I may have mentioned my enjoyment of the BookLust website before, but the post today got me thinking about my own roots in books and my mom.
BookLust entry, “BilblioQueria 7”
My mother was a cartographer when I was growing up. There were maps and books and pens and T-squares everywhere. I didn’t realize that the number of books we had was unusual until I was old enough to have sleepovers and to wonder where the bedtime stories were. Here’s a story I once wrote about my mom.
The Cartographer
She is sitting hunched over and I can see the light of the drafting table reflecting in her glasses. She pulls a nib out of the circular tray and fastens it to the open end of the holder. The pen tip is wiped across a coarse paper cloth, down, twist, across, back, blotted. The lines are drawn, they give birth to rivers, streams, tributaries. The pen is reassembled with a thicker nib, the cloth scored a second time, black ink bleeding deep into the page. Boundaries are marked. She looks up and adjusts the lamp, leans back from the table, stretches her back and shoulders. She stands and walks to the window. It is dark outside and in the reflection of the glass she sees the drafting table, the lamp, the map. Careful.
She moves back towards the light. A drawer is pulled open. She shifts through page after page of Letraset. One in particular she looks for. The letters are then organized, rubbed out to stick on, marking, naming, displaying rivers, towns. A map. Last is the compass, angling towards the left. The top lefthand corner. N. North.
That is how I watched my mother make maps. Slouched, blotting, leaning, rubbing, signing.