THEY WERE JUST boxes of old books. Who
No one, it seemed, so, with the renovation of Mom's basement under way, someone should go through those dusty, musty old boxes.
It was my brother's suggestion, and I agreed.
Last Saturday was a first crack at the task, a survey to get an idea of what was there.
At first glance, the answer appeared to be--not much.
Then I took a closer look.
I suppose every family has its readers, its nonreaders and its sort-of readers. Mine is no exception. The basement boxes were, for the most part, the boxes of readers.
Dad's old law books were there; so were his high school books and the histories and other titles of a lifetime. My grandfather Pa Henry was a serious scholar who read widely. His books took up two boxes and a steamer trunk.
It's funny how, if you know someone, you know what they read: Know the reading, you might say, and you know the reader.
Which is why I knew minutes after opening the first box that it contained the works of my older sister, senior sibling of the living Sullivan clan, she whose career was teaching English and medieval lit at a New York university.
Out to the car; out with the cell phone: "Hi, Sister. Guess whose undergrad English books I've come across in Mom's basement?"
"Oh, my goodness! So that's where they are!"
It was the first of a number of calls to sister Ann last Saturday as I began digging deeper into the various wooden and cardboard boxes and ancient steamer trunks. And I never even made it to the fine old cedar chest, said to have yet more books inside.
The more boxes I poked through, the bigger the task appeared to be.
To some, these might be "just a bunch of old books." To others--including me--they were a gold mine.
It was hard enough just getting past the stacks of National Geographics of recent vintage. I could see boxes--decades--of the older issues, covered with dust. (Next-time note: Bring not just gloves and my hand cart for heavy boxes, but also my shop vacuum.)
Two long wooden boxes that had been nailed shut were filled with books and assorted other items that had belonged to the Rev. John B. Henry--Pa Henry, my mom's father. He was a quiet, serious scholar, a descendant of Patrick Henry, and a heavy reader in philosophy, the ancient classics and literature.
He had died when I was 11, but I had a special liking for Pa, the only grandfather I ever knew (Dad's dad had died before I was born). Sundays, when we drove to the big old Henry home in Falls Church (still there, by the way), Pa, who supplemented his miserly pension from the Methodist church raising hens and eggs, would let me tag along on his chores.
Pa, with his sad-kind eyes, white hair and mustache and tattered leather jacket, took me from room to room in his chicken house, each room filled with chickens, layers and baby chicks. And always, he'd cuddle a chick in the humming incubator room, hand it to me and let me marvel at the young life I held.
And, maybe because I loved it so, he would take me up into his big garden stretching far up the hill and tell me what he had planted and why.
And when, at last, supper was nearly ready and we went back to the house, Pa would disappear into his study, which was sacrosanct--the place of quiet where he read and wrote. And whose walls were lined with books--the books I began finding here, in these boxes, more than half a century later.
The tops had been nailed on, but someone's curiosity had gotten the best of him and the nails had been pried loose. Nevertheless, nothing seemed to be missing.
Lying loose, on top of the first assortment of books, was something that stopped me cold.
I picked up a delicate, yellowing sheet of paper and began reading.
Here was a man known for his reticence, his quiet ways, a man I have since heard some describe as aloof, austere and perhaps a bit cold.
Of course, even as a child, I knew better; knew that while my grandfather was, indeed, a man of few words, he was anything but aloof and austere. And I knew--or sensed in that way kids have of figuring out adults--that Pa was the warmest and most caring of people; that unlike his wife, Ann Conway McCormick Henry, he just wasn't chatty, wasn't a man for small talk.
There before me he had poured out his soul, laid bare in perfect verse his grief at the loss of Mollie, his beloved small white mop of a dog. I could not see to finish reading.
There were so many surprises from beyond the grave and elsewhere that afternoon in Mom's basement. In a once-handsome cherry-wood buffet gone somewhat to seed from abuse, I even came across my own dad's collection of maps and a few half-empty bottles of liqueurs and cordials he kept "for company." Dad drank very little, but wanted to be a good host when the occasion might arise.
In one corner I came across a heavy old steamer trunk that I had not seen for decades. It had been given to me at some point long past by my Aunt Eleanor Henry, and the story behind it, as I recall, is that she had used it as a little girl. Her father had been a missionary in West Africa, and she had been born and lived her earliest years there.
Inside it, once I had wrestled the trunk to the floor, the first thing I came across was another dramatic find.
Several months ago, in December, I believe, I had written this column about an old black man I had known more than 40 years ago in Fauquier County, Paul Wells.
Incredibly, on top of notebooks and texts belonging to the former Mrs. Sullivan, Anita, there was a painting that I recognized as being a gift from the courtly old gentleman. I had long forgotten that piece of primitive art, done in bright colors, using house paints on heavy canvas.
My little basement archaeological dig among the books and other oddities had taken nearly an entire afternoon, yet I had scarcely scratched the surface.
Another call, again to sister Ann Haskell. This could take approximately forever, I advised. And at that, she came up with the absolutely terrific suggestion that we go up to Mom's basement with a pickup truck and cart all those boxes to her home near Charlottesville, "where we can take the time to go through those boxes more carefully."
A feeling of relief swept over me. I had spent so much time and accomplished so little. Those books had once been the treasured libraries of people we cared about. They would get the respect they deserved.
PAUL SULLIVAN, a former reporter with The Free Lance-Star, is a freelance writer living in Spotsylvania County. Contact him by mail at The Free Lance-Star, 616 Amelia St., Fredericksburg, Va. 22401; or by e-mail at
Email: PBSullivan2@cs.com.