Today I decided to finally relocate some of the books from the playroom where most of our bookcases dwell to bookshelf space in my everything room (you know the room I mean -- the tiny room that's perfect for a mini-office/retreat for mother and her stuff, but that ends up being the catch-all room for the family and their stuff). 

The 200+ Golden Books I had collected during the first 10 years or so of our older daughter's life are now safely nestled just under the Nancy Drew and the Dear America sets, on a small shelf tucked between my computer desk and my working desk.  Whenever I gaze at them I envision endless comfy couch time with my future grandchildren, should I be so blessed. 

Making the switch has opened up shelf space in the playroom for our growing collection of classics and contemporaries, where Moby Dick is neighbor to The Borrowers which is neighbor to Anne of Green Gables which is neighbor to A Series of Unfortunate Events and so on.  I do borrow books from the library religiously, but I occasionally fall prey to the desire to buy some and to build our own personal library.  There is great comfort in a few things in life -- among them are big mugs of steaming coffee, the sound of babies laughing, and of course, rows and rows of books standing at attention or reclining at ease just begging to be picked up and devoured.

When I think of my dream house (which, sadly, will only ever exist as a dream), there is a spacious room filled with sunny windows and overstuffed sofas surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookcases packed with all that is good and satisfying for the soul.  And on a shelf at just the right height sit some 200+ shiny-spined Golden Books of once upon a time, waiting patiently to be loved by the next generation of readers and listeners.