The dust floated in the air as still as time itself. A thick and unfamiliar smell felt heavy in my nose; the thing that came to mind was leather. But there were only a few times that I had been near leather in its early form - before it had been used for something.
Stacks of paper and supplies stood like sentries, creating pathways to the bookbinder’s main tools: A huge cast-iron press with a beautiful walnut handle, which is rare now and costs close to $10,000; A guillotine paper cutter that had a counterweight weighing seventy-five lbs; and others that were only familiar to those familiar with the craft.
The bookbinder was short but carried a taller man’s presence. His forearms and hands were padded with the muscles of someone who enjoyed his craft, and his belly was padded with years of enjoying plenty of craft… beers. He wore a black cloth mask and wire-rimmed glasses. His gray hair was long and wispy. But what struck me first was the purity of his blue eyes - clear and knowing, respectfully holding our gaze as we asked questions he’s heard before.
As he led us through his workshop we came across a Reeses colored cat. Friendly and sage-like.
“She’s been hanging around more than usual,” the bookbinder said, “she’s an old gal and she just lost her last sibling. I think she enjoys the company.” The cat was at our side for the rest of the visit.
The walk to the second floor was a claustrophobic one. The ceilings were short - you had to duck if you were over 5’6”. Original calligraphy from the bookbinder and his friends hung from the wall. We were in his drafting room now which was lit by three floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end. Less crowded than his workshop, but there were still those sentry piles all around us. Years of discarded work that only meant something to him. But even without that meaning, you could feel the importance of the room; it hung as heavy in the air as the smell in the workshop.
He pointed to a few paper-wrapped packages on the desk.
“Those are two of your Opa’s most famous bindings.” He paused. “They are what inspired me to learn bookbinding.”
He unwrapped one and there was a simple black box. When he opened the box it revealed a book so beautiful it felt too important for the room. It was thickly bound in reddish-brown leather with a repeating grid pattern and ridges on the spine. Gold-leaf highlighted the details. He handed it to me and I didn’t want to take it. I felt unworthy and uncomfortable. I was afraid I’d either drop it or damage the book with my now-sweating hands, but I took it because my Opa’s hands had worked it, and it was the closest connection I’ve had to him in my life. The work was a masterpiece.
The second book was a lectionary, a book that contains a collection of scripture readings appointed for Christian or Judaic worship. I’m not religious but one could be forgiven for feeling that god itself would read from the book I was holding at that moment.
We talked for a bit about my Opa. The bookbinder we were visiting was one of his few apprentices and the way he talked about him made me feel proud to bear my last name. My dad filled in the blanks with a context only a son could have. I listened closely, and before long my dad said, “I bet you’re wondering why you’re here. I guess it’s time you found out.”
The bookbinder grabbed another black box. This one with an envelope on the top. The card was covered in a beautiful marble paper, and inside was the handwriting of practiced calligraphy. It honored our family and said he was proud to be able to work on what was in the box to connect the present to the past.
I opened the box and lost any words that I thought I’d have. It was a large book covered in dark leather, with a colorful design of lines and spirals that wrapped around from cover to cover, and met in the spine at a large red circle. The outside of the pages of the book had been painted with multiple colors that looked like a nebula you see pictures of in outer space.
And as I studied the spine closer, I noticed the title of my favorite book of all time, 11/22/63, stamped in the middle of the circle.
It was a custom 1 of 1 binding of a book that meant so much to me, crafted by the hands of someone who had meant so much to my Opa, originating from the idea of my dad - who wanted to show how much I mean to him.
I palmed the book over and over, unable to find the right words. I hoped my tears showed my gratitude.