On Starting a Collection with Ozma of Oz

The culling continues at my house. I have two boxes of books for church, one large box for the public library, one box for my husband to examine and four boxes of binders full of notes. I don't even want to look at the other three boxes. The encyclopedias are waiting beside the recycle bin.

I've been ruthless–or at least as strict as I can be. If I haven't looked at the book in years or if I'm not sure if I should keep it, I've tossed it into a box to be passed along. Shuddering as I do so.

As I've sorted through all these books, I found myself wondering when it all began. What started this collection that flows into every room in my house except the bathrooms?

Last night I found it: Ozma of Oz by L. Frank Baum, a gift for my seventh birthday. It was the first book I ever owned, along with Nancy Drew #2, The Hidden Staircase, which I also received at that same birthday party. I gave away all the Nancy Drews 21 years ago, having given up hope I'd ever have a reading daughter.

(Gave up too soon!)

48 years ago Ozma was new with a shiny golden jacket. Today the cardboard cover is flaking off and I doubt anyone but me would want to open the book. Do I even want to open it?

Ozma looks as young as always, and there on the fly leaf I find the pride of a young owner, and then one a little older practicing her cursive writing. How many books have I bought or received since Ozma and Nancy entered my life?

Countless.

I remember being so proud of the collection I amassed in a family that believed in going to the library, not visiting a book store. We only had one bookshelf in our house until I finally needed one of my own. I was like a hungry person handed a platter, any opportunity to own a book, I took–whether the book was worthwhile or not.

Some people took notice, though not my parents who stoutly maintained anything worth reading could be checked out of the library (though not those Nancy Drews back in the dark ages of my childhood). My aunt gave me a dictionary for my tenth birthday, and it's snuggled up against Ozma right now. The cardboard cover still holds together on that book, but the spine is a piece of packing tape. I wrote my name in that one, too.

It almost pains me to see my name written so carefully in these books, with the admonition to "please return to," me. I felt so important to own a volume. Curious how it's the little things that twist the heart.

Some of my favorite books were at the library and I checked them out time and again. One in particular, Elizabeth of the Mayflower–an historical fiction about Elizabeth Tilley, one of the first pilgrims–caught my imagination and my heart. I remember the day I went to the library and it was gone, never to be seen again.

But the Internet is a wonderful contraption for hunting down the joys of our youth. I found it on line a couple years ago and bought a copy. It wasn't quite the rich read I remembered, but it felt satisfying to have it on my shelf.

Until I discovered my old friend Beth Bardo is a descendent of Elizabeth Tilley and John Alden. I gave her the book. I can always go visit it when I start to feel nostalgic. I didn't write my name in that one.

What was the first book you owned as a child? Do you still have it?