We never had a shower in the house when I was growing up,
but only a bathtub. I know for a fact that my mother never took a shower until
the morning of my sister’s funeral in 1995. (She was terrified of it, and I had
to talk her through it, from outside the bathroom.)
I take showers most days, because they save time. But on
weekends, and during vacations, I take baths.
Baths are lovely and luxurious. You can add salts if you
like, but they really only create stains on the porcelain. All you need is hot
water – the hotter the better, as hot as you can stand – and a bar of soap.
And a book.
Naturally one reads in the bathtub. I remember Anne Parrish’s comment
about her copies of E. F.
Benson’s “Lucia” novels being stained by being “dropped into brooks and
baths.”
Well, of course we drop them! Our hands are wet as we turn
the pages.
This kind of use marks a book. It lets everyone know that it
was well-beloved. I have lots of used books, and I can tell you in every case
whether or not their previous owners read them lovingly.
Some have marginal notes. Some have greasy spots, probably
where crumbs fell while their readers ate. And some have been dunked in water, and
then carefully (or not so carefully) dried.
My own books – the books I bought brand-new – reflect this
too. Some are pristine. Others are in terrible shape, dog-eared and stained and
ragged and broken-spined.
Care to guess which ones are my favorites?
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