parent stories

hen my family moved to Madagascar when I was little, we sent our belongings in a shipping container. It arrived a few months after we did, with lots of boxes of books. Since books weren’t readily available in the country, let alone in English, this was basically what we had to go on for the next decade. In time, I read most of our stock—all the children’s books, and then I started on my parents’ books. Dad’s military history and theology. Mum’s classic novels. The fact that I was reading Solzhenitsyn’saged about eleven is a decent indicator of how short of reading material I had become. Of course, it did me no harm at all to read beyond the children’s section so early. I learnt the power of words, what. They are mainly book-sharing boxes by people’s homes, often designed to look like miniature buildings. There are over 125,000 of them around the world, in over a hundred countries. It took me a few years to get around to setting one up myself. What prompted me to get on with it was the lockdown in 2020, when actual libraries and bookshops closed. I created a ‘little lockdown library’ on the driveway for the benefit of friends and neighbours. The first iteration was in a little wooden cabinet. It lasted a few weeks before someone stole it, cabinet included. Version two was in bread crates, with friendly signs about maybe not stealing it. I had to remember to run out and bring it in if it started to rain. After that I paused to build something more permanent. The latest version is made from scrap wood found in the fly-tipped alley behind my house, and leftover felt from when the roof blew off my neighbour’s shed. It’s custom-built and weather-proof, with a base full of bricks to thwart anyone tempted to heft it into a passing car. I’m sure someone will give it a kicking at some point, and we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.