The Blue Bird Bookstore: Part Two – The Living Books

The winter winds from the coast blew hard wreaking havoc across the inland farmlands.

I spent some time at the riverside cemetery visiting mom and dad.  While I knew that they were not there it was a good place to sit and write stories of their life, the things they love, the joy and sorrow that touched them, and their hopes and dreams.

The darkness came fast with thunder and lightning, unleashing the furies upon the holy ground.  In the distant trees, I saw images of a lady, perhaps it was just the shadows, yet I knew that often during the storms the veil would thin near the cemetery.  I called them shadow dancers from a story my grandma Pola told me, but the vision still sends chills down my spine.

The rain was torrential, the wind shook the car, and lightning lit the sky revealing the dark clouds.  I knew it was time to head home knowing that the country road had no lights on the road to guide me through the night.  It was the darkest night I had ever seen.  I expected to look out over the fields and see the Four Housemen Of The Apocalypse riding toward me, coming to collect their dues.

I slowly made my way towards Fair Bluff as it was just over the state line into North Carolina.  I wanted to see if The Blue Bird Bookstore was truly there or if was it just a dream.  Tabias the owner of the store and I were friends as children, but it was thought he had died in a wreck years ago.  Surly it was him that gave me the book to write in.  Most of the streetlights were burned out but as soon as I came off the bridge, I could see a bright light coming from The Blue Birds Bookstore and I knew I would seek shelter there with Tabias and all those books.

The rain and wind were dancing on the street, the river was coming over the banks and the streetlights were all out except the one in front of the Book Store.  The lights were on inside and the sign in the window said open in bright blue letters.  I parked out front, grabbed my coat, took a deep breath, and ran toward the door.  It opened to a warmth from the potbelly stove and the smell of coffee was inviting and needed.

Tobias opened the door for me, and I headed for the most comfortable chair by the heater and sat down hard.  I knew it was not possible that this bookstore was here or my old friend who passed away many years ago was sitting across from me in the same clothing he had on the night he disappeared.  Yet here I was in a warm bookstore, Tobias sitting before me smiling, perhaps a dream that felt real.

Tobias leaned for and asked how my story was coming along and I told him about writing at the cemetery about a time I got upset with Daddy.  It was hot and I was only six years old and cropping that tobacco got too much for me, so I slipped away to the house, packed a small suitcase, and headed up the road with his dog.  Daddy found me walking the train tracks about two miles from the farm.

Tobias let out a long slow sigh and walked over to the bookshelves.  Books he said books hold the soul of the one that writes the story.  Some say books are just words forgotten on a dust shelf, but I knew he believed that they were all living books that let the stories always be there as a memory or perhaps a reminder.  In his presence time seemed to stop, the past, the future all living in this quiet moment.  I did notice that the clock on the wall never moved, and he had been here for what seemed like hours.

I took the book from his hand and saw my daddy’s name on the cover, running my hand over the letters I knew that it would be the past as my daddy saw it.  I sat down in the deep leather chair near the fireplace and opened the book and my daddy’s words filled the pages.

I put the book down and realized that everything I would write would find its way into a book with the point of view from whom I was writing about.  As I looked around the bookshelves I saw all of my family had a book along with aunts, uncles, grandparents, and even friends.  It was more than I could wrap my mind around.

Tobias said everything we do in life touches so many people, maybe even into infinity telling us the past and the future, they become living books that never get completed but create a never-ending chronicle of life.

I looked deeply into his eyes, and I saw heaven’s gate and I wondered if he might be an angel.  I told him goodbye, and I needed to drive away for now and absorb what I had seen, and I would be back.  He told me that I could return again but that I must keep writing in the book.

Our stories live within us and they touch everyone I have ever met and became part of their story as well.  For now, I would walk down the dirt road and ponder the past few days and hope that I could return to the Blue Birds Book Store.

Coming Next – Part Three

Walking In The Past