Bookmarks

Bookmarks help me keep my life in place. These rectangular shaped reminders of where I left off have become so numerous that they would fill a book. Up until recently I have treated them rather shabbily. They clutter up the bottom of desk drawers and lay strewn among books on shelves. But I have become aware that these pieces of parchment not only show me where I was, but who I was.

Currently I have 12 (possibly more) bookmarks employed full-time holding back story-lines, staying essays, guarding style-guides, keeping classics company and chaperoning children’s literature. I need these wardens so the words don’t get away and leave me confused and alone.

I maintain a large inventory so I can choose just the right one to match a particular book. Recognizing that just out about anything can be used to mark a page (including folding a corner over) I have resisted using meaningless scraps of paper. My newest acquisition was given to me by my son Nathan. He bought this handmade artwork at a small shop in the Chinatown district of San Francisco.

One bookmark that I use from time to time was my mother’s. It was given to her by her sister who had lived in Japan as a missionary for several years. It is a thin, silk ribbon with a hand-painted mountain and some Japanese writing decorating it. I must have it translated someday soon.

Another one that belonged to my mother I found when I opened up her copy of “Angela’s Ashes,” by Frank McCourt. This book recalled the author’s unhappy childhood in Ireland. Mom had cut out a poem from a greeting card (presumably received on her and dad’s wedding anniversary):

“There must be special happiness within your hearts today
As you remember all the good things life has brought your way.”

I wonder if Mr. McCourt would appreciate the irony.

A few years ago I purchased a book from Peter Rennebohm, an author, who had a table set up at a mall. He had written a book titled “Buried Lies.” It’s a mystery set around a golf course. I gave the book to my uncle, but I kept the bookmark. I use it in my copy of “How now shall we live?” by Chuck Colson. Mr. Colson, a born-again Christian, had worked in the Nixon administration and had went to prison for his involvement with the Watergate cover-up. I guess not all lies stay buried.

I am nearly finished reading “1984,” by George Orwell. I bought this paperback at Half-priced Books in St. Paul. In the middle of the book was a tattered marker from the Hall of Cards and Books book store in Michigan City, Ind. I suppose the government will shut these stores down soon for selling propaganda.

My wife Rhonda has made me several bookmarks over the years. Some were meant to inspire my writing. More recently she and our daughter Jennifer made some for the wedding guests. They have a picture of the happy couple on one side and a Bible verse on the other. They were available in several different styles. Each of the bookmarks has a thread (handed down from Rhonda’s great-grandmother) looped through the top.

Last Saturday I got a reminder of how important a good bookmark is. Sitting inside during the rain I opened up “The Dog Says How,” a book of essays by local author Kevin Kling. This book had lain patiently waiting on the shelf for several months. But I was able to pick up right where I left off because there of a bookmark made by my daughter when she was quite young. Framed between the crayon-colored rainbow on top and the green/brown tree on the bottom “Happy father’s day” was printed in purple. On the back it was properly labeled.

To: Dad (so I could know it was meant for me).
From: Jennifer (so I would never forget who made it).

I’ll treasure these bookmarks always because they help me find my place.