Lessons of romance via books

A post-Valentine's Day confession: Whenever dating girls in my premarriage days, I always snooped among their bookshelves.

Their reading selection - or lack of it - was a good indication if I should call for another date.

But I didn't look at titles, though a bevy of literary classics certainly scored more points than paperback romances and vampire short story collections. No, I was examining her relationship with books.

• • •

Shortly before entering grade school, I came down with an illness that left me hospitalized for two weeks and forced me to take penicillin daily for the next three years. To keep healthy, outside play during winter was forbidden.

So after school lunch each day, I'd trudge back to the classroom and stare out the window at my friends building snowmen, playing games of tag as they skidded along the ice, laughing as they stuck out their tongues and caught falling snow.

One day as glancing at the clock to see how much time was left of this torture, my eyes caught the great array of books lining the back wall. They'd always been there - for some reason, I'd just never noticed the possibilities they offered.

To get my mind off the kids outside, I walked to the back of the classroom and browsed the titles. There were books about dino-saurs, about being an astronaut, about winning the Indy 500, about how my favorite football team won the first Super Bowl. I pulled a volume from the shelf.

That day I discovered you are never truly alone when you have a book in your hands.

• • •

The best thing about dating a reader is you always have something to talk about. There never are any awkward quiet moments; you simply open conversations by saying "So, what are you reading these days?"

That, however, is when it gets tricky.

In my freshman year of college, during a first date with a girl named Shelly, she told me about her latest read, Charles Dickens' "Great Expectations." With each passing word, her face and gestures grew increasingly animated, and her angelic voice took me away like a sweet lullaby.

"Have you ever read Dickens?" she said suddenly.

I thought of the excerpts a doddering old professor had forced on my class that semester before and nodded.

"What did you think of him?"

"Well, he was a little long-winded," I said. "His descriptions seemed awfully verbose and not to lead anywhere."

Shelly's eyes widened. She crumpled her napkin, tossed it on her plate and harrumphed.

That night I discovered criticizing a book someone loves is a lot like spitting on her baby.

• • •

A true lover of books knows there is much more to the enjoyment of reading than a good author.

No, there also is atmosphere.

Little else rivals the comfort of reading a book while nestled in a cozy chair on a rainy evening. A little Col-trane plays softly on the stereo while a cup of coffee lets off steam on the end table.

Then there is that beautiful sound of pages turning, like water lapping against a shore as you and your be-loved walk hand-in-hand in-to the sunset.

• • •

I remember parking out on a lover's lane with Lauren. Silver moonlight bathed the cornfield in the valley below with silver. Our hearts beat fast as we snuggled. Earlier that school year she'd broken up with her long-time boyfriend who'd been cheating on her. But she was still lovesick for him.

Then Lauren pulled away, said we couldn't see each other anymore. She was going back to him.

Getting over her wasn't too difficult. Lauren didn't have much time for books.

• • •

Some who possess books are not readers. This pretension reminds me of the wealthy who collect tomes to appear well-educated.

So when scanning my date's bookshelves, I'd always quickly note which were half-pulled out from recent use. Others were too long and stuck over the shelf's edge; how she arranged them and how bookends were utilized - as decoration or for their actual purpose of keeping books standing in a straight row - told me how she organized other aspects of her life.

Melissa alphabetized her books by subject and then by the author's last name. Her Day Runner was just as meticulous. Beth's tomes lay scattered around the living room, most of them half-opened. She usually withdrew from a couple of classes every semester.

But no matter how the volumes were kept, there always was a great affection in my heart for the girl who chose an apartment in part because of the space available for her bookshelves.

• • •

For those who love to read, books are old traveling companions. If my date bothered to use a bookplate, what was written on it told scores; it was as if that girl's best friend had whispered to me some secret about her.

Always of special interest were which pages she'd dog-eared or left small white tatterings to mark special passages that had given her pause. It told me something of what she was thinking.

One day about 11 years ago, I peeked a look at such a passage marked with a shred of paper as she finished fixing her hair. Turning to the page, I found these words underlined: "Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come. She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue."

As her footfalls left the bathroom, I quickly shut the book and slipped it back on the shelf. But I knew that girl was a keeper.

This August, we'll have been married 13 years.

(originally published Feb. 17, 2003)