Dancing In E. Quinn Bookstore
In March, my husband and I spent some time in a rustic cabin overlooking Fightingtown Creek in the mountains of Georgia.
I have about three days marked off on my calendar to celebrate my wedding anniversary and escape the rush of life. A recent diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis has left me longing for the seclusion and silence of the hills. And after the publication of my first novel, I’m tired.
This visit, we rent a rugged fishing cabin with one small bathroom, a mini kitchen, a loft, and one downstairs bedroom. The place is small, but the view is heavenly. Our porch overlooks the creek. Water comes around a bend, swirls over huge slabs, and spits out a cold mist as it gets to our place. It’s a moody and restless creek. Our first night here, in spite of the cold, at my insistence, we leave the door open so we can hear the water traveling past our porch. During the night, an icy March breath fills our bedroom, and Richard gets up in the early hours of the morning and shuts the door. Still, I can hear the creek’s music, sometimes roaring, a natural crescendo.
The next day is cold and, as soon as we step outside, the wind whips through us. We drive down a narrow lane that snakes under overhanging trees and near ditches lined with moss, and head toward Blue Ridge to visit E. Quinn Booksellers. On the journey downhill, we see daffodils, but the mountain’s pallet is mostly green. Spring is just now beginning to paint the landscape in magnificent shades of sap green, olive green, Prussian green, and chartreuse. In a few weeks, dogwoods will bloom in the soft colors of a bridal dress, but we will be gone by then and will miss the wedding dance of spring. Near the bottom of the mountain, we pass a farm of horses and spot a llama. During these times, my husband and I say little to each other. We are silent, watchful, and admiring.
Books. A visit to E. Quinn is permanently on our list of things we must do while in northern Georgia. Most of our time is spent in the hills, but we can’t go home without plundering through the treasury of books at E. Quinn. E. Quinn Booksellers The store is located across the railroad tracks, and downtown Blue Ridge is filled with people and cars today. As I walk from the car to the store, I pull my poncho tight around my body. The wind whips my hair over my face and chills me through my jeans and boots. My hair is disheveled when I open the door to E. Quinn and inhale the glorious scent of old books, used books, rare books. E. Quinn Booksellers is a sanctuary of books. It specializes in beautiful medieval manuscripts and leaf pages. Music, bluesy with a hint of jazz, fills the store. I don’t care that my hair is a frightful mess, that my face is red from the cold, that my poncho is twisted—this place is magical.
The owner—the only person I have ever seen behind the counter— has an open, agreeable personality. A young, handsome fellow, he greets and listens and laughs and offers advice. The conversations inside the store pull me in. I long to sit for hours and listen as a visitor talks with passion about authors I’ve never read, as somebody tells the owner about a rare book find, as the owner listens to somebody who knows somebody who knows another somebody who has a signed edition of a rare book.
I touch books, pick up books, feel the faded covers of books. When I think no one is looking, I open an old novel and inhale. After returning it to its home on the shelf, my body sways to the bluesy music. For a moment, and only a moment, I dance. My husband sees me and laughs. He takes the books from my hands and hugs me. This haven of literature stirs emotions in me. I decide on a book of poetry by a regional poet, to go along with the two novels I have already chosen. It would be a sin to sit on the cabin’s porch without some poetry to read.
Richard and I load our books in the truck and head back to the hills.
I have about three days marked off on my calendar to celebrate my wedding anniversary and escape the rush of life. A recent diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis has left me longing for the seclusion and silence of the hills. And after the publication of my first novel, I’m tired.
This visit, we rent a rugged fishing cabin with one small bathroom, a mini kitchen, a loft, and one downstairs bedroom. The place is small, but the view is heavenly. Our porch overlooks the creek. Water comes around a bend, swirls over huge slabs, and spits out a cold mist as it gets to our place. It’s a moody and restless creek. Our first night here, in spite of the cold, at my insistence, we leave the door open so we can hear the water traveling past our porch. During the night, an icy March breath fills our bedroom, and Richard gets up in the early hours of the morning and shuts the door. Still, I can hear the creek’s music, sometimes roaring, a natural crescendo.
The next day is cold and, as soon as we step outside, the wind whips through us. We drive down a narrow lane that snakes under overhanging trees and near ditches lined with moss, and head toward Blue Ridge to visit E. Quinn Booksellers. On the journey downhill, we see daffodils, but the mountain’s pallet is mostly green. Spring is just now beginning to paint the landscape in magnificent shades of sap green, olive green, Prussian green, and chartreuse. In a few weeks, dogwoods will bloom in the soft colors of a bridal dress, but we will be gone by then and will miss the wedding dance of spring. Near the bottom of the mountain, we pass a farm of horses and spot a llama. During these times, my husband and I say little to each other. We are silent, watchful, and admiring.
Books. A visit to E. Quinn is permanently on our list of things we must do while in northern Georgia. Most of our time is spent in the hills, but we can’t go home without plundering through the treasury of books at E. Quinn. E. Quinn Booksellers The store is located across the railroad tracks, and downtown Blue Ridge is filled with people and cars today. As I walk from the car to the store, I pull my poncho tight around my body. The wind whips my hair over my face and chills me through my jeans and boots. My hair is disheveled when I open the door to E. Quinn and inhale the glorious scent of old books, used books, rare books. E. Quinn Booksellers is a sanctuary of books. It specializes in beautiful medieval manuscripts and leaf pages. Music, bluesy with a hint of jazz, fills the store. I don’t care that my hair is a frightful mess, that my face is red from the cold, that my poncho is twisted—this place is magical.
The owner—the only person I have ever seen behind the counter— has an open, agreeable personality. A young, handsome fellow, he greets and listens and laughs and offers advice. The conversations inside the store pull me in. I long to sit for hours and listen as a visitor talks with passion about authors I’ve never read, as somebody tells the owner about a rare book find, as the owner listens to somebody who knows somebody who knows another somebody who has a signed edition of a rare book.
I touch books, pick up books, feel the faded covers of books. When I think no one is looking, I open an old novel and inhale. After returning it to its home on the shelf, my body sways to the bluesy music. For a moment, and only a moment, I dance. My husband sees me and laughs. He takes the books from my hands and hugs me. This haven of literature stirs emotions in me. I decide on a book of poetry by a regional poet, to go along with the two novels I have already chosen. It would be a sin to sit on the cabin’s porch without some poetry to read.
Richard and I load our books in the truck and head back to the hills.
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