If not, there should be. On our road trips, we happen across books in all sorts of out of the way places-without planning to find a bookshop, or used bookstore. When we pass by a sign that declares–used books, we brake, as safely as possible, and turn right around if necessary. Sometimes we are horribly disappointed–the shop is closed. Little garage stores, or hole in the walls don’t have regular hours, and even if they do, our cruising along the road can be from 6 a.m. to midnight–we are oblivious to time. Once in leaving The Road Kill Cafe, on the way to The Pencil Sharpener Museum, we rounded a curve and there was a white outbuilding with a nice sign. We stopped, it looked deserted, but we tried the door
anyway. And we saw books–rows and rows of lovely printed things. A middle aged gentleman joined us, we chatted, and found some wonderful tomes to add to our collection, as well as for fun and reading. We were just in time, he would have closed and locked the door if we’d been any later. His place was more of a storage area, less of a shop, but weaving through white washed church filled roads in New England, a small tasteful sign designated that within this private home, there was also an antiquarian bookman. Sometimes private homes make me nervous, the feeling is too personal and I’m afraid not to buy something, for fear of offending the homeowner. That of course, is completely silly, but it’s my hang-up. My husband has no such trepidation, and sallies forth, eagerly assessing the shelves of neatly alphabetized titles within. We had a terrific time. Half the pleasure of road trips are meeting fascinating individuals along the way. Booksellers without exception, fall into that category.
