A Peek Inside My Mom's Library

I finally went through my mom's books. She passed away 15 years ago and it's taken me this long to finally open the boxes to organize, purge, and distribute the hundreds of books she owned. I didn't count before I started, but there were probably 10-15 boxes filled to the brim with novels, short stories, text books, cook books, etc. And these weren't even all the books. After my parent's died, Lane and Marcia took out a lot of the books and had them around the house so we would have access to them.

Books were a part of my mom's identity. Her soul was a patchwork quilt made up of characters, plots, ideas, fragments of prose, and lines of poetry that stuck to her after she finished a book.

I was placed in charge of my mom's books a few years ago when we divvied up my parent's stuff, but I kept putting off dealing with the books for two reasons:

1. Hundreds and hundreds of books. So many books. Sooooooo many. The sheer volume of books made the task of "dealing with them" (whatever that means) seem unsurmountable.
2. Looking through her books makes me sad. You'd think after 15 years the pain of missing my parents would subside, but it hasn't. I miss them still and that painful ache still arises regularly. Looking through my mom's books just reminds me that she's not here to read them. She never had her library. She dreamed of a gorgeous library lined in books, reading nooks, and mahogany tables. But instead the books have been locked away in cardboard boxes. It's hard to face the fact that her library will never be what she envisioned. 

My mom was an avid reader. She was ALWAYS reading. Every few days there would be a new book in her hand or set open by her bed. And she would always bring up books with friends, family and strangers. So many of her conversations turned into impromptu book club discussions. I don't know if anyone really knew which she liked more: reading books or talking about them.

Through the years my mom collected hundreds of books. She was the queen of scavenging used bookstores. Every month or so she would drop into a corner used bookshop and bring home a few treasures. She also spent a lot of time at Borders Books. Anytime she needed a break from us, my dad would babysit, and my mom would find a little piece of heaven curled up in the novel section. But my mom also involved us with books. During the summer we would visit the library at least once a week and there were plenty of times we would accompany her to bookstores as well. And I swear my mom was more excited about our school's Scholastic book fairs than we were.

After years of collecting, she had accumulated boxes and boxes for "her library." She talked about her library all the time - what it would look like, how it would smell. She wanted her children to have a special place to hide when they needed to find comfort in a good book. When we finally moved to our new house with a room set aside specifically for her library, she died before she even had time to unpack the boxes.

So that's the story of the stupid books and the library that never came to be. The books stayed in boxes for a decade and a half, gathering dust.

But I'm done. I'm done lugging around these boxes like heavy chains wrapped around my heart.

It's time to unlock the doors to my mom's library.

Draw open the heavy curtains! Let the light spill in and pour over the mahogany shelves lined with books. Unlatch the windows, shake off the protective sheets covering the overstuffed armchairs and reading tables, and oil the lamps. Because the physical library didn't matter to my mom as much as the stories and voices brimming from the pages of her books. She didn't want these books to become the heavy burden they've turned into today. She wanted them to be a cascade of knowledge, an escape to other worlds, and point of contact with the great conversation of humanity. What she left behind for her kids was not just books, but the enduring legacy to always continue learning, the love for a good story, and a charge to participate in and continue the conversation of the ages.

So I've opened the cardboard boxes and "dealt" with the books. I donated 10 full boxes to a thrift store and I threw away 2 boxes of books that were falling apart, beyond repair. Then I divvied out the remaining books so that each of the 5 kids would have a box full of some of the favorites. And there are still 2 huge boxes left! Those books will be given away at a "Used Bookstore" at my mom's 50th Birthday Bash being held in her memory later this week.

Before I let the books go, I had to take pictures of some of my favorites. I want to remember these books because they partially reveal the deep, complicated, and interesting person that was Nancy Lou Wiltbank Johnson. This is obviously only a sampling of what she owned. And at the end of the post I also include books from my dad's library who was also a reader and story lover.

Mom, I'm so sorry you never had your library. But thank you for filling my childhood with stories and leaving me with a thirst for literature and ideas. 

Nancy Johnson's Library

I'm going to start with this cheesy quote. As I was pulling out books, I found this Willy Wonka quote. My mom must have made this sign for some Sunday lesson, or kid party, I don't remember. But she loved this quote and it seems like the perfect introduction to her books. 

Let's start with the novels. My mom loved novels, and because she loved them so much, she had a TON of them. This only a tiny sampling of what she had:

Many of the novels she owned were about groups of people who were mistreated by society. I don't think she particularly enjoyed reading about slavery, genocide, and discrimination, but it seems like she felt compelled to read the stories those people left behind. Those stories were precious to her even though they were lived by someone else. 

And we can't forget her Robert Jordan collection:

From what I understand, East of Eden was one of her favorite books. It looks well-loved to me, but I actually don't know how she felt about this book...

...other than the fact that she had two additional copies.

Here are (some of) her classic novels:

My mom also had a lot of short stories. She wrote a lot of short fiction herself. 

Other than novels, my mom wanted her library filled with influential writers and thinkers. She found this amazing collection of Western literature at an auction for cheap:

Here are the other books included in the collection:

She also had this collection of more classical literature spanning a dozen topics:

Here's a peek into the authors included in the "Foundations of Science and Mathematics"

Here's another collection of great thinkers:

Again, this is just a sample of what she had:

Not sure where to put this, but here's a book my mom owned by Mother Teresa

And don't even worry about it. My mom definitely owned a copy of Amy Vanderbilt's New Complete Book of Etiquette: the Guide to Gracious Living.

My mom had a lot of books about sex. Haha. From what I understand, she liked sex...a lot...and was always working with my day to develop and grow that aspect of their relationship.

Here are some interesting non-fiction books about different people.

Mom looooooooooved Dave Berry. She thought he was hilarious and read a ton of his stuff. I also think he inspired a lot of her later writings. 

Yeah, she totally met him. It may have only been a 30-second conversation, but she obviously left a lasting impression:

My mom hated cooking, but she made dinner almost every weeknight. Here are a few of her cookbooks.

My mom loved cleaning. Our house wasn't always tidy, but she deep-cleaned it almost every week. She bought a heavy duty tool belt from Home Depot and used it as her "cleaning belt." She equipped it with sponges, spray bottles, toothbrushes, a feather duster, and rags. She used it all the time.

Here's a borrowed book I found that was never returned. Haha.

Lynn Hindman was our backdoor neighbor. Sorry Lynn.

My mom's scriptures were an important part of her library.

Here are some books made irrelevant by the Internet:

Art supplied by either Kirsten or yours truly.

The library included several books about writing. My mom took several writing classes and was always trying to improve her craft.

My mom also had several art books. She loved art and liked having it accessible to her kids.

As I was going through books, it was interesting to find the bookmarks left between pages:

Abraham Lincoln and the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. haha.

A valentine from my mom's nephew

Since my mom visited so many used bookstores, a lot of the inside covers look like this:

But my mom didn't limit her writings inside her books to just her name. She liked to add commentary:

"Nancy Wiltbank. Read this story aloud to your youngsters but skip the comcrcial"

I was a little surprised to find this book in my mom's collection because it didn't seem like her style.

I was right.

"-Dialogue sucks, especially the 40 yr old Sidda & company. All of that is cold to me - even the narrative - who gives a crap about this dump cocker spaniel anyway?

-Incredible, unignorable imaging!!!

-And as for the narrative - she teases & strings me along until I'm as delighted as I am when I watch Keith do a striptease."

Side note: I vaguely remember my mom receiving this book as a gift. If it was from you, I'm sure she loved you! But sometimes you just don't connect with a book. haha. 

And then there was my mom's copy of Emily Dickinson's poetry. I'll let her tell you how she feels about this book:

Here are some more conversations my mom had with Emily:

My mom and dad both dealt with depression throughout their lives, and I think my mom was relieved to find someone who understood what she was going through. 

My mom's commentary actually helps me understand Emily's poetry because most of it goes over my head. 

Okay, did anyone else know Emily had a lot of hot and heavy, sex-laced poems? Haha. My mom obviously loved those:

Children's Library

A large part of my mom's library was made up of children's books and young adult novels. Again, this is only a teeny, tiny sampling of her collection:

Keith Johnson's Library: 

Although most of the books in our household belonged to my mom, my dad also loved to read. He also loved to read to us. I remember him reading to us Ender's Game or King Solomon's Mines at bedtime. He would also tell us ghost stories. Here are some of his books:

These books were loved by both my mom and dad. 

I think these were my dad's because he liked Orson Scott Card, but I think my mom did too? Idk

Loved by both mom and dad. 

And there's so, so, so many more books that I don't have time/space to mentioned:

Does anyone want this? 

 So there are the books. 

THE END

Same Girl

"Feeling a little philosophical" 

Everyone grew up, but I stayed the same. They all say they walked through the door into the land of the grown, but I don't know what door they're talking about. They talk of their past as if it belongs to another. They talk of their past as if they're now living somewhere new. They say they left their childhood, but they're all still here.

Don't get me wrong. I beat eggs like a mom now, I've settled nicely into life with my lover, and the circles under my eyes grow darker each day. But it doesn't feel right to say, "when I was a little girl..." because

I'm still the same girl.

Yeah, that's Karl Malone

Don't Cry Over Spilled Soup

Mom needed a break. Usually dad took us to PoJo's and left my mom with the baby so she could relax. The run-down strip mall arcade was definitely second-rate to Chucky Cheese. No pizza, no creepy full-size dancing dolls, no smelly blue tunnels and questionable ball pit. But the glitz and glam lacking in PoJo's was made up by the fact that PoJo's had Tetris, which made the outing not just bearable for dad, but actually enjoyable. He strategically directed colorful falling bricks with a joy stick, while me, my sister, and brother spent our silver coins on Skee Ball and Air Hockey games in order to collect enough tickets to buy watermelon Jolly Ranchers, Tootsie Rolls, and green sticky hands.

But tonight mom went out for night on the town (let's be honest, she probably went to Barnes and Nobel for the hot chocolate and the smell of books) and we stayed home. Normally dad fed us cereal and called it good. Then he allowed us to gather around him on the computer to watch him play King's Quest 5. We'd watch a pixelated King Graham cross our screen seeking clues to an ever unfolding storyline that would get us one step closer to our goal of...I don't know if I ever knew what the point of that game was. But it didn't stop me and my siblings from directing and pointing, and jumping up and down in suspense at the pixelated villains and treacheries. 

However, soup and Aladdin were on the menu tonight. We sat at the bar watching him wind the can opener and pop off lids to Campbell's chicken noodle soup. He poured the concentrate into the pan, carefully adding water. Filled our cups with cold water from the tap, and divided the soup equally among the colorful plastic bowls. Kirsten and I fought over who got to use the funny spoon (an old, decrepit spoon with a loose yellow handle that had somehow survived the 70's and managed to find its way into our silverware drawer. Still not sure where it came from, but we fought gallantly for the right to slurp our soup from it). Dad handed a bowl to the 4-year-old, Clint. Kirsten won the spoon this time, but I was already making plans to commandeer it for breakfast tomorrow. 

Dad watched Clint as he started walking to the table. At first Clint walked very slowly and carefully, balancing the soup in his little hands, but Dad could see a sudden flicker of confidence in the four-year-old's eye as Clint quickened his step towards the table. Suddenly dad saw impending doom. 

"No Clint! Don't spill!!" Dad cried. 

Soup spilled everywhere. 

Clint looked up in alarm, his own soup still safely swishing back and forth in his orange bowl. But he saw a puddle of chicken noodle goodness splattered across the bar right underneath dad's bowl.

Dad burst into laughter which soon transformed into one of his famous giggling fits. He couldn't stop laughing. And when my dad started laughing, everyone started laughing. Dad's laughs were contagious. 

Right then mom walked through the door carrying a bag of fresh books. "What's going on?" She asked. 

Dad tried to talk, but he could only get a few words out. "Soup....spilled..." Mom looked quizzically at the soup puddle. Finally he composed himself enough to say, "I gave Clint a bowl of soup and...." 

He burst into uncontrollable laughter for a few seconds, until he again composed himself. 

"He started to run off with it, so I shouted, 'Don't spill!'" 

And then dad burst into another fit of laughter until he again, tried to finish. 

"And right as I said that, I spilled my own bowl of soup all over the counter." 

Kirsten, Clint and I shrieked with giggles as he finished the story, Andre, the baby, catapulted applesauce onto his face, and my mom joined the laughter while she pulled my dad in for a big smooch. Ew.  

Our family wasn't perfect, but life was splattered with happy, silly moments. And after all I've seen and experienced, it seems to me like these moments are what life is all about.