Observations: "It's Always Sad When It Happens To Someone You Know"
It
started so innocently.
I mean, I used to be a writer. I knew the dangers of books and publishing lines. I understood that if you bought too many books, you not only didn't eat that night, but you might not be able to close the hallway door. I'd roomed with people who didn't grasp that distinction, and who spent their time moving from house to apartment to couch, carrying a box of clothes, a box of essential papers, a cat, and forty boxes of first editions. I'd seen firsthand the horrors of library benefits, estate auctions, and garage sales, and I'd watched people who were once good and close friends who were digging through the detritus at the local Goodwill store, desperately searching for the one volume that would make their lives complete. I used to be sympathetic, but later i became hard and cold about their decisions. I didn't tell them that they had to become hooked, did I? They made their decisions on their own.
And then I met Timber Press, and all my presumptions about the nature of addiction went straight to hell.
Were I the sort to judge based solely on the covers, Timber Press would
have been the girl next door who stopped by after lunch. Tall,
pretty without being overly focused solely on looks, and able to run
rings in conversation around a room full of Ph.Ds. In other
words, just like the woman I married. Strangely, while she says
that she doesn't have any problems with the other person in my life,
she sometimes lingers over the horticulture section of my library, and
I can't tell if she's glaring in silent jealousy or contemplating an
attempt at stealing my mistress from me. Sometimes, I suspect it's both.
It started nearly six years ago, when I was first exploring the world
of carnivorous plants. Even in these enlightened times, books on
carnivores were rare and precious, especially if they were accurate,
and I finally tracked down a couple of volumes that are still in my
library. From one fell a postcard asking if I wanted a catalog
from the publisher, and the name was one with which I was completely
unfamiliar. "Timber Press, huh? Well, I can spare a stamp
to find out, right?"
This is how the girl next door walked in, said hello, planted a kiss
that could snap a redwood in two, and did nasty, horrible, terrible
things to me over the rest of the decade. Either the Czarina is
going to leave me when she discovers the levels of my infidelity, or
she's planning to leave with her and let me take care of the credit
card bills. Either way, I can die secure that I'll never find any
better.
It started with exotica. I already knew the bare basics of bonsai and penjing,
the Chinese art of living scene arrangements. Timber Press set me
down the path to ruin by introducing me to Hon Non Bo, the Vietnamese
art of rock and plant seascapes. This wasn't a hack-and-slash
guide to how to crank one out in a weekend, like far too many
American-published bonsai books. Oh, no. This went into a
thumbnail guide of Vietnamese art history, since much of the technique
of Hon Non Bo is dependent upon understanding the whyhow. Another postcard and another catalog, and Timber Press knew that I'd go to the ends of the earth for another kiss.
(The Czarina just read the preceding over my shoulder, and chuckled
slightly, with hints of both passion and wistfulness. I fear that
I'm going to wake up alone tomorrow morning, with her clothes packed and my
library stripped. I knew that this could happen when I started
this affair, but I don't regret a thing.)
Then
it was back to the carnivores. Most books on carnivorous plants
go in one of two directions. Either the book is a simplistic
children's book that sensationalizes the fact that these plants eat
animals instead of the other way around, or it's a dry tome full of
charts on enzyme activity and habitat zones that tell precious little
about the plant and why it's important. Many good books
fill the gap, but it's not as if any particular publisher makes a habit
of serving the needs of the carnivore enthusiast community.
Timber Press, though, offered not just one book. She
offered three within the last
five years, full of essential information on cultivating obscure forms
that few humans had ever seen. One day, she's going to put out
the definitive guide to triggerplants, both Australian forms and the
other members of the genus Stylidium, and I'm just going to weep in admiration.
Oh,
and did I mention that she loves cooking? Walk into any used
bookstore, and you'll find the shelves creaking with guides on herb
gardens, and they're abandoned on the shelves for a reason. My
dear, sweet love shared with me her love of gustatorial delights, from
exotic herbs to the difference between blueberries and lingonberries.
Oh, she could tell sweet tales of Japanese maples, conifers, and
cycads, but all of that was secondary when my body was ravaged with
hunger, and she freely inspired all of the muses with one hint of
garlic and rosemary. This was about the time I introduced my new
love to the Czarina, who for once didn't scoff at the idea of someone
knowing more about fine cuisine than she.
And so it continues. The Czarina may become tolerant of my new mistress, and she may decide to steal her away for herself. Nobody ever said that horticultural reading had to be boring.
All book images herein © 2008 Timber Press Inc. These books may or may not still be in print at this time; refer to the main Timber Press site for more information.