Ever in deaccumulate mode, I tried to think of a good reason to keep these old books that hold nostalgic meaning to me. Blank. This picture of them would suffice. I don’t need to hold that orange zoo book in my hand to remember the hours and hours and hours I spent as a child poring over the black and white photos of scarily fanged poisonous snakes. I don’t need to hold that blue book in my hand to remember my first father-in-law’s infatuation with J.C. O’Hair’s dispensational theology. But then, then, I thought of my friend Rachel who turns old books into journals for profit.
She delivered these today.
No fangs in this picture, but this is the one I remember the best.
Funny thing is, I don’t journal. This blog is the closest I’ll ever get to it. Not everything has to make sense, does it?
PS: Rachel can be reached at endeavers[dot]rachel[at]gmail[dot]com.