I took my first bookbinding class today. I’ve had this in the back of my mind for a long time. We used to make books in elementary school; for years, I made my parents a book every Christmas. But I started wanting a little more refinement in my bindings, a little polish to my technique. Then I got caught up in the thrills and spills of work and family. But I’ve thought with regret how few people have anything I’ve made. Things I’ve written, yes–and that’s a kind of making. But I watch TV cuddled under the afghan my grandmother knitted for me, after looking up words in the books supported on the dictionary stand my grandfather made for her. My father made my jewelry box, the beautiful black walnut and barrel stave table where I stack my reading (and glass of wine) in progress, the candelabra that illuminates our New Year’s Eve. My mother sewed the apron I wear whenever I cook, she knit my stocking, my children sleep under blankets she made for them, and the cupboard is full (temporarily–it never lasts) of her wild plum jam.
It was time I started making things again, too. Things to hold words, yes, but there was sewing involved, cutting, precision, guesswork, terminology, tools. Right off the bat, we learned to make a mini-notebook, and then we were given information and tips to fill it up.
I think I’ll do more of this. These may not be books for the ages. I’m not promising anyone gifts in advance. But I liked the feel of the waxed linen thread, the bone folder’s glide.