Dirge for Closing of Borders

Is anyone else having a hard time coming to terms with the closing of bookstore in Shrewsbury? When I first heard the news, I sighed and said, “that’s sad,” and then shelved it along with Circuit City and Linen’s-n-Things.

Stores close, it happens. Then I grabbed my purse and zoomed over there to see what book bargains I could find and it hit me, just like that weird odor the store now emitted–what was that?–I was going to have a hard time letting go.

As I passed through the first set of doors into that haven of bargain books that always clog the vestibule, I pictured my now 11-year-old sitting on the floor as a toddler with a big board Winnie the Pooh encyclopedia as I tried to soothe his baby brother while fingering through some sale romance novels. Awww, those were the days.

And then, I remembered how I used to come to Borders when I needed an escape hatch. Four-year-old melting and baby wailing, where else could a young mom go to soothe everyone? Borders. Baby falls asleep in car ride, toddler gets to pull books off the shelves and giggle with The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Mom grabs a latte and sinks onto the floor next to toddler, rocking baby in bucket….perfect.

And what about those times I wanted to be far far away from said children? Husband enters from long day at work; mom shoves 7 and 4 year olds towards loving father, and jangles keys as she wordlessly exits. Off to Borders and a sinful treat as she flips through glossy magazines in the café.

Or what about those Saturdays when, as a high school English teacher, I needed a quiet place to grade essays? Borders. I would park myself a café table against the wall with a Laverne and Shirley view of the endless parade of feet coming to join my literary sanctuary.

Students spotting the other tables, Grey’s Anatomy open with laptops, a grandmother chatting with granddaughter as they decide which Junie B. Jones book they would get that day, and a group of ladies, same book in all their hands, trading thoughts on their latest pick. I would rarely speak to these people, but we were a community all the same.

I realized my grief and sense of loss over Borders was deep when I was on a tropical vacation recently. An elderly man in the beach chair next to mine turned to me and said, “Great book!”  I was nearing the end of Abraham Verghese’s Cutting for Stone (a great read if you like sweeping epics and medical drama). I enthusiastically agreed, and we then began a light discussion of the book’s merits.

He then said something that hit me like a stiff drink; it had an immediate punch then slowly seeped into my limbs. “It’s sad,” he lamented. “I don’t get to have conversations like these anymore. With those new Kindle things, I don’t know what anyone is reading.” 

It was then I realized what I was truly upset about when it came to the closing of Borders. I was mourning the loss of a community that is quickly becoming part of the wasteland of past havens and gathering places, not to mention the eventual death of the hand held book.

Borders represents human connection to me, with a magical combination of literature and lattes. Having conversations about and around books is going to be a lot harder when the doors of Borders finally close for good. I hope I can find an adequate substitute, but the library doesn’t serve lattes. But that could change, right?