Fahrenheit’s Books, Denver, Colorado
I think I can say with complete certainty that my mother enjoyed nothing more than a good book. There’s an indelible image in my mind of her lounging on the sofa reading with our dog Brandy resting his head on her ankle, warming her feet as she would say. So in honor of all book-loving mothers, I’m posting the following story.
What looked like a Shepherd Samoan mix greeted us with a lick, followed by a friendly nod from the tall, thin, longhaired, bearded proprietor. A vinyl record spinning on a turntable behind the counter flavored the bookshop with 1950s jazz, and the scent of patchouli floated in the air. There were so many books that stacks of books sat piled in front of packed bookshelves, all of them used. I knew without a doubt that a fine treasure awaited me. The words that came to mind: how in the presence of this crazy world does this loveliness manage to exist?
My usual minimalist attitude immediately turned to treasure hunter, and my next thought: where are the beats, everything cool, poetry or prose? It must be close. Donna and I roamed the shelves and let the organized randomness seep under our skin. And it scratched an itch I didn’t know I had, the acceptance of beauty in the imperfect and incomplete, and the desire for a bookshop built for discovery.