I have a very complicated relationship with books.
Growing up, we don’t have cable, so every night the whole family piles into my twin brother’s room. While my mom knits, my father, the biggest reader I know, reads aloud to the family for hours on end. We like series about wizards—J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter, the Discworld novels by Sir Terry Pratchett, and tales set in J.R.R. Tolkien’s Middle-earth. After The Hobbit, my dad goes straight into the Lord of the Rings trilogy and finishes reading the final installment to us right as I enter the first grade.
I love the stories that books contain, but learning to read them… it’s a struggle. An intense struggle.
We live on picturesque Bainbridge Island, a thirty-minute ferry ride from the city of Seattle. I love where I live and I love my school, but neither is equipped to deal with students who have learning difficulties. My mom turns into an absolute warrior advocate for me. She takes me to see all sorts of specialists.
My difficulty, I’m finally told, has a name. Dyslexia. When it comes to reading and writing, my brain has a difficult time deciphering letters and putting them into the correct order, which is why the words always look so confusing to me. It’s not until almost the start of fourth grade that, with the help of a tutor, I finally learn to read.
Instead of making me recoil from books, my struggle with dyslexia ignites a passion in me for reading.
Instead of making me recoil from books, my struggle with dyslexia ignites a passion in me for reading.
My parents take me to Eagle Harbor Book Company. The midsize bookstore is on Main Street, right near the ferry, and gets a lot of foot traffic. I buy a Step into Reading book about Helen Keller. I read it a million times. Same with Mary Pope Osborne’s Magic Tree House series. I fall in love with Peggy Parish’s Amelia Bedelia books.
It’s a beautiful thing. For my parents, reading is like breathing. Our home is covered in books. Mom and Dad are constantly talking about what they’re reading. To be able to join in on these conversations makes me feel like I’m truly a part of the family.
In May 2020, I graduate with a Master’s degree in history from the College of Charleston, in South Carolina. Earning my Master’s is a huge, personal victory for me, especially because of my dyslexia.
Knowing I’m going to spend the next six months working on PhD applications, I decide to pack up and drive alone across the country to live back at home in Washington with my parents.
The last time I was home, over Christmas break, my father and I stopped in at Eagle Harbor Book Company. As I followed my dad down the aisles, I remembered all the midnight premieres I attended here for the new Harry Potter and Twilight books.
“So, Cappy, read anything good lately?” my dad asked me.
“For pleasure?” I scoffed. What with college and grad school, it had been at least five years since I’d had time to read for fun. “I feel like I can’t even connect to books anymore.”
“Well, if you could read something for pleasure, what would it be?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I really want to read more books by female authors.”
“Okay,” he said as we wandered down the science fiction section. He stopped at a shelf and plucked out a book. “Take this,” he said, handing me a collection of short stories by Ursula K. Le Guin. She’s won all sorts of impressive awards, from a Newbery Honor to the National Book Foundation’s Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters.
The book was life-changing. Le Guin quickly becomes my favorite author.
“Okay,” my dad says, “the next person you need to read is Octavia Butler.”
Butler becomes my second-favorite author.
It’s no coincidence, I think, that Le Guin and Butler both lived nearby in the Pacific Northwest. There’s something magical here. Something that really sparks creativity and beauty. It’s just so special.
“Okay, Dad, now I want to read more nonfiction written by women.”
“I have just the person. Joan Didion.”
He goes to Eagle Harbor Books and buys me a beautiful copy of Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem. One night after dinner, my mom’s best friend texts me.
“OMG Eagle Harbor Books is hiring. You would be PERFECT.”
I get the application that night and bring it into the store the next day. I start work two days later.
To work in a bookstore, you have to know so much—the range of subjects and categories that indicate where on the shelf each book belongs, the content of the inventory.
An older woman tells me her grandchild has come out as nonbinary, and she’s really frustrated that so many people are misgendering her grandkid.
“We have this really great graphic novel about they/them pronouns,” I say.
I show her the book. She buys ten copies so she can hand them out to everyone.
Another customer comes in, a woman looking for a title I don’t recognize. I look it up and see that the book was published about twenty years ago.
“Can you order it for me?” the woman asks.
“I’m afraid I can’t, because it’s out of print.”
“I don’t understand,” she says. “Everyone is reading it. I saw Bill O’Reilly interview the author on an episode of The O’Reilly
Factor.”
Presumably a rerun, as I know that show has been off the air for some time. Still, I do my best to help the customer find what she’s looking for. “What’s the book about?”
“It’s by a woman who says the CIA brainwashed her.”
I dig a little deeper. The book is a self-published memoir that delves into political conspiracy theories. It’s not available through regular retail channels, but it’s out there online, given the accessibility of self-publishing, the internet, and social media.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t have a computer,” the woman says.
I take a deep breath. “I feel an obligation to tell you that I don’t believe the information in this book is very sound. But let’s come up with a plan. If you really want this book, my suggestion is to go to the library. You can use one of their computers to go online and look for it.”
The woman sticks out her hand. “Okay. You’ve been very helpful. What’s your name?”
“Carolyn Ann Parham Yarbrough, but everyone calls me Cappy.”
“I really appreciate you taking the time to explain this to me, and for treating me with respect.”
I do go the extra mile to treat people with respect. It’s not always a two-way street. Some customers get confrontational if we don’t have certain books on hand, even if they’re not interested in buying them. They just want to see them on the shelf.
I am very levelheaded about my buying choices. I know what my customers want, and what sells well and what doesn’t, so I’m not going to apologize for it. And I will help anyone, even though people don’t always appreciate the effort and the labor that goes into it.
A good number of customers don’t seem to understand that at the end of the day, we’re a small, locally owned business. We don’t have a warehouse manned by robots. Customers are confused—and sometimes downright angry—that a book they ordered the night before isn’t ready to be picked up first thing in the morning.
When January arrives, I’m told I’ll be buying books for the kids’ department.
The bookstore is a safe space for kids to learn life-related skills, coming on their own after school, counting out change for their purchases, or asking booksellers for a certain title.
Sometimes they’re disappointed to learn that a particular book is not in stock.
“I’ll have to order it,” I say. “It will be here in two days.”
It’s a hard lesson for some kids, especially when so many material wishes are now granted in an instant. On the flip side, some kids have the patience to wait months for Tui T. Sutherland’s new Wings of Fire book or another big release, and they get so excited they’re hyperventilating, crying, or freaking out when the book finally comes in.
Customers are confused—and sometimes downright angry—that a book they ordered the night before isn’t ready to be picked up first thing in the morning.
A grandmother visits with her grandson. “He’s seven,” she says to me. “We’ve been reading a lot of books. I’ve been reading aloud to him, and I’m hoping for some recommendations for some new books.”
I smile. “We can definitely do that.” I look to the boy and say, “Well, my friend, tell me what you like. Do you like fantasy books or do you like books that are more realistic, stories that could happen in real life?”
Without missing a beat, the seven-year-old looks at me and says, “I like realistic fiction with an emotional twist.”
His grandmother nods. “Yeah, he does.”
“Well, my friends,” I say, “the good news is we definitely have that. Let’s go find you some.” And they leave with four new books.
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The Secret Lives of Booksellers and Librarians is available via Little, Brown.
