Farewell Bookshop...a sad journey that ends Happily at LookingGlass Antiques

Farewell Bookshop…a sad journey that ends happily at LookingGlass Antiques

There is a specific kind of magic attached to driving through the rolling hills of southeastern Indiana. The roads curve alongside rivers, farms stretch out in patchwork quilts of green and gold, and the small towns you pass through feel anchored in a different era. On a recent crisp afternoon, my GPS was set for one such town—Brookville, Indiana—and specifically, a destination that promised warmth, discovery, and perhaps a piece of history, a little independent bookshop.
My pilgrimage wasn't just a casual stop; it was fueled by a very specific obsession of mine. I am a hunter of old recipe books. For years, I have collected vintage cookbooks and battered recipe files. I’m not talking about pristine, glossy celebrity chef tomes. I’m looking for the plastic-comb-bound booklets put together by the "Ladies’ Auxiliary of 1974," or the grease-stained index cards found in rusty metal boxes at estate sales.

Why? Because the internet gives instructions, but old cookbooks give a narrative. I am searching for the handwriting in the margins. I want to feast on the old photos. I want to see where someone crossed out "margarine" and aggressively wrote "BUTTER ONLY!" I want the apple pie recipe with the page-stained brown from decades of spilled cinnamon and nutmeg. These aren't just recipes; they are artifacts of love, community, and domestic history. They are evidence that someone stood in a kitchen fifty years ago and made something that brought their family comfort.

Driving into Brookville, nestled in the Whitewater River Valley, set the perfect tone for this quest. It was a chilly, yet sunny day. It’s a town with historic architecture and a palpable sense of community identity. I parked in front of the warm and welcoming coffee shop, Coffee on Main. Armed with a delicious Mocha frappe, I made my way down the street only to stand in front of an empty shop window. Sadly, a neighboring shop owner said the book shop’s last day was just yesterday.

Never one to be defeated, my eyes searched the street, and not far off was an antique shop called LookingGlass Antiques. It is a relatively new place, a delightful shop co-owned by Noah Smith and his grandmother Jeannette Huelseman. The building has some history, a part of which started out as a hardware store in 1868. Crossing the threshold, the sensory experience was immediate. It wasn't just shelves of products; it was a space designed for lingering. It had all kinds of interesting things to look at, even books.=
While I browsed, I thought about how extremely hard it is on small businesses in this day and age. It is easy to forget how close we came to losing the American independent bookstore entirely.

If you look at the history, the 1990s were the first great extinction event. The rise of the mega-chains—Borders and Barnes & Noble—adopted a predatory real estate strategy, dropping massive superstores across the street from decades-old neighborhood shops, crushing them with volume and discounts. We all remember the narrative of You’ve Got Mail; it felt inevitable that the small shop around the corner was doomed.

Then came the second wave: the digital disruption. Amazon arrived, initially selling books at a loss to gain market share, devaluing the very idea of what a book should cost. The Kindle threatened to erase the physical object altogether. Between 2000 and 2009, the number of independent bookstores in the U.S. plummeted, with the American Booksellers Association (ABA) reporting a drop from roughly 2,400 member store locations to a low of about 1,400.

But then, something remarkable happened. The narrative twisted.
Starting around 2010, a resurgence began. It defied every piece of conventional business wisdom in the digital age. People began to realize what they were losing. They missed the curation, the community space, and the human element. According to the ABA, between 2009 and the start of the pandemic in 2020, the number of independent bookstores actually rebounded significantly, growing by over 50%. Even post-pandemic, the enthusiasm for "shopping local" has sustained a vibrant, albeit challenging, landscape for these stores.

It is still hit and miss in my area, with few indie bookstores around, which is sad. But I am happy for the ones that are thriving. They didn’t survive by trying to out-Amazon Amazon. They survived by doubling down on being human. This is why I feel so incredibly strong about supporting them. When you spend twenty dollars at an independent bookstore, you aren't just buying twenty- dollars' worth of paper and glue. You are funding a "third place." Sociologists talk about the need for spaces that aren't our homes (the first place) or our workplaces (the second place). Independent bookstores serve as vital community hubs where ideas are exchanged, where children attend story times, and where local authors find their first audiences.

You are supporting economic diversity. Multiple studies have shown that money spent at locally-owned businesses stays in the local economy at a much higher rate—often three times as much—compared to money spent at national chains. That money goes to local taxes, local wages, and other local service providers. But most importantly, you are supporting the idea that culture shouldn't be homogenized. An algorithm wants everyone to read the same ten books so it can maximize efficiency. An independent bookseller wants you to read the weird, beautiful, niche book that will change the way you think, because they read it and loved it. They curate for their specific community, making every indie bookstore a unique reflection of the town it inhabits.

I didn't leave Brookville Indiana with a 1950s church cookbook that day. Instead, I left with a beautifully produced Amish cookbook with regional Indiana history that I didn't know existed. And a shelf, and a few other very interesting items.

As I drove out of Brookville, the sun setting over the Whitewater Valley, I felt a profound sense of gratitude. I was grateful for the technology that helps me connect with the world, sure. But I was infinitely more grateful for the stubborn, beautiful physical reality of places like LookingGlass Antiques, and the people who work so hard to keep the doors open, ensuring that our towns have souls, and that hunters of stories and treasures—like me—still have places to explore.