Another record-breaking week.

So many balls in the air. I never learned to juggle. Some kids in school could casually juggle three apples or tennis balls. I tried—but not very hard. Couldn’t do it.

I’m pretty good at juggling books and records and CDs and DVDs and things.

It is Friday, April 3rd. Drippy, drizzly and foggy. It’s been like that the last few days. The phone adamantly claims there is no rain; that it is “partly cloudy.” Well, there is water falling from above, and I can only see about 100 yards.

There was a fantastic dream last night. Maybe it was a vision. One of my favorite poems is Milton’s sonnet to his dead wife—Sonnet 23.

Methought I saw my late espoused saint
     Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave,
     Whom Jove’s great son to her glad husband gave,
     Rescu’d from death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom wash’d from spot of child-bed taint
     Purification in the old Law did save,
     And such as yet once more I trust to have
     Full sight of her in Heav’n without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind;
     Her face was veil’d, yet to my fancied sight
     Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin’d
So clear as in no face with more delight.
     But Oh! as to embrace me she inclin’d,
     I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.

(He was blind when he composed this masterpiece.)

When I awoke, I wrote (I advise you skip this part):

The dark of night was doubled
Clouds and fog covered
Every star and distant valley light
I lay alone on the mountain
Triply covered in cotton and wool
Then a vision illumined
A few feet from my bed
The forming glow which was not light
Shaped itself taller than wide
I stretched my steady hand to it
But the gap, only arm’s length,
Was far as forever
Were my eyes open or not
Was I awake or in a dream
Then from shapeless luminescence
A figure formed
Phantom first
Featureless head torso legs
I would not waken or sleep
Lest the vision disappear
There you stood
Fair feet a foot above the floor
Fingertips stretched toward that heaven
But the gap was infinite
And there we remained
In our warm little bedroom
Miles apart forever

My home has been crawling with men on the roof this week. Will they come today and install the gutters? That’s all that’s left to do. I need to leave early just in case. Their trucks fill the driveway. My truck and SUV are parked on the mulch road below the house. Things are a mess. So far, they haven’t destroyed the beautiful garden below my front porch.

A guarantee my books will stay dry, I hope. I had no leaks, but the old roof was showing its age.

A new roof. How exciting.

The two new gardens are in bloom.

I planted one and punted the second on the steep slope to the landscaper. I was very late getting them in, but they seem to have accepted the challenge. Next year, they will have multiplied and filled out.

I made it in and made a deal for the complete run of Life magazines I bought nearly 10 years ago. I wrote about that in one of first blogs.

I’d forgotten them. They were too big to market and too wonderful to sacrifice. Someone will experience all there was from 1936 to 1972.

Ernest and Bryan are on their way to Hagerstown for the last pull at that store. When we are done, the three stores will be 60,000 books lighter. But don’t worry, they will refill like a kid’s moat dug on the beach.

We’ve been sending a lot of books out so the stores can refill the voids. I’ve been going through someone’s World War 2 collection. It is vast and inclusive. There was a cult of books about that war. This collection had volumes on battles and soldiers I’ve never heard of. They sold because so many participated in the event. The whole world watched it.

And someone collected books on evolution.

Odd ideas about the theory that somehow made it into print.

The amaryllises continue to bloom. The pots were an ugly mess in January and February. Now they are a delight.

The last day of March. April will open with warm days and cool nights.

When will the last fire in the woodstove be lit?

I will miss the ritual. It is as ancient as humankind. But as with many survival necessities, it is an activity that needs some attention year-round. I am splitting and stacking next winter’s heat already. I think the exercise is good for me. I would find a gym tedious. My physical therapy sessions have ended. The hamstring injury is now almost completely a painful memory. The people there were great. The massages felt good. The stretches helped, I think. But much of life is physical movement—at work and at home. Bending. Lifting. Carrying. Pushing…

Except lately.

So much chair time. Corresponding with new customers, lawyers, real estate brokers, new friends, old friends, inquiries, cutting deals…

When I look up, it is noon, and only my fingertips have gotten a workout.

Today, I will take a little break. I will go on a house call—like the good old days. It is close. Sounds big. It is on one of my favorite streets in Frederick. I will experience that feeling of discovery behind a stranger’s door. It is in a quiet old neighborhood.

When I was a little boy, my father did insurance house calls. He would examine the husband or wife to determine if it was a good risk to insure their life. For me, it was an adventure. I experienced all kinds of people and homes. I was invited across thresholds of complete strangers whom I never would have met, much less sat at their kitchen tables. Strange smells and accents and household adornments.

Maybe I will get my hair cut afterward. It is so long. My hair genes, at least, are good.

The house call was bittersweet, as they so often are.

The widow. The home left just as it was when he departed. Now it was time for her to go.

“You two must have had a lot of fun.”

“We did. I learned so much from him.”

Lovely ordered bookcases in almost every room of the 1930s house.

I got the tour and then backtracked to count and evaluate.

The walls were covered with framed LPs and photos of vintage racecars. Places visited. Faces.

I didn’t know whether my tears welling were from sadness or joy. I was now part of this story.

“I still need to match hundreds of CDs with their cases.”

‘You’re one of the few who would make the effort,’ I thought.

The music was great.

I lived their life for an hour.

I stepped out the front door and into spring. Trees blossoming everywhere.

I got my hair cut. (It still flops in my eyes. Maybe that’s so I’ll need another sooner.)

Stopped in for my travel docs.

Bought a couple dozen huge cookies to give out at work.

Stopped at the bookstore that I started a lifetime ago. LOTS of customers getting in the way of our pruning and shelving. Maybe we should do this before we open the doors.

Then back to the carts and problems.

The whirlwind of giant orders continues to storm—torrentially, for God’s sake. We’ve hung up a board in the office. It shows dates and quantities and code names for the secretive buyers.

The enormous store pull of 60,000 books continues. A team was sent to Hagerstown yesterday. They returned with two vanloads of pulls set in the bright yellow plastic tubs we use for material handling. We might ship the first truckload out tomorrow. 30,000 books. The weight must be less than 43,000 pounds—the maximum load a 53-foot truck can haul.

Wednesday. Day’s end. I was going to meet Cap at Glory Days for a beer.

Ernest stuck his head in the office door. “Chuck, that truck is back. I can’t understand the driver, but he wants us to unload something.”

Earlier we had filled it with 28 pallets—about 30,000 books.

Nooooo!! I’m the only one left.

The last thing I wanted to do was walk across the building to the loading docks. I wanted to walk out the door. I’d done my duty.

Not quite.

The boss can’t run away.

I went out, and with a combination of simple words and sign language, the trucker and I communicated that the pallets needed to be reconfigured. To do that, over 20 would need to be pulled off.

Each weighs over 1000 pounds.

Two volunteers stayed and manhandled the beasts off. I couldn’t help except with instructions lest my hamstring get strained again.

Then they rumbled back on in different order.

When I got to Glory Days, Cap was only a few minutes from having to depart.

I remained and watched my pint of Guinness empty.

April 1st. 1:30 a.m. I stepped out to retrieve my laptop from the car. It was balmy. I wore nothing on my feet or legs. The rough surface of the asphalt felt good on the soles of my feet. The touch of bare skin against the earth is enlivening. Though I was surrounded by burgeoning life all around, it was silent. Silence is a grace that few people have. Down amongst the valley dwellers, there are machines everywhere. They rattle, roar, bang and hiss incessantly. My tread was silent but for an occasional twig snap. No night birdcalls. The insects and tree frogs have not yet emerged. My heart was thumping, but I couldn’t hear that. I should get it fixed. “Simple procedure.”

Opening the car door shattered the night. The metallic click of the handle. The creaking cry of the hinges. The interior lights flashed on illuminating my pale legs. There was the softly shining dark gray metal slab. My laptop, where so much of my life is spent.

I was stressed when I got home hours ago. A full day of juggling. Calls. Emails. A trip to the bank. The travel agent. The barber. The hardware conglomeration.

I needed a broom. The old one was worn and shedding.

“Where would I find a broom?

“Aisle 1 on the other side of the store. Row 43.”

A stop at the Mexican bakery. They have gingerbread pigs that are about 6 inches long and 3/4 of an inch thick. Some 5-inch diameter and 1-inch thick smiley face sugar cookies. The bright red features—eye dots, long curving mouth, nose dot—are made with red sticky not-quite-jelly.

Then to the bookstore. Wonder Book was a hive of activity. Joey, Ernest and Bryan were dropping books into our bright yellow tubs. The big purge continues.

So another week of upheaval.

Amazing times.

Just when I think I’ve seen everything.

It is Good Friday. A holiday for some. A holy day for others.

Things never stop here. The tides of books ebb and flow ceaselessly.

This odd tiny thing came in from Larry.

Doesn’t look like much, does it?

From Annika:

Vol 8 only. “Bibliothèque universelle et historique de l’année MDCLXXXVIII”

First appearance of John Locke’s “An Essay Concerning Human(e) Understanding” in any form, pages 49-142. Published two years before his book of the same name.

Also includes first appearance of Locke’s anonymously published review of Newton’s “Philosophiae naturalis principia mathematica,” pages 436-450.

I’m glad someone knew that.

Sigh. “If I only had a brain.”

This was obvious.

A Journal of the Plague Year.

And this.

And this.

The Dance of Death is far more interesting.

I’m going to Barbara’s Lorien next week.

The owner is forced to sell. She doesn’t want to leave.

I couldn’t maintain the heavenly place. Anyway, I’m closer to heaven on the mountaintop.

And I lived that life already.

I recently found this article about reading books on The Washington Post: