Mr. Hereford's Books

I love books and I love to read, but it is more to it than that. My books are like old friends, accompanying me on the journeys of my life. I could not just leave them all at home when I went off to college, many of them joined me to share that experience as they had shared their stories with me. To get rid of my friends is unthinkable, which is why our small apartment is now so crowded. Someday, I hope to have a library, a room full of books shelved neatly on beautiful bookcases. But for now, we have six overflowing bookshelves of various sizes, with more books hidden away in boxes. But still, they are more important then space; they are old friends who followed me on many journeys, and I am sure, will come on many more. To give them away would be unthinkable. So when I witnessed Frank L. Hereford giving up a part of his carefully collected and much loved library, I knew something of what he felt.

Working as a student assistant at the University of Virginia, Special Collections Library in the summer of 1999 was one of my most amazing and valuable library experiences. The day of that summer that made the strongest impact on me was when an extra pair hands was needed to box up and carry away former President Hereford's collection of rare and beautiful books on game birds. They were only a small part of his library, but they were much loved, and he was sad to let them go. The librarian who came to oversee the packing of the collection, was in awe of the books, and poured over them in amazement. I do not know if he had seen them before, or if he was examining them for the first time. He spoke casually about which books the library would keep and which might be sold, as they were not so rare. Mr. Hereford looked on, and tried to talk about his books to whoever would listen. When he had acquired this one, how he had found another beyond all expectation, in an old bookshop. He wanted to hold each one, one last time, and tell their stories. He wanted to impart the extraordinary qualities of each and every one. But no one was listening. The librarian cared not for the man or his special relationship with his books. He cared only for the books, and the value they might add to his collection. It was clear the librarian was a man who loved books. But his love was too focused to see the pain of the man whose books he was taking. It was all I could do not to break down right there, in that old man's house, and start crying. Instead, I tried to listen as much as I could, as I packed his beloved books carefully in boxes and carted them out to the van.

I loved working in Special Collection, but it was that day that I knew, I could never be the one whose job it was to find people to give away their life's collections. I could not do that over and over. The way some people become doctors, but cannot work with sick children and watch them die again and again. I can never be the person who takes away someone's books. Never again to open their pages and smell the sweet smell that is different in each one; never again to touch their spines and remember their stories that go beyond the words printed inside. If I were him I would have cried when they were gone. Cried as much for the books, as for want of someone to tell their stories to. Cried to watch them leaving in the hands of someone who did not love them as I did.

I don't know if he visited his books in the library before he died. I don't know if he donated more of his books to Special Collections, and had to endure yet again, his friends being carried away like mere things, as he stood by and watched. If he did, I hope there was someone there who listened, or at least tried

Frank L. Hereford died on September 20, 2004. Just over five years after I helped carry his books away.