order prednisone After my previous book expedition, I still had seven boxes of books which had been purged from the Richmond Hill collection. These were the dregs of the dregs – the kind of books that are required in college courses, cost a great deal of money, are turned into new editions in a few years, and immediately lose all value. Some of them were Catholic books which had been required of my father in seminary, many others were physics textbooks or criminal justice textbooks and the like.
http://venturearchitecture.com/copy-of-lincoln-loft Some of them had some use but not for me: paperback English dictionaries or English grammar workbooks or Readers’ Digest condensed books (who reads those, I wonder?). I figured I would let someone who knows bad books do the final sorting.
So I found a charity that ships books to people who need them, mostly in the Third World. Their website indicated both caring and competence, but the nearest collection box was in Greenwich, Connecticut.
Even at this stage I realized that I was going to recapitulate the story of my encounter with wealth (Princeton, Saint David’s, Delbarton, etc.): wealthy society has certain virtues but you always have to make the journey to it. It will not come to you.
But Greenwich is not that far, and since I was going to my sister’s place in Putnam County anyway, I drove to Greenwich. I arrived at the Town Dump in the evening (where the book collection was located). It was closed and very locked. I thought about leaving the books at the gate, but I figured I might get arrested for dumping (you’re always on your guard in these fancy places) and what the heck, I’d come this far for these books’ sake, it wasn’t that hard to get there, I’d come back in the morning.
This I did. I got to see the Greenwich dump, and it was impressive. The place was humming with activity, despite it being a Wednesday midmorning. The road led through several enfenced areas for different forms of trash disposal, like a cow’s seven-chambered heart: recyclables, electronics, scrap, cellphones, Goodwill donations, “swapshop,” the works. It was all the intelligent stupidity that makes the wealthy in this country so repulsive and attractive: look at all the marvellous recycling they were doing! Look at how orderly and efficient they are! Even their dump is clean! And yet the main question is, why are they consuming all this junk in the first place? Recycling is like giving to charity: a virtuous cover for the terrible truth that some people have far too much while so many have nothing.
There was a little red shed with a small table outside it. The table had books stacked on it. I pulled the truck up there. A fine-looking older gentleman who looked like he had lived a life of comfort was there moving books around. I grabbed the first box of books and brought it to the table.
“You’ve got a nice little operation here,” I said. “I’ve just come up from New York City. I’ve been looking for a place where I can donate books, and I checked on the internet and found there was a collection spot here in Greenwich. And here you are.”
“I’m sorry this is for Greenwich residents only,” he said. How lovely to see that the residents of Greenwich had kept their ancestral charm.
“I can’t donate unless I’m a Greenwich resident?”
“Didn’t you see the sign?” He pointed to the gate of the dump complex, which had a sign warning off all non-Greenwich residents.
“I just want to donate books. I heard that there’s a charity operating here that sends books to places where they’re needed. Surely the people who receive them don’t insist the books come from Greenwich.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
I’ll confess that I crumple into a ball when I meet resistance, especially resistance in the form of stupid, impersonal rules which don’t seem to serve any good purpose.
“So you don’t want books.”
“Look, I’m not going to stand here dealing with this.”
Conversation was fruitless, so I walked back to my truck, pondering the situation. I saw the Goodwill station, which was separate from the book operation. A man was standing outside it talking on a cellphone. A mere glance showed he was nice. I walked up to him.
“Do you guys take books?” I asked.
“You see that red shed over there?” was the reply. His voice indicated that he might be slightly retarded. “That’s where books go.”
“Yeah, but that guy won’t take mine.”
“Okay, fine,” was the response. “We’ll take them.”
So I thanked him profusely, and gave him seven boxes of books.
So what threatened to end in frustration and waste was resolved happily, and the goal was achieved, but in a slightly different form. He who has ears to ear, let him ear.
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