When I was ten, my sister,
Six years my elder, moved in
With our grandfather to escape
To the city from our poor semi-rural
LA outpost and the family farm.
I’d join her on weekends,
And, in my wanderings in the city,
Discovered a soon to be
Favored bookstore only four
Miles away, a pleasant destination
For my Saturday urban walkabout,
West on Melrose from just east
Of Vermont, northward on Highland
To Hollywood Boulevard, two
Blocks east, Pickwick’s Books.
As far as I can remember, I’ve
Been bookish. In the supermarket,
My mother would park me at
The magazine racks near the entrance,
And, while somewhat parsimonious,
Befitting a depression baby abandoned as
A teen to an orphanage, she would
Indulge me a child’s book or comic,
Pleased with my literary curiosity
(I have a 1937 printing of
Pride and Prejudice gifted to her at
Fifteen by Anne Stein nee Jaffe,
A staff member of the orphanage).
The Golden Book bought at
At the market was a treasure.
Our local poor semi-rural
Library quickly bored me; and
Although my mother would
Take me to the grand LA downtown
Library, the distance, effort and
Inevitable irritating library fines
Dissuaded the endeavor. Perhaps
My sister took me first to Pickwick’s;
But I enjoy the thought that
I discovered the place on my
Urban peregrinations.
My urban Saturdays were planned:
Pickwick’s the destination. I ended up
In front of the Penguin book
Section, coveting the black covers
Of authors more sophisticated then
I could read. But counting on the
Day when they might be my
Companions. By time I was
Fifteen, my parents had sold
The farm; my high school
Was three blocks from Pickwick's.
The local library surpassed the
Poor semi-rural offerings, and changing
Days and urban settings introduced
New bookshops: political, hippie,
Spiritualist, Jewish, science fiction.
Each with its own order, offer, indeed,
Odor. Books have a scent that the
Kindle does not capture.
I’ve a list of bookstores that I
Frequented across the years. All,
All now gone. Each gave my mind and
Soul their own specific nourishment. Each
I recall with pleasure, and am sorry that, for
The most part, I could not introduce them to
My sons. The Pickwick building still
Stands, but the shop only a
Memory for a few on Hollywood
Boulevard; Cherokee Books was a block away,
Marlo’s down near Gower; Larry Edmunds is
Still there, but that wasn’t my interest.
I don't think it was a particular great
Bookstore, but, like a first love,
It is always recalled with affection.
Good night, Mr Pickwick,
Wherever you are.
