a place isn't a home without at least two dictionaries

I was just clearing out my bookshelf in preparation for the move tomorrow, and meditating somewhat on what being the daughter of two English teachers has done to me. I have a somewhat cavalier attitude towards books; not in that I'd mistreat them--Toni can attest to the strictness of the no-dog-earing rule--but in that I take them entirely for granted. The amount of books I've actually purchased for myself has absolutely nothing on the sheer number of random tomes I've gradually absorbed from my parents' collections. I have at least two (probably three) concise dictionaries of phrase and fable, seven copies of The Tempest, an entire shelf's worth of King Arthur legends, collections of myths from the world over, and a startling amount of poetry anthologies. All it took, while I was growing up, was for me to express a mild interest in something, and Dad would go down to the basement, open a couple boxes, and, hey, presto! I would have a mini library. Any time I took a literature course in university, I ended up with a stack of critical histories. I've never cracked the covers of most of them, but now I find myself loathe to leave them behind. What if I NEED An Introduction to Haiku one day? You can't know that I won't!