Some of my earliest memories include books. My mother read to us long before my brother and I began to read for ourselves. She loved afternoon naps. After lunch, the three of us would scramble into bed, each child with a head against her shoulder, so that we could see the pictures as she read. We all fell asleep with visions of animals and fairies and magical adventures.

I remember my first book, “Katie the Kitten,” a small tiger cat, and my brother’s, “Crispin’s Crispian,” the dog who belonged to himself. (Mother kept those books, and gave mine to me when I was an adult. Alas, now gone with the wind … and the water.)

My parents had a collection called The Harvard Classics. It was said that those volumes contained an entire college education. I decided to get a head start by reading them in grammar school. As it turned out, I was rather a one-dimensional child, and read only things that interested me.

I read Guy de Maupassant’s “The Necklace,” Edgar Allan Poe, and wonderful poetry. I never finished the 51 books. The Greek dramas were way over my head, as were the philosophers of any nationality. But I got great pleasure from the stories that I read.

When I was 11, we moved from Memphis to New Orleans and could not afford to ship the books. I will never forget seeing The Harvard Classics and many, many others, piled against the trash can in the back yard. The memory of that image makes me sad today.

In school I disliked most textbooks, except the one for reading. Math was especially traumatic for me, as well as any sort of science, but I loved the smell of a new book, no matter the content.

I taught my sister to read, when she was about age 4, using our brother’s first-grade readers. Victoria was a very smart child.

I remember going to the library during the summer. It was air-conditioned. Our house was not. The water in the drinking fountain was so icy that it hurt my teeth, and the chair cushions were cold against my bare legs. The library was an oasis in a season of sweltering heat and oppressive boredom. I remember moving into “chapter” books, a sign that I was very grown up.

All these memories came back to me this week when Chris and I attended Table Talk, a free seminar offered every Wednesday in April at our Columbus-Lowndes Public Library. This lecture was presented by Jessica Peterson. She is the owner of The Southern Letterpress, and she makes books.

These are exquisite little works of art, precious and rare. Some are journals made from the pages of old atlases. Some are original works of poetry or prose. Many are constructed of delicate handmade paper, with sketches or drawings for illustration. Holding each one-of-a-kind creation was like having a small bird flutter in your hand.

Jessica showed us how books are bound and gave us a bit of the history of printing. We got to (carefully) examine them, and I fell in love all over again. Like sunsets or rainbows, each is a surprise.

The Columbus-Lowndes Public Library is a little gem in our city. It offers not only the chance to read any book you desire (if it is not on their shelves, they will order it), but to also use computers, do research in our local history room, view art exhibits, and an opportunity to visit the charming and delightful Mother Goose. All of this is free.

I was so inspired by the idea of handmade art books! I cannot wait to peek into The Southern Letterpress and learn more about the magic of the printed word. Thank you, Jessica, and Friends of The Columbus-Lowndes Public Library. You are priceless to our community.

  Adele Elliott, a New Orleans native, moved to Columbus after Hurricane Katrina. Email reaches her at [email protected].

Adele Elliott, a New Orleans native, moved to Columbus after Hurricane Katrina.

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