Not friends with books

(1949 September 12, Sunday night)

I am not friends with books.

An hour after you left [to begin college], Mary Margaret and I descended on your room to give it a thorough cleaning and make it ours. First we took down the other half of the curtain. Second, we got a bushel basket for a dustpan and swept the floor. And third, we took all the books out of the big bookcase so it could be cleaned and moved. MM <4> was very helpful and would help me lay a shelf of books all in a row for later replacement. The pocket books went on the davenport; then started the shelf by row arrangement. At last all were out. My arms ache. I am dirty. Mary's arms ache. She is dirty. But we are still friends with books.

Now we pull the bed out and wash the floor and woodwork. Almost decide to stop then and there to paint and varnish. Abandon idea as Auxiliary comes tomorrow. We take down pictures. Together we move the bookcase. I wash it. Time for lunch. The Mary M has thrown in her anchor. I wash the dishes and return. So far I am friends with books.

Now I try to remember which books go on which shelves. I start out with putting the big ones on the bottom. I cover them with smaller big books. Then I see there are others still bigger that go to the bottom of those already in. I break my back. My arms snap off. But I do it right, even though some big ones skillfully hid at the bottom of the pile.

Another thing: I have put the shelves in alternate layers with the books. I must handle them twice - put a pile on the bed to get at the shelf. Relations between us are becoming strained now. My head aches. I lie down 2::00-2:30. I go at it again.

Finally all the shelves are in. What? The top ones do not match - one is higher. What to do? I go to the basement for tools. I find a little whatsit in your desk drawer. I use it for a brace. I brace the brace with a tack. It holds. Now to take out the four on the other side and move them up a notch. I find the notches are all too small. But they expand as I hammer with great determination. I wake up the baby. But I keep on. The last one is uncooperative. It shoots into the air. I recover it and go at it again. It slides into pages of books - I find it again. I hammer with great persistancy. Suddenly the loaded shelf below gradually turns over, sliding the books all behind the bookcase. It is done on purpose. It is a mean trick. I am no longer friends with books. But I do not cry. Oh no. I take revenge upon the bracket. I abandon him. And in his place I pound a willing nail which awaits nearby. Now I sit panting a moment. But not long.

I recover. I decide if we would scrap the scrap books it would help. First, I shall wait until I see if you become famous when the museums will pay me $1000 a sheet for coloring you did in kindergarten. I have waited this long. I will still save them. But it is an idea to trifle with.

The neat rows have avalanched. Although I pick them up neatly, Pope's poems stand next to the ROTC manual. They are bucking me.

Now all the shelves are filled. I am relieved. But no! The floor is clear but I have an encyclopedia left over. It was on top of the desk, hiding purposely. We are no longer friendly. I no longer care if volume 14 follows 15. I no longer care if some are on their heads. Titles mean nothing - size it all - will it fit the space?

The Mary M cruises up. She hands me vast piles of pocket books, which I shamelessly slam on top. I am done. but I am not friends with books.