When we left Toronto to come to Israel, my mom wasn't happy with the deal that she was offered by a book-trader, and we ended up packing and schlepping to here all the books -- about 27 cartons' worth. These have been piled up in my mom's various places of residents for the past 27 years, waiting for someone to "do something" about them. Other than once going through and making a list (pre computer time!) Nothing really got done.
With my mom gone, there was no reason not to finally find a solution. We had in a number of dealers, and have decided to go forth with an auctioneer. About 25 of the books have been deemed "very valuable." All the others will be taken and sold in lots.
For 27 years (I made Aliya in 1982), those books have been an albatross. I never looked at them, or had any interest in them, other than marveling at their age, their bindings, their size, and their bookworm designs. They took up space, both in my home and in my head.
Today they are going. At 1 PM today, the man is coming to box them up and cart them away. Other than one "Haggada shel Pesach," which was given to my father on his 2nd birthday, and which has an inscription by his father, my grandfather, Rabbi Shmuel Blum, of Emden, Germany, I will not see any of them again.
Why do I feel so lonely?
