[dropcap]I[/dropcap]n a time when the fashionable thing to do is to have everything in one’s house bright and white, I must confess that I simply cannot let go of my style, which I like to call library chic. This is code for loves books more than decorating. I know that some people are able to pull off a fusion of old books and the new style, but the truth is I think there is nothing like rich, dark wood when it comes to a large collection of books.
Sometimes I fret over decorating my house. I’ve never had a big budget for it, I’m not very talented at it, and I tend to get lost in the thousands of other things I find more interesting to think about.
But there was one thing that was haunting me this past year.
At the very beginning of the school year, my beloved copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress tumbled from its place on top of the piano to the floor, where the binding tore. I was horrified! This was a reproduction of the original that was just gorgeous; Si’s mom had given it to us for Christmas almost a decade before. It was a delight to read from it once or twice a week, and the next time I took it down, the tear grieved me all over again.
Thus the idea of bookends first entered my mind.
Every once in a while I would shop for bookends. I hadn’t seen anything I liked in town, so I searched online as well.
I wanted something substantial — heavy enough to keep my books in their proper places. I like to the display my leatherbound collection, the one which Si has slowly gifted me with over the years, without fear.
So I shopped and I browsed, I hemmed and I hawed. I debated over this one and that one and wondered if it was silly of me to spend my birthday money on decor when, naturally, I could use the same budget to buy more books.
And then I saw them.
They were iron but partly covered in gold leaf. They were heavy, yet playful. They reminded me of my children. They made me happy.
And so I bought them.
And here they are:
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