Dick Francis Books

[Martin Hash]

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Why do some people find books comforting? I don’t know but I’m certainly one of them. It might be genetic? My dad carried around a box of Louis L’amour paperbacks when the only things he owned had to fit in the trunk of his car. Pictures of his family he could do without but the brittle yellowing pages of 95 cent westerns systematically traveled from one career to the next, anchoring memories of youth, adulthood, and old-age. The sanctuary feel of my personal library has a similar effect, and I enter it for the calmness it brings. Just touching the books affects me viscerally: I am reassured of my knowledge and experience. In fact, whenever I meet another book-lover, our eyes connect in communal familiarity of shared secrets.

I still have some of the earliest books I can remember, usually everything written by my favorite authors. However, when my dad turned 70 he gave his cherished Louis L’amour books to a passing handyman, which I only understood when I too was struck with the desire to share my passions. That consisted of leaving my entire set of “Tarzan” books in 24 different countries in Africa and writing about the journey in tribute to a childhood friend who had recently died and with whom I’d shared the pages of those marvelous adventures. That grand gesture was fulfilling in a number of ways and I wanted to repeat the experience, so when my wife and I moved to England for a year, I took my entire set of Dick Francis paperbacks, 38 books, so that I could read them one last time in the aura and land of their settings. Dick Francis wrote mysteries about horse racing, and though I’ve never experienced a live horse race, it always seemed like I had through the rich and vibrant descriptions Francis composed.

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We were living in Newcastle where betting shops abound. As I walked by them, invariable Dick Francis would occupy my thoughts. Anxiously returning back to our flat, I would immediately pick up the next-in-order book and dive into another reality. Every week that went by was another book put into the pile of “finished reading.” Whenever I saw a picture of a horserace in a store window or in the newspaper, a feeling of pleasure flowed through me, so it was with a mixture of sadness and accomplishment that I finished the last book written entirely by Dick Francis, “Under Orders,” and capped the stack of books I’d already finished during the preceding year. They were balanced there, their titles facing out as I slowly considered my favorite characters and events, resolved clever mysteries, and re-experienced the comfort and satisfaction of owning every novel. Then it was time to put them all to rest in book trade shelf at the Student Union of Northumbria University. Hopefully, some other book fanatic will experience instant heart palpitations when they see every Dick Francis book lined up in chronological order for their reading pleasure. I’m jealous.

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