Ephemeraland

This weekend I finally made it over to a place that several people had urged me to check out: Reed Books, an emporium of used books (and so much else!) . And wow -- it was quite a sight indeed. The owner, Jim Reed, has about 6000 square feet crammed from floor to ceiling (literally) with old books, magazines, newspapers, comics, life-size cardboard cutouts, personal letters and postcards, posters, trinkets, novelty lighting, toys ("Mom, look! A Charlie Brown desk!" I heard a kid cry gleefully), and more. I was daunted at first: I didn't know where to focus, as I hadn't come there seeking anything in particular. So I just wandered around, thinking it'd be fun to come back many more times and while away several hours going through stuff. It's a collagist's goldmine, and the sort of place that really needs to be experienced firsthand.

The friend I was with was looking for books on love and marriage for an art project, and she came away with an incredible hodgepodge of a book from the 70s called The Compleat Lover, plus a little guide to marriage laws "in all 48 states." (There was a crazy 'find your ideal mate' survey in this thing that was Just Priceless.) I was amazed that she was able to find so precisely the kind of stuff she was looking for, but she noted that the books are more or less divided into subject, despite the jumbledness of the place overall.

It's clear that Reed believes passionately in the value of--for lack of a better descriptive right now--old stuff. People throw their lives, their families, the stuff of their histories away, he told me. Here's a way station for those things, a place to linger until somebody bestows upon them new value. A sign near his desk area (equally packed) bears a quote from Pulitzer Prize-winning biologist (and native Alabaman) Edmund O. Wilson: "A society defines itself not only by what it creates, but by what it refuses to destroy."

Sifting through a hillock of personal mail from the 40s, I agreed with Reed (and Wilson), though it's harder to place the value of a vending machine full of ancient, melted Mentos (one of the items of less obvious worth at Reed Books). I'll certainly make repeat visits--and if I can ever get a steady income going again, I may buy a small set of vintage post office boxes that he's got there (visible in the left-hand corner of the first photo above, along with the lid of my Starbucks cup). I've always wanted some of those!

The bad news is that Reed's about to lose his current space, which he's been in for 10 years (and which happens to be a very quick walk from our apartment). He's looking for a new one. I shudder to imagine moving all this stuff, but the first item of business--finding a new space--shouldn't be too difficult, I think, since there appear to be so many empty buildings around Birmingham. But Reed said that a lot of owners would rather just keep their properties empty than bother with tenants and rent collection. If that's the case, it's a shame. I don't know enough about real estate to comment further though, so that's where this post ends.

Reed Books. A first-rate Birmingham oddity!