Must Love Books

My husband is a bibliophile. Don't warn the neighbors...It means book lover....BOOK.
We had a small dryer fire earlier this spring and he knew the children were safe at school. The first words out of his mouth when I told him the fire trucks were there were, "Don't let them wet down my books! You will see me cry if they do that."
Each book is a treasure to him, a new adventure, a significant memory or a bread crumb of intellectual meandering. He is a thinker.
I was always told that we seek to marry people like our fathers. Soulishly John and my father favor; both kind, funny, strong. But I got my dad's sanguine back-slapping gene while my husband is more...prone to cry over damp books. Far from reclusive, he loves people. He just doesn't value the spotlight.
What he does value is life. So much that it overwhelms me. From the 28 cent goldfish from Wal Mart to the garden he strategically nurtures to his books, they all matter. I'm less concerned. If the fish kick off, big whoop. If the dog's pursuit of a robin means a shredded hosta, we can always replace it. I have taken my father's admonition about not sweating the small stuff to an outrageous degree.
We never lack for entertainment. I steal his new books before he is done and he wheels back in the driveway to reclaim his booty. I kidnap them, lose his place and write in them. I know I am a Barbarian in his pristine literary world. Pretty typical of our union; I scramble willy-nilly with arms flailing akimbo next to his perfectly-measured stride.
My Bibliophile is not perfect. Even now I can see glimpses of navy blue sock lint in his big toe and hear the sniffs from his allergies. But I am fascinated by the way he values life. And books.