Last June I wrote a post about Ray Bradbury after he'd slipped this mortal coil. It was about books and memories and the amazing influence this man had on me. It started with the stranger who, out of the blue, handed me a book, and told me after I read it to pass it on.
This morning I was catching up with my usual morning blog reads and Lynn, over at pbackwriter, had a post about ten things to do with unwanted books. One of the ten immediately caught my eye and I went to the site, BookCrossing, to check it out.
Now, I'm pretty sure this is one of those deals where everyone but me already knows about this, but imagine my total surprise to discover it's the exact same concept of the pass-it-along book club that I joined that day in Maui with a book that changed the course of my life.
BookCrossing is more organized than a strange guy handing a strange girl a book on a tropical island. There are bookplates that identify the book, and as it travels and is found then passed on again, people can go to the site and write about the book's journey to that point. I so totally love this. I love that people are doing it, that books are going around the world, from hand to hand, being read and shared.
No question, dear readers, that I wouldn't join. So I did. I'm going to make my own bookplates, then select a book and send it on its way. The hard part for me is that I live in such a very small town. How do I get my book out there? My only advantage is that it's nearly Summer and my hamlet is at a crossroads where many travelers stop to get gas, to eat, then head for Crater Lake and all points east, south to California, west to the Pacific Ocean, or north to Seattle, Canada, Alaska.
Obviously, I won't be leaving any books in a gas station, but I could maybe leave one inside a restaurant where folks sit whilst waiting for a table. Or maybe on a bench overlooking the river next to the Visitor's Center. The best place, to my mind, would be an airport, but that's out as there isn't one, nor are there any train or bus stations within 75 miles. Seriously people, the frigging middle of nowhere here.
Still. That will be my challenge: to find a good place to release my book into the wild. I can't wait to find out who will catch it...
It was time to renew my passport--and where did that 10 years go??--so I send in the paperwork and the money earlier in the month, along with a note advising the passport folks that the old one must be returned to me because it has all my UK documentation glued inside (See pages 9, 13, 23, etc.). I can't lose my permanent residency permit, nor do I want to lose all the stamps from my travels.
Yesterday, I get my little Priority Mail envelope. And what do you suppose?
Oh, I got my shiny new passport all right. But that's all I got. There was nothing else in the envelope. (And here's a funny, human thing: Clearly there is nothing else in that envelope, and yet I looked inside several times, even sticking my hand in--apparently in case my old passport had become invisible). Bottom line: no passport, no permits, no documents glued to See pages 9, 13, 23, etc.
It's somewhere around 7:30 in the evening. I didn't walk to the mailbox until it had marginally cooled down, though the humidity was still very high and the poor dogs were panting before we'd barely made it out of the driveway. My point being, it was too late to call the frigging Department of State.
Which leaves me with hours--many hours--to stew. I don't like stewing. I have a vivid imagination. My brain cooks in all those thick, negative juices, bubbling and frothing with worse-case scenarios. I haven't as yet decided what I'm going to do--in terms of returning to Scotland, or finding my place here in America--but having the option, the choice, suddenly in jeopardy?? Yikes. Talk about boiling cauldrons...
Enhance the calm, woman
Eventually I talk myself into settling down, getting a grip. Even if I've lost my passport with all my permits, I still have the other paperwork: letters from the British government, original documents, proof. It's all in a big folder, not conveniently located in my handy little carry-it-with-me passport, but still. I do have what I need.
First thing this morning, I call the DoS, expecting to be on hold for hours, assuming I can even connect to a real person. This is the government after all. Which just goes to show what I know. I get through straightaway, get a very nice guy to help me, and find out that they mail the old passport separately from the new; I should be receiving the second envelope within the next few weeks.
Total relief. I felt almost lightheaded, having options again. Regardless of what I decide to do in the end--and I could very well stay in the States--I wanted the freedom to make that choice.
And now I have it. Though I could have done without the bubbling and the frothing...
N.B. Just returned from the mailbox this evening. My old passport has arrived. Go figure.
