A few weeks ago I was doing something that has become somewhat of a bi-annual tradition for me. I made the trek to Laurelton, where I knew I would be able to find great African-American books for my kids, as well as nephews and nieces.

The rain was coming down
hard, cars were double parking along Merrick Boulevard and I was running late. Like most places in my life, I didn’t know the exact address, but I knew where I was going – or so I thought.

Because D and J Books also was home to a decoration shop and a community center, it had two sets of doors.

It was just east of what was once a fast food building, but had been converted to a pharmacy.

As I approached the land-marks that have time and again led me to my desti-nation, I looked across the street and my heart sank.

There was now bare concrete where there was once an awning.

The naked facade was over a gated doorway that left parts of the glass door exposed.

Through one of the openings I could see a sign that I couldn’t read, but I knew what it said. I couldn’t believe it – D and J was closed.

While people didn’t exactly stream in and out of it whenever I was there, there always seemed to be business there, not to mention all the things that David Reeves had done for the community. His after-school programs, job training and community spirit had created a hive of activity near 229th Street.

I ran across the street, hoping that this was just some kind of mistake or misunderstanding. Maybe he was renovating for the holidays or something.

On the sign that said "For Lease," just as I had thought, there were no instruct-ions or guidance as to where the bookstore might have moved. This wasn’t looking good at all.

I went into the business next door and asked the woman if she knew what had happened. She told me that D and J had moved, but she wasn’t sure to where. This was better, I thought. He just moved to another location.

She asked another young lady, who I assumed was her daughter, if she knew where I could find the items that I had already promised to waiting children. They said the bookstore was now located in the basement of a cultural center a few blocks down, but neither woman knew the precise intersection.

I went back to my car and made a U-turn, while keeping an eye on my watch – since I still had to eventually get to Manhattan and get to work.

I found the Center for Social Consciousness on 223rd Street, but there were no evident signs of the bookstore.

I went in the front door, which takes you upstairs, and found a young man, who looked at me strangely when he heard my inquiry.

Eventually I went outside and walked to the back – not happy to be in the rain, but determined to give this my best shot before I gave up. As I approached the garbage bin I saw the awning that covered the brick over the store. I knew I was in the right place, but where was everything else?

I walked down the driveway to what seemed like a dead end. An open door revealed piles of boxes – some open, some closed. I could see shelves with books on them. And I knew that now I could take a breath.

I had found it.

David’s welcoming voice boomed almost immediately after I took off my cap off. He told me the story of his relocation and about the need for his previous landlord to make more money from a location that was now a busy spot because of David’s activities.

He apologized for my difficulty in finding his place, which he didn’t have to do.

I felt badly for him, knowing that he might be missing business he would normally get for Kwanzaa and the rest of the holidays.

But worse yet, would people – after a turn here and there – forget not only about him and his business, but also his many other contributions?

I recently read the results of a Chicago study that concluded "we" spent $310 million in book sales last year. That is more than a 70 percent jump compared to what was spent on African-American books just 10 years ago.

That jump is due in part to businesses like D and J Books – black proprietors who market what was previously deemed unmarketable and help make our stories available to the world. But more importantly, they make them available to us.

This isn’t an endorsement for a business, but it is an endorsement of an idea.

A simple idea that says we are better for knowing ourselves. Who we are, where we are from and where we would like to go. These notions, put to paper, can be found in a basement of the Social Concern Center, located at 226-18 Merrick Blvd.

I hope he continues to help the betterment of people through the other ways that he has in the past.

If you know David Reeves, take that walk to the back, down the grade and into his store to say hello.

If you don’t know him, remedy that situation the same way.