Lament

Twenty years ago, when I lived in Tucson, Arizona, I enjoyed shopping at a small, neighborhood bookstore called Books Brothers. I became friends with the owners, and could talk with them about their current recommendation or anything else that popped into my hollow little head.

However, the number of independently owned bookstores has fallen in the U.S. from 4,000 in 1990 to less than 2,000 in 2007. (http://articles.sfgate.com/2007-06-17/business/17250973_1_number-of-independent-booksellers-diesel-cody-s-books) Although I can't vouch for the accuracy of the reporter's data, personal perception supports such figures. In the neighborhood just north of the Atlanta area where I live now, we have only one bookstore, and that one a mega-store, and although I can talk to the staff, they obviously have little personal stake in the store itself.

Embarrassingly, I find myself part of the problem ... if problem it is. My first impulse in book hunting is to use the county library. That resource has felt the sting of declining government revenues, so I want to do all I can to support them. If I can't find a book I want at the library, though, and feel like splurging, I use the Internet to track down the volume. I don't buy on-line, though; I would rather walk into a brick-and-mortar shop, and talk with flesh-and-blood people. I want to ask a human being if he or she has read the book. I want to put my physical sawbucks into an outstretched hand. I want to support someone in his or her efforts to keep food on the table. (Of course, even buying on-line puts food on somebody's table.) I can foresee a time, though, when I may not have that option, and that makes me blue.