THE NINETY-NINTH PAGE

So came the deluge from the Scholar’s Bookshelf, Amazon.com, Mysteries by Mail, Berlesmann.com, the Common Reader, Edward J. Hamilton, Bookseller; Barnes & Noble, and a dozen university presses--the authors of all those brochures that clog most mailboxes and make it no further from the post office than the recycling bin.

Tucked in amongst the deviled eggs at my picnic was the occasional Faberge of a private press book as oblivious to its new home as the commonest ex-library reading copy or book with remainder mark sullying the edge.

Most of that day was spent opening the parcels. Too many contained a single book. The rest of the week, wholly without exaggeration, was employed in trying to find new places for old books.

My new scheme of sparseness and the casting off of worldly goods was proving a life saver. I had evolved into a casserole kind of guy, so I was able to remove a goodly number of kitchen implements and superfluous foodstuffs.

I’d not given the bathrooms serious thought until it occurred to me that I never used the old-fashioned downstairs tub. A sheet of plywood, nicely sanded, smoothly painted, and placed over the tub, could provide an entirely new and tidy storage area for books. What had I been thinking all those earlier years?