Week Eleven: Get Lost in a Secondhand Bookstore

The reading of all good books is like conversation with the finest (people) of the past centuries.
– Descartes

When the rest of the world is on fire, I can step across the threshold of Hannelore Headley Old & Fine Books and be instantly transported to a much simpler time.

I somehow find myself in the unbelievable position of reflecting on COVID-19, the global pandemic we are currently stumbling our way through. In the span of a week, North Americans went from “everything is fine” to border restrictions, school closures, work-from-home and “social distancing” policies, and an international toilet paper shortage (thank you for that, panic-buyers). People all around the world are staring in disbelief at the rising infection rate while mentally and physically preparing themselves to stay indoors and “self isolate” for the foreseeable future.

I went back and forth on whether I should write about this at all. All things considered, a pandemic is a decidedly unhappy thing and maybe the novel coronavirus isn’t exactly on-brand for me right now… (Excellent material for all you science fiction writers out there, though). However, much like my very poorly-timed flu (I swear, I don’t have the coronavirus!) things in life don’t always go the way you plan. On paper, some of my 52 weeks are going to be amazing, enlightening, and life changing. Some of them are going to be awful. I can’t stop the pandemic from affecting me, but I can choose to find the small pieces of properly sanitized happiness and focus on those instead.

This week, I took some time off one afternoon to visit my favourite secondhand bookstore, “Hannelore Headley Old & Fine Books”. If I had to describe Hannelore’s using only two words, I’d have to go with “calm chaos”. The shop is set up in a converted old house with each room and stairway marking the beginning of a new and precariously-piled adventure. The floors creak with every step, the late-afternoon sun hits the cracked spines, illuminating meandering clouds of dust. There are usually two or three people milling about the first floor, chatting amicably with the friendly staff. Up on the second floor, it is almost completely silent, save for the muffled sound of the street below and the slow turn of a page.

Hannelore Headley, the shop’s namesake, escaped the Holocaust in Germany, joined a family book business in Shanghai, and eventually settled in Niagara in 1968 with her husband, a math professor at the university. Her life, wrote Don Fraser in the St. Catharines Standard, was “literally the stuff books are made of”. It seems fitting then, that her name is immortalized on the walls and in the pages of the whimsical little book shop in the heart of St. Catharines, patiently awaiting the next adventure.

It is truly a joy to get lost in such a place, so this week I decided to write a letter to Hannelore Headley, thanking her for pages of happiness.

Dear Hannelore,

You and I never met (you died two years before I moved to Niagara) but many people I know have shared stories of your kindness, curiosity, and humour. To me, your shop has always felt like a home for abandoned and forgotten stories. No matter where they come from, all books have a place in your heart and on your shelf. I say shelf, but you likely ran out of proper shelves many years ago. It still amazes me, every time I visit, how many new towers have popped up in unexpected places.

I opened the door on Thursday afternoon to find a surprising number of people gathered on the first floor. I thought I might have caught you at a busy time, but all of the people there seemed to know each other. They gathered between the shelves to talk about their days, to share their news, and to simply be with one another. As I cautiously approached the group to ask a question (where would I find the Agatha Christie section?) I felt at first like I was intruding on a private moment. Of course, the wonderful woman behind the desk smiled at me, said “of course,” and led me to the Mystery section in the back, pointing up to a very tall shelf I hadn’t noticed. She very thoughtfully went and found a step stool for me to climb on, so I could “see the books better”.

You don’t know this about me, Hannelore, but when I was very young, my mother and I used to listen to “books on tape” of Agatha Christie’s murder mysteries, mostly Hercule Poirot. I still remember the very first one I listened to: Murder in the Mews. When we discovered David Suchet’s brilliant portrayal of the fastidious Belgian detective, we spent the years until she died borrowing the VHS tapes over and over. One day when we were in the library, I asked Mum what her favourite Agatha Christie book was, as I had never actually read one (I was about eleven at the time). She said to me “okay, my favourite is The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, but you really shouldn’t start with that one. It’s not like any of her others.” Being the kid that I was, I marched over to the shelf and immediately found and borrowed the book. I think that part of me wanted to rebel by doing something I was explicitly told not to, but an even stronger part of me wanted to be like her. I wanted to like what she liked. And sure enough, I did. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd became my favourite Christie book, a love further solidified after Mum died and I borrowed (and accidentally kept) my aunt’s copy.

Shortly after I met my husband, he brought me to you. You see, he loves your shop and he wanted to show me why. While I think you were in the hospital at the time, I could feel your spirit in every room as he told me stories about your life and the impact that your walls of books made on him. It’s the same impact that I felt on Thursday, as I climbed onto the step stool and slowly scanned the shelf for Mr. Ackroyd. You see, Hannelore, when I first visited your shop, I hadn’t thought of him in a long time. We happened to visit the Mystery section in the back and I pointed to a copy, telling my husband that it was my favourite. Then I told him why. You had at least six different editions of Ackroyd and it was my husband, in that moment, who suggested that I start a small collection. In the years since then, I have gone in and out of secondhand book stores looking for different editions to add to my collection. The first copy I have is from my aunt’s library, the second is from you. When I scanned the top shelf on Thursday, my heart stopped; you had one last copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. I took it in my hands and smiled. I have found Roger in many places; in the homes of loved ones, in your shop, and along the Seine in Paris (after two days of searching the river-side book stalls, I found two French editions). Thank you, Hannelore.

After securing my copy of Mr. Ackroyd, I slowly started to walk around your shop; into every room and converted old closet, running my fingers across the hundreds of spines, and letting the stories speak to me. I walked up to the top floor, back to the large and beautifully lit section by the window. The History section was one of the first we explored, back in 2013, and the one I returned to numerous times over the years. I even poured over your shelves when I was finishing my Master’s thesis, collecting books on Atilla the Hun and the Roman Empire.

I felt a sense of peace walking where you walked, touching books you lovingly brought into your shop. I don’t visit often enough, but when I do, I always feel welcome. You created a beautiful place in our town and for this we are incredibly grateful. When I walk or drive by your shop, I feel happy. When I walk in your doors, even when I don’t buy anything, I feel calm. All is well with the world when there are books at Hannelore’s.

Love,
Laura