Like mother, like son

We went to the bookstore the other day. I love the bookstore. I love books. The funny thing is, I mean actual books--the cover, the type, the layout, the design-- not the story. One of my favorite classes in college was typography, my career is in publishing. I love production and view content development as nothing more than a means to an end. Often to my own detriment, I can't get past the object to get to the meaning, but my filter has improved over the years.

I think my need for order, structure, and control is summarized nicely in the small package of a book. Having a book means that even when all else is chaos, I have something, something, that is orderly and unchanging. Books make me feel secure, which is one reason you'll find me preferring a physical book to anything online.

So, although I try to use the library (and Internet) as much as possible, every so often I go to the bookstore. I can spend hours lightly touching book covers, flipping through the pages, and yes, even smelling books. I love them. But I no longer buy books just because of how they look. That gets expensive. And people think things based on what you read, although in my case, I am not reading it! I just like the book, like it is artwork.

At our recent trip to the bookstore, Moosie picked not a storybook or picture book, but a red, short, squat bound book with fine print. He was determined that Ivanhoe would accompany him home. "No pick-ers. Us erds." [No pictures. Just words.] He proudly exclaimed to Bubba. Bubba did not get it. "But [Moose], you can't read!"

But nevermind, the boy spent the entire ride home flipping through the pages and inspecting the various angles. And once home, he carried it around much like a child would carry around a doll--his own piece of security, his own piece of art, his own mobile package of all that is wonderful.

I get it, Moose. I get it.