I locked the door last night.

I rarely do.

When I went to let the dogs in, they were staring intently up into the black forest.

“What is it, boys?”

They turned their heads up at me then hopped up and over the threshold inside.

I continued looking up where the last of the houselight fades to nothingness.

It was past midnight. The air was in the teens. No moon or stars.

‘Not a fit night out for man or beast,’ I thought, shivering.

I pushed the door closed. The striker clicked. I switched off the outdoor lights. The blackness moved closer. When the lights inside go out, it will engulf the house. The blackness inside the house is different than that outside. Inside, the temperature is controlled. Everything is familiar. Much of it is soft—carpets, furniture, books and dogs.

I paused and then turned the lock on the door til it stopped.

The doors are rarely locked. I’m at the end of a mile-long gravel lane. The paved driveway adds a quarter mile to that. It ascends steeply and ends abruptly in rocks and trees that continue to rise to a cliff. The forest stretches on for miles.

No one ever comes up here unannounced.

Pretty much nobody comes up here.

Sunday

A winter wonderland.

It snowed overnight. Maybe four inches up here. The day will get worse with high winds and temperatures dropping to the teens.

Maybe I can pretend this is a white Christmas.

I “fixed” the indoor/outdoor thermometer. It seemed to be working, but the outdoor temp reads 44? The analog thermometer attached to an adjacent porch post reads 30. How can a digital thermometer be wrong? Weird.

I need to go out and plow. I can’t bring myself to stay here. I could lounge in bed all day and read or write. That would actually be stressful.

I finished the John Dickson Carr omnibus earlier this morning. I awoke around 3 and went to the porch to bring wood in. I crashed Saturday night and left the fire to burn itself to coals. Since I was sort of awake, I read the last dozen pages. The Case of the Constant Suicides started as a lot of fun. Lots of Scottish and literary banter. Then it devolved into gimmicks as Carr must have wondered how to write himself out of it. Disappointing. Time to move on to other writers.

A fishing rod was the strangulation murder weapon. Yeah… right.

Saturday was the usual weekend day at the Wonder Book gym. I worked out with books all day. No great finds, but maybe the most fun this old mind and body can have anymore.

I need to go downstairs to the big cedar closet and bring up the crate of gloves and other winter accouterments stored since last spring. Though this December has been very nasty, I haven’t shifted into winter mode sartorially. The fingerless gloves I wear to do bookwork have served thus far.

I baked yet another turkey last night. 20 pounds. Butterball. It wasn’t finished til 10:30, so my dinner was leftovers from dinner Friday with my older son and family. The younger boy—just turned 1—still bursts into tears when he sees me. I sat next to his highchair. The books I gave him seem to help. He smiled cautiously. When it was time to go, he was handed to me for a hug goodnight. He burst into tears, and I handed him back.

I’m looking forward to turkey and gravy tonight. I’ll make some mashed potatoes from a mix. That’ll be a first.

Monday. Brutally cold.

Yesterday was one of those that make me wonder why I live up in such an inaccessible area.

The snow fell all night, but the air wasn’t that cold. I’d step out, and water was dripping from the gutters. Snow melt. When the sun came up, I decided I should go. Then the temperature started dropping rapidly. Cold winds blew the snow from the branches, creating a second faux snowfall. The plow began spreading a layer of ice rather than clearing white fluffy stuff. Trying to go over and over and over it again and again just made it worse.

“This stinks.”

I was going to have to salt.

I’ve never had luck with the spreaders. They clog or rust right away. They can be difficult to wrestle going downhill. 50-75 pounds on wheels pulling me downward on ice can be daunting. I switched last year to the much more expensive “Snow Melt.” The stuff doesn’t clot up into stuck-together bundles that need a hammer to bust apart like rock salt. So, I’ve started putting a couple of 50-pound bags in the back of the ATV. It still has chains on its tires. I’ll drive it down 20 yards and then walk back up and spread the Snow Melt using a bird food scoop. That’s slow and tedious. Plus all the walking on steep slopes of ice is problematic.

“Step gingerly.”

It was getting worse as I proceeded down the 1/4 mile paved driveway. I’d slip and wonder if I would end up under the ATV. The ATV, even with chains, sometimes moved a little—even in Park and with the brakes on. Whether I was aboard or not, if it started sliding downhill, there’d be nothing for it but to bail out off or out of the way. I finally got down to the bottom where my driveway levels out and my paving gives way to gravel.

The Snow Melt works pretty fast and provides traction nonetheless, so I zipped back up to the top. I prayed for the sun to come out because it was getting colder. A bright sun hitting black pavement provides a great assist to melting.

I hadn’t shaved or showered since Friday (TMI.) So I took care of that while the chemicals melted the snow. Then the dogs got meds and food. I decided to leave elderly Merry & Pip at home since I didn’t know what kind of trouble I might get into “down there.” Giles can’t be trusted inside alone. He might try to break out. It was too cold to leave him the pen. Then it was time. I took the ATV down the driveway as a test to see how well the Snow Melt worked. I felt comfortable taking the pickup down. It has big nubby tires. It was half filled with frozen compost. It was half filled with firewood. The heavy load might help me from sliding off the road on the weaving winding descending track beyond my driveway’s end. This kind of torture only happens a few times a year. If it is really bad, I just wait it out.

Today was just very bad. And the forecast was that it would only get colder. Would today become terribly bad? I looked to the sky often while I worked. I asked the sun to break through the clouds. It can melt ice even if the temperature is very low. It was of no help when I needed it. It would peek through occasionally surrounded by a bit of blue, only to disappear behind enormous slate gray clouds.

A black silent night.

Near silent. The humidifier next to my bed hums so softly. It emits a plume that looks like smoke from a chimney. But is a cool cloud. It is important to keep the air moist upstairs. The woodstove’s heat dries the air as well as heating it. The big stewpot atop the stove boils water when the fire is hot. It can add a gallon into the room every day.

It is 4 a.m. An ungodly hour. Only 3 a.m. is worse. I awoke from a dream of travel. I was in a hotel. We were being told our flight was delayed and to wait.

When I stirred, the dogs did too. Merry and Pip began their morning coughing and wheezing.

I rose to stoke the fire. It was in good shape, and when the dampers opened, the flames rose and danced against the glass doors.

Checking the bed, I found I must have left the laptop outside in the truck overnight. Indeed, it was atop the dashboard. A frozen gray-black metal slab.

Should I try to return to sleep or write?

The teakettle is screaming atop the electric stove across the house… It appears my day has begun.

Typing this is finger-numbing. The laptop came inside at 17 degrees.

It occurred to me in dozing thought that I am in the service. I have signed up, committed to serve the book and the company that serves the book. It is a constant daily battle except when I am granted occasional leave.

R&R, it was called when my oldest brother was in Vietnam.

Perhaps, like many soldiers, I don’t know what else there is to do. Duty. And to continue the struggle.

There’s a sliver of a moon outside my window. A waning crescent, the phone would inform me later. It is rising from the bottom left of the upper sash to the upper right. It will disappear above the roof well before dawn. Below it, the valley is filled with twinkling lights. How many are awake down there? Perhaps the early commuters are stirring. That culture has changed dramatically. COVID stopped much of the daily—what is the antonym of exodus?—to the city. Many of those who filled the highways and commuter trains never went back.

“Working from home.” Sounds like an oxymoron to me. For most, anyway.

My dad ended his life commuting to DC every day. He carpooled all the way down to the Veterans Administration building on Vermont Avenue near the White House. His last job was writing the guidebook to veteran’s disability compensation. Losing a little finger entitled a certain percentage of compensation. Losing an arm much more. He was a serious scientific scholar among lifelong bureaucrats. He hated that part of it. He hated the men he commuted with. If he got to the office late, his pay would be docked. He worked the day he died.

I made up my mind not to get in the position of finishing doing something I hated.

Veterans healthcare. That’s often an oxymoron. Or at least it used to be. Maybe it has gotten better.

I didn’t write about The Nutcracker! That was a highlight two Saturdays ago. On a whim, I asked an old friend if she wanted to go. It would be my first nod to the Christmas season. She said yes but could only attend the matinee. Leaving work at 1:30 made me feel a little guilty. I promised myself I would come in all that much earlier on Sunday. We met at a parking lot. I’d driven the big black Dodge Ram pickup truck because of possible bad weather. Parking on an early Saturday afternoon would not be a problem. Only it was. I ventured down the usual side streets, where I can always find a spot—even closer to dinnertime, when the town used to fill up. It doesn’t so much anymore. Many restaurants are closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. Down All Saints Street. Nothing. Over to the square in front of the old courthouse. Nothing.

The sidewalks were packed with bustling bundling anonymous humans.

“I’ll have to bite the bullet and use the parking garage.”

It was a fiasco. The garage is a spiral within a spiral. Some architect was very clever. It has six levels including the roof. The gate was up. “Free Parking Today.” Trying to help the downtown merchants, I suppose.

The truck was just low enough and just not too wide to gain entry.

Up. Around. Up. Around. Up. Around…

There were cars in front of me and cars behind. There were a lot of open spots, but they all were marked reserved. What bankers or investment firm employees would be in on a Saturday afternoon? But the signs read, “Towing Enforced 24/7.” (I wonder how my big truck could get towed from here. My roof nearly touched the concrete ceiling beams as it is.)

I got to the top. I’ve never seen the roof completely full of parked cars. I entered the downward spiral. All the way down. All the way up again.

Repeat.

It was nearing 2. Now to was after 2. Up and down again. A lot of people cheated and parked on the lines, effectively taking up two parking spots. The city could make a lot of money ticketing these people. This city loves taking money. In this case, I’d support the parking “tax.”

Finally, I spotted a space that was impossibly small.

I asked my friend to get out and try to guide me in. After exercising a 17-point turn—or was it 23?—I was in. My truck was only inches from the vehicle on my left. But they could get in their driver’s side and back out to let others in the passenger doors.

We hurried down 5 flights of steps and around the corner to the theater. The lobby was empty.

I hate people who arrive late to the theater. But here I was, one of them. I felt like mumbling, “I have a good excuse!” To the people whose knees I inconvenienced. We were only about 10 minutes late.

I knew it would be a semi-amateur production. It was put on by the regional company. I knew there would be local kids sprinkled on stage as a reward for diligence in dance class.

It was wonderful. Teens and toddlers and old folks amongst more accomplished dancers. The familiar story and music made me nostalgic but not lugubrious. It was a more wistful and bittersweet feeling.

Christmas…

At intermission, I hurried outside and up the five flights of steps. I’d left my phone in the truck and wasn’t sure I had locked it. I hurried back down the five flights and around the corner. I didn’t want to be late for the second part. I needn’t have worried. The lobby was full of little girls and the moms. The line for the bathroom went out to the street. It seems that a third of the audience for the matinee were girls under 10 in their Christmas gowns. Black velvet with red and green piping seemed popular. Many wore petticoats that pushed the skirts out. The ladies’ room must have been the scene for dozens of little clothing adventures.

Christmas…

The second half featured two pros from New York City. The performed leaps and lifts, spins and twirls. They were stunning.

It felt so good. To be surrounded by hundreds of family members. All happy. All Christmas-y.

Then it was over. Virtue vanquished vermin. Toddlers and grandparents, beautiful women and men, lithe youths—all took their bows.

Back outside and up the crowded sidewalks of Market Street. A wonderful meal then back to the warehouse to fetch the dogs and take them home.

It has been a good morning in bed. The moon has risen out of sight. The dawn in thick orange band on the horizon. The warm color belies the frigid air I let the dogs out into. I need to keep Pip close—especially in the dark. He’s mostly blind, and if he wandered off into the woods—well, there’s no one out there for miles.

I tossed an extra couple scoops of seed onto the snow-covered porch roof. The junkoes are back for the winter from their Canadian Arctic summer homes. Dark gray above. Light gray below. They are beautiful in their formal wear and hop about like anonymous identical butlers in the snow.

I’m tired now. But I can’t curl up and doze. I don’t want to be late for work. I have my duty. And at this time of year, I need to keep the flow of books up to the stores.

It is 5:30 a.m. Wednesday. The warehouse will open in an hour and a half. I slept hard and deep.

And warm. The fire had the house up to 68. Outside it was 17. The workhorse woodstove raised the temperature 50 degrees. If I pay attention, it is not difficult. It isn’t a chore. It is a lifestyle, I guess.

What time will I get to work today? Doesn’t matter. There is no beginning or end to it.

Last weekend, I was surprised to discover that two contractors had been in the Gaithersburg bookstore on Friday. (Nobody tells me anything.) More of the floor had been painted. More bookcases put in. I decided I should check it out on Monday. I’ve been wanting to clear the random “New Arrival” sections. While the newly expanded bookstore was filling with freshly made bookcases, the staff was having trouble keeping up with pricing and stocking books.

“Price and stock” is a Wonder Book mantra I try to instill in each generation of booksellers we bring in. “Pricing and stocking” cures many ills. You can do no wrong if you simply price and stock. The life of a bookstore depends on new titles for customers to discover. Any bad habits can be cured by “Pricing and Stocking.” I came up with the bright idea of creating “New Arrival” sections throughout the store. Sections of empty bookcases were filled with random “New Arrivals” in hopes that customers would want to explore the new stuff. I don’t know if it worked initially or not. How could you tell? Eventually, those sections became “Stale New Arrivals.” With the massive purge for the “Big Project” and the installation of new bookcases, I thought this would be the time to sweep away the old “New Arrivals” and put in actual categories the customers could explore. I headed down Monday morning with two vans and three assistants.

“Empty four of those dollar carts into tubs, please.” (We roll 8 or 10 six-shelf, four-wheel metal carts out onto the sidewalk every morning. They are laden with books, CDs and DVDs. Everything is priced $1.59 or 5 for $5.) The empty carts were rolled to the (no longer) “New Arrival” sections to be eliminated.

“Fill the carts, please.”

Each cart holds a few hundred books.

“Push the carts around the store and put the books on the floor in front of the sections where they belong.”

Theoretically, by the time the cart got from one side of the store to the other, it would be empty. Back to the “New Arrival” section to fill the cart again.

Repeat until the “New Arrival” section is completely empty.

It was a bit of a whirlwind, but in a couple of hours the long put off project was done—fast and dirty.

Wednesday morning, we are returning to Gaithersburg to continue the shake-up.

The store is getting all new light fixtures. Bookstores should always be “well lit.” I want customers to be able to read the titles on the bottom shelves back in the corners.

We are on our way back. It is a gorgeous sunny day. 50 degrees.

We emptied the last (not) “New Arrival” section. It took three of us yanking random books off 6 bookcases and schlepping them to art, lit, mystery, general fiction…

Now what?

There are a LOT of empty bookcases in the store. I’m reluctant to fill them though. When we get the final load—16 and soon, I’m told—it may spur inspiration for the final floor plan.

Plans… my semi-retired architect buddy, Bob, texted me this image.

He must have new software. Maybe AI. In 2012, over beers, we discussed renovating the house I’d bought only 2 years before.

“We can raise the roof… spiral staircases… turn the downstairs garage into an entertainment room…

Then the new warehouse deal happened, and there was no time or money for frivolity. I was also paying two exorbitant tuitions. So long ago…

That place looks so cool. Makes my current place look banal.

I wish I’d done it.

Things have been a little spooky recently up on the mountain. When I step out sometimes to let the dogs in, all three will be staring into the forest. All three pairs of eyes focused on the same spot. All is blackness where they stare.

“What do you see, boys? C’mon, let’s go inside.”

On Sunday night after the snowstorm ended, I felt a shift in temperature coming from the great room. I crossed the threshold into that room only to see the porch door swinging inward very slowly.

“I must not have closed it tight.”

Rather than pushing it closed, I stepped out onto the porch. The untouched white snow cover contrasted with the dark forest and black skies. Silence. It was frigid. Mid teens. My breath caught as I tried to inhale.

Then I heard a loud metallic rattle around the corner and far toward the north end of the house.

“There can’t be anything out tonight.”

There wouldn’t be another human around for miles. And certainly no one would be outside in the wilderness on a night like this.

The next morning, I walked around the house. There were no footprints but those I was making. There was no sign of anything having fallen or gotten banged or…

It gave me chills.

Is someone out in the wood?

Or some thing?

It has been a week of extremes.

Sunday saw temperatures in the low teens, ice and snow.

I awoke this morning, and it is 56 degrees. I can let the fire go out. Not so fast. The temps will drop during the day to the 30s. Nighttime will be in the 20s.

I heard roaring winds out in the dark. The telephone forecast calls for high winds all day. I reached above the headboard and switched on the outdoor light.

Wind and rain. Oh, how cruel the wind and rain.

“Oh, the Wind and Rain (The Two Sisters)”

Oh, there were two sisters come a-walking down the stream
Oh, the wind and rain
And one of them pushed the other one in
Crying, oh, the wind and rain

Johnny gave the younger one a gay gold ring
Didn’t give the elder one anything

She pushed her sister in the river to drown
And watched her as she floated down

She floated ’til she came to the miller’s pond
Crying, Father, oh father, there swims a swan

Well, the miller laid her out on the banks to dry
And the fiddling fool come a-passing by

Way down the road come a fiddler fair
Way down the road come a fiddler fair

And he’s made fiddle strings of her long yellow hair
And he’s made fiddle strings of her long yellow hair

And he’s made fiddle pegs of her long finger bones
And he’s made fiddle pegs of her long finger bones

And he’s made a little fiddle body of her breast bone
Whose sound would melt a heart of stone

But the only tune that the fiddle could play
Was, Oh, the wind and rain
The only tune that the fiddle could play
Was, Oh, the cruel wind and the rain

Friday, December 19th. Two days til the Winter Solstice. Five til Christmas Eve. Six til Christmas. Twelve til New Year’s. Then I can get serious about winter.

Friday, December 19th. Two days til the Winter Solstice. Five til Christmas Eve. Six til Christmas. Twelve til New Year’s. Then I can get serious about winter.

It is a new moon and cloudy, so all is blackness outside the house. The lights in the valley are obscured by rain and mist and low clouds. It feels so… solitary.

But Giles is within reach. The fifty-pound fur-covered bag of flesh and muscle and bone and affection. It is nice to reach over in the dark and feel his warmth. Merry and Pip were relegated to their pen after going out at 2 a.m. Their coughing and wheezing finally subsided.

So Christmas will be over before the next story. It seems like the creche was taken downstairs not that long ago. I haven’t brought it up this year. Yet.

I wonder if the winter holiday wasn’t a way “to drive the cold winter away.”

As a child, setting up the old creche that predates my life was an honor and a thrill.

“Be careful. Don’t drop the baby Jesus.” Mom hovered above me. The figures are made of plaster, I think. I don’t know their history. There’s no one left to ask now.

I think I will spend Christmas Day in the warehouse playing with books. That’s my role. My passion. My duty. My love and joy. My last resort. The forlorn hope.

When I got home last night, it was warm. I unloaded the wood I’d fetched from halfway down the drive. The truck was full. When I was done, it was too dark to spread the mulch. I did drive the truck down to the spot I planned to put it. It was backed close to the stone wall behind which I was going to toss it.

Well, it is too rainy this morning and perhaps too cold this afternoon. Stymied.

Today will be a good day, I think. I got a text. The last 16 bookcases are coming to the Gaithersburg store this morning. The 50-year-old bookshop’s transformation will be complete—except for the ceilings and lights—but they don’t really matter.

Merry Christmas, Carl. I hope you can see your old place from wherever you are. (Certainly heaven, as his soul was one of the sweetest I have known.)

I can’t wait to see it. Then we can seriously fill all the bookcases in the place. What categories deserve more space? How should they be configured? I’m excited for the children who will stumble upon this bookshop and be enveloped by all the magic around them. They will have lifelong memories of the place. And, if fate allows, they can bring their children in to introduce them to a truly organic bookstore.

Last night, Wonder Book sponsored The Bishop’s Wife showing at the iconic Weinberg theater in downtown Frederick. I should have gone. The movie is full of Christmas hope, discovery and magic.

https://weinbergcenter.org/shows/the-bishops-wife-1947-movie/

The movie is based on a book by Robert Nathan. I have a copy of it around here somewhere.

Try to watch it.

A friend just texted me a NYTimes story about LOTR. I knew she was going to The Bishop’s Wife.

“Was it well attended?”

“It was a hit! … Full of Gen X and Millennials…”

Good. I did a good thing. Maybe I’ll get my reward in heaven.

Dawn has come. The rain has stopped. The forest floor is a golden dun, covered with the fallen leaves of a year now gone.

I need to finish this and get down off this perch and get to work.

I hope I can shake the Christmas blues. I wonder what all the new staff thinks of this hollow man wandering around the big building looking, always looking.

I hope this hasn’t descended into bathos. Some pathos was the target. I hope I didn’t fall short.

pathos: That quality or property of anything which touches the feelings or excites emotions and passions, esp., that which awakens tender emotions, such as pity, sorrow, and the like; contagious warmth of feeling, action, or expression; pathetic quality.
“the pathos of a picture, of a poem, or of a cry”

A friend commented on last week’s story as being lugubrious. My target was wistful and bittersweet. My shot fell short and struck banal instead. BULLSEYE!

I reached out to my travel agent yesterday. Inquiries were made about 4 trips…

What did we find this week?

This The Red Badge of Courage was the prettiest.

Was that the first adult novel I ever read? I think I was in 8th grade.

And an early edition of my favorite gardening book.

Capek coined the word “robot” in a sci-fi book he wrote.

And this early 18th-century Revelation.

I still get chills when I think that I visited the cave on Patmos where St. John wrote that part of the Bible.