Gwen R.
2015
A Day In The Life of the Bookbinder
My daily routine is almost always the same. I awaken with the sunlight beaming in through my window, continue my work as a bookbinder, and check in with the printer to see if there are any small prints that I need to bind. Being a bookbinder is hard work. Books take a long time to bind. Sewing signature, after signature. Putting the cover together, putting the pages in the cover. It doesn’t seem very hard, but it is. It took many years of apprenticeship. I wake up early every day to finish my work. I put my apron on so I do not get glue from the books onto my skirt. My shop is small will only one window to let in light. I leave the door open for fresh air. The window I have is stuck shut, and I should really get it fixed. But the door is good enough for me. Today, I don’t have my door open. It is colder out today. Ding! The door swings open and the printer walks in.
“Theodosia! I have some prints for you! About 10 more copies of Every Man His Own Doctor. They are in very high demand as of now.”
“Not those. I swear that I have memorized every page in that pamphlet!” I responded.
“Well, we make money the way we make money,” he said back cleverly. I have bound so many copies of Every Man His Own Doctor. At least it is a simple bind. Just thread back and forth. No fancy cover, just the prints.
“Thank you Gideon.” I get straight to work, stopping the bigger book I was binding. These are simple and I know I can finish them faster than the big one. First, the most tedious part. Folding every single page. I cannot fold them all in a pile, or else the folds will be uneven. Once I finish folding, I move on to punching holes. I use my short, dull pencil to mark where the holes will be, and use my ice pick to punch the holes. Sewing is my favorite part. I love sewing. If I wasn’t a bookbinder, I would be working in the millinery. While I sew, I hum a tune my mother used to sing to me when I was young. Before she passed away when I was 10. She was the one who told me that I could do anything I wanted. Without her, I don’t know where I would be.
When I was growing up, I would be with the girls learning how to sew. But now and then, I tinkered with my father’s trinkets. He was in inventor and always had stray items thrown around our house. My mother always told my father to clean them up, but he never listened. I like that they were in every room. I always had something different to play with in every room. I built furniture for my dollies. My mother encouraged tinkering. But if anyone else ever found out that I tinkered, they would think bad of my family.
I am the only female book binder in all of Williamsburg. In the history of Williamsburg. The bookbinder is a roll that gets passed down not to family, but to who wants to be a bookbinder. There is only ever one bookbinder at a time. Only ever one printer at a time. It makes my job even harder because there is only one of me, and many books to be bound.
My father still lives in the house I grew up in. He loves when I come home from the shop because he is always alone at home. It was getting late, so I finished binding the last copies of Every Man His Own Doctor, and organized my materials for the next day.
When I got home, I hugged my father, like I do every day. It was my job to cook supper. I got to the kitchen and made the pork. I had baked the bread yesterday because I had less work, and I got home earlier.
“The sweet smell of pork,” my father said.
“Just wonder what food we would have if we were in the gentry class!” I say starting to fantasize.
“Maybe you could get us there one day.”
“Not as I bookbinder I can.”
We ate the delicious food. I went to my bedroom after supper and cleaning the kitchen. I laid down to slowly fall asleep, wake up, and do the same thing the next day.