Kindred Spirits, Unlikely Friendships

     When I lived in Houston, one of my favorite places to go on my weekly day off was an antiquarian book shop called Detering Book Gallery. In those days it occupied an old two-story house on the corner of Bissonett and Greenbriar, and was the kind of cozy refuge, with its dark wood and worn oriental rugs, that provided just the right sort of comfort, whether on a cold rainy day or a searingly hot and humid one. I loved wandering through the various rooms on the ground floor, the children's section tucked underneath the back staircase, and the rare book room upstairs which was presided over by an affable, mustachioed gentleman named Oscar. I almost always came away from Detering with some hard-to-find treasure or other, usually a novel by one of the neglected British women authors for whom I have a predilection, or an old play whose film adaptation I loved.

     After a while, I began to notice that many of my purchases had something in common: the name "Mildred Robertson" on the flyleaf, or Mildred's bookplate on the front pastedown. This Mildred and I seemed to share the same taste in books; more particularly, a love for English women authors of the mid-twentieth century, as well as theater. The books themselves were of earlier printings, some first editions, all in wonderful condition. Best of all, dear Mildred had the delightfully meticulous habit of placing inside them clippings of pertinent articles and reviews from various newspapers and literary journals. Inside my copy of Elizabeth Bowen's A World of Love, for example, I found a wonderful review of the novel, along with a retrospective of Bowen's work from the London Times Literary Supplement. In my 1929 edition of Philip Barry's play Holiday are reviews of a 1987 West End production starring Mary Steenburgen and Malcolm Macdowell. Bless Mildred's archivist heart!

     One of the clerks at Detering told me they acquired Mildred's library after her death in Galveston, but he couldn't tell me anything more about her. I Googled her, but didn't find out much beyond her being a longtime resident of Galveston. No matter. I have a kinship with her through the books we both loved. I feel privileged to own a part of the library she had discriminatingly acquired over so many years. Her books still grace my shelves, and whenever I take one down to read again, I feel as if Mildred and I are settling down to hold our own private book club meeting for two, over a nice hot pot of tea and a plate of buttery scones—in Texas. We both know very well the power words have to transport one to places one longs to be. And I know that Mildred would thank, as do I, Detering Book Gallery and all those wonderful antiquarian bookstores—that sadly dying breed—for bringing about unlikely and enduring friendships such as ours.

Since posting this, my sister Celia found more information regarding Mildred Robertson and what became of her papers and correspondence. Thanks, Cel!