It was a Christmas gift from my husband. 

I love it more than anything else he has ever given me.

The books that were selected to adorn the bookshelf had to meet two criteria: they had to be a part of my book autobiography, and they had to be attractive. The books that I placed on this bookshelf are the heartstrings of my reading life. They are the books that have made me who I am, from the earliest (Our Animal Friends at Maple Hill Farm) to the most recent (Alexander Hamilton), from classics (The Age of Innocence), to poetry (Claudia Rankine's Citizen), to kinda trashy popular series (the North and South trilogy). If anyone wants to know who I really am, this bookcase would be the best place to start.

But it's more than just a bookcase. If the books that line the shelves are the life's blood, the treasures that interrupt the shelves at regular intervals are the heartbeats. Front and center are my collections. Animal skulls and bones take places of honor, souvenirs from many days spent treasure hunting in the woods. Birds' nests and antique bottles, interesting rocks and feathers, old clocks, jars, a globe, and a cross-stitch by my grandma round out the empty spaces. I imagine to many people all this stuff just looks like trash. 

It took almost a month to get it to look exactly like I wanted. Even now, I occasionally decide to move one thing or another on a whim. And as I look at the contents of the life contained on the shelves, I am ever more aware of how much reading has shaped every facet of my life. And I am profoundly sad to know that there are people whose reading lives wouldn't fill up one shelf, much less a Behemoth of a bookcase. And I feel anew the passion and vigor for ensuring that every student leaves my classroom with a reading life, at least one that fills up a shelf. 

The rest of my passions formed themselves as I figured out who I am. I didn't need anybody to help me figure out that I like to collect things. 

But each of the books on the shelf can be traced back to a connection. 

To a person. 

A friend. 

A loved one. 

A former teacher. 

They are a lifeline, an artery, a story that writes itself.