My father saved books, but not in the way most people would think. he didn't save them because he had read them and loved their content. he hadn't loved them from afar and then wanted to own them due to their value or antiquity. he didn't own them because of their beautiful pictures and coffee table appeal. not one of them had a recipe in it he might bake some day. he had many books but most had never been "cracked open", as he called it, so reading wasn't their first appeal.

Resting on numerous shelves, he would never choose to read them when he got bored or tired of doing other things. But still, they were loved in a way no other person would ever think of loving a book.

The words on the pages of these books were loved by others and they probably read them over and over again. The pictures may have been examined for hours at a time. The pages were giggled at and maybe even torn at times, by error, but sadly damaged by unknowing hands.

Dad was a paper cutter and a binder by trade. a child of Lithuanian immigrants he knew how important learning was. he was one of a few of his siblings in his family who had a high school education. he knew poverty, but he also knew the value of the written word. he bound children's Golden Books by trade. he never spoke of how he liked his job or of his trade of putting pages together and binding them into a book for others to read. But he taught me the value of a book each time he stepped over the threshold of our home with a few more books he had saved from the garbage.

Dad carried them home in piles of two or three. he found it hard to see anything "still good" thrown away. So he brought home those children's books that were imperfect in some way. Books like Little Black Sambo, I can fly and The Pokey Puppy to name a few. he saved them when their title fold page was upside down, backwards or missing. No page that was slightly out of order or whose cover was upside down found themselves in the garbage.

These books were saved by a man who knew the true value of the time expended in putting that book together. he caressed, in his strong hands, the binding of each and every book and impressed on me their worth both in crafting and reading. he allowed me to read them and then he placed them on a shelf among others in our tiny garage.

But he also knew the value of reading. So he shared them with any child who came to visit or carried them to children whenever we visited someone.

His legacy comes back to me each time I pick up a book at an estate sale or flea market. Do I still have some of those books? Sadly, no, they are all in others' homes, not mine, but I remember how he loved the cardboard cover, pages and binding of each and every book he touched and I can thank him for my love of books which was so carefully nurtured.

Come and check out Carmel Collectibles for vintage books of yesterdays and other collectibles of all kinds. http://www.rubylane.com/shops/carmelcollectibles

Carmel Collectibles: My Dad and his love for Children's Books ...