This morning I worked a two hour shift at the annual booksale for our local friends of the public library organization. I've volunteered my time for several years in appreciation for their generous donations to our district's media centers.
We lost electricity about a half hour into my time slot and it never did come back on. Everyone was using their cell phones to read book titles and we heard through the cell phone grape vine that a nearby church was struck by lightning, frying their sound system.
Despite the lack of light, I was able to browse the titles and was bemused, as I am every year at the titles that resurface every year: I'm OK, You're OK, My Mother, Myself, Lonesome Dove, Sea Biscuit. There is something vaguely depressing about these hundreds of books that are looking for new homes. Books that were purchased with high hopes and with any luck, were read and loved. But that now are just sad tomes displayed in boxes in the multipurpose room.
It feels a bit cruel to leave them behind.