"...More in the Letting Go than in the Loving"

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(That's a line from one of my old poems, for all you fans!)
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Today I sold (online) my only copy of Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess. In the 1970's, how I studied this book, and how many times I fell asleep over its cryptic mazes! When I worked in the space program, all the guys were enamored of Bobby Fischer and floated around on clouds when he beat Spassky or any of those Russians with unpronounceable names. I admired him, too, and followed his erratic actions, consistent only in beating any player that stuck its head up.

However, "the chesse" just wasn't my game. As a matter of fact, no game is my game. They have always bored me squirmy. When I was 15, I visited my aunt in Chicago, and we played Canasta every day for hours and hours. Just thinking about it makes me want to go back to bed. Not to mention Scrabble!

When Caxton or Dame Juliana Berners, or whoever it was, wrote The Game and Playe of the Chesse, he might as well have handed me one of those tiny fine necklace chains, in one big knot, to straighten out. If I went into a trance, I could tell you where and how each piece moves and all that jazz, but please don't ask me to play!

Anyway, this was supposed to be about selling my old books. Each one of them brings back a big chunk of the past (as in see above). Now and then, selling one brings a lump to my throat. But money talks loud, n'est ce pas?

P.S. I'm re-reading We Took To the Woods, by Louise Dickinson Rich, before somebody grabs it.