still tolling up my books, I should say our books. found 5, probably have more, by Joseph C. Lincoln. you probably have not heard of him. he was a popular novelist in the early part of the 20th century (which sounds so historical, like I wasn't alive for almost half of it). my father read everything by Lincoln. they were set in Cape Cod adn were, I gather, roman à clefs, albeit kindly ones. piquant sense of locale, which is why my father liked them. when my mother's eyesight eached the point where she couldn't read, I began reading to her. at 1st just mysteries but we branched out. reading Huckleberry Finn to her opened my eyes, because I didn't really like it the 1st time I read the book, but it bloomed this 2nd reading. part of that was that I better heard, and enjoyed, the dialects. I read a bunch of the Lincolns to my mother and was struck by their goodhearted adventure. some of that adventure was of the sea and rescue operations (one of the books was made into a movie), and some of the adventure more like parlour romance, but with a humour and human plainness that, perhaps it is corny of me, I admire. my mother also gave me a similar gift, reading a favourite author of hers: Angela Thirkell. Thirkell wrote of village life in mid-20th century England. I think a bit of Jane Austen with Thirkell, tho without the desperate, draconian class structure of 18th century England (V. S. Pritchett referred to the romantic entanglements in Austen's novels as naval manuevres). at our sale, it seemed like folks were there to buy books to enjoy, not resell (having scored off our stupidity). which gets into matters of taste, so that I weary of frozen distinctions of what is and what isn't. I mean I have my distinctions, I just don't need to be proud of them. I came closer to both of my parents by way of the books that they enjoyed.