The Encyclopedia Salesman’s House Call
The irresistible scent of new books bewitched my father.
Every year, around Presidents’ Day, I post a childhood memory to commemorate my father’s life on the anniversary of his death in February 2015. He was eighty-two.
Watching from an appropriate seen-but-not-heard distance, I listened while my parents and the Encyclopedia Britannica salesman discussed the particulars at the dining room table. He was probably the first gringo to enter our apartment. Yes, the super was repeatedly stopping by in his navy blue mechanic’s jumper to unclog the tub drain — too many girls with long hair — but he didn’t count. His English was just as bad as my father’s, and he spoke to my mom half in Italian so they could understand each other. No, this encyclopedia salesman was a real American with swept back thick brown hair kept in place by generous amounts of Brylcreem. He looked like the gym teachers at my school, filling out his suit jacket, solid around the chest.
My father listened carefully to the salesman’s well-rehearsed pitch, his face betraying his intense concentration necessary to parse the string of guttural sounds into English words he knew. The salesman, with the care of a librarian, laid out the samples on the table for inspection. He enchanted my father with the beautifully bound rust-colored volumes, his thick fingers gently turning upside down pages for my father to admire. “The encyclopedia is going to give your children a leg up at school,” he claimed. “There’s no better gift to ensure your children’s future, and especially for you,” he added while looking around the room, “with five little ones.” I wonder if we looked like cherubs hidden in the folds of the living room furniture.
It must’ve been the irresistible scent of new books that bewitched my father. He agreed to a layaway plan to buy the set and the yearly supplement, a hedge against the encyclopedia becoming outdated.
After the salesman left, we celebrated my father’s momentous decision. I was grateful for what he had done, and giddy with the prospect of all those books coming. I thought about how much easier it would be to write the research papers I was being assigned with greater frequency. That we had to find a nook in our small and crowded apartment to place more than two dozen books was a minor concern. That our social standing would take a giant leap forward was a big deal. Only one or two other kids in the neighborhood had an encyclopedia at home. That we could share with friends and neighbors the volumes from our non-lending library was a bonus.
Browsing became a favorite pastime for all of us. Our curiosity was rewarded by entries like the one for the male and female human anatomy. The body’s many systems from skeleton to skin, and everything in between, were layered on transparencies. We learned more about our bodies — the medical terms, anyhow — from that entry than from any ‘talk’ from our parents. Another favorite entry was the flags of the world, the nations united in full color. I memorized scores of flags, my knowledge becoming more Olympian than World Cup.
The map alongside the entry for Burma was exactly what I needed to spruce up my social studies countries of the world report for Mr. Kaufman. I traced it onto transparent paper, then enlarged it to fit on a single page. I used colored pencils to label cities, mountains, and rivers. I asked my father to take a look, to inspect my work, using the premise of a review to show off.
He had a way of letting you know he was impressed without resorting to effusive language, just a studied appreciation, intuiting where the hard work hid. He understood that the details —like the rivers in blue pencil and the blue shaded shores — took time and care. Sometimes he offered suggestions, most times he extended a pat on the head that always felt like a crowning.
These stories are collected on the On My Father series page.
