You Must Have a Silver Penny To Get Into Fairyland

Little ditties written by forgotten poets
made long ago children laugh and clap their hands
Here bound forever in blue cloth boards
silver pennies fall from heaven
A silver sliver moon hovers above the cascade
A silhouetted girl earthbound
bends to speak with a fairy
perched upon a tuft of grass
The coins are poems
showering down for the child to gather
The book can speak to children today
And to one a child long ago
Open to any page and rhymes awaken
Words pictures fresh as a century ago
rise from the page and speak to your eyes
You may need a silver penny to enter Fairyland
But the precious words within this book are free

The poems you cherish in youth will still be your friends in age, for no matter how old you grow
You still need a Silver Penny
To get into Fairyland.

Blanche Jennings Thompson in her brief introduction to her second volume of children’s poetry More Silver Pennies.

I’ve written about Silver Pennies before. This is the sequel—More Silver Pennies. The nearly century-old anthologies captured me some time ago. Something about them is magic. Full of fairies and goblins and snowfall and starlight. Authors well known like Millay, Yeats, Teasdale, de la Mare, Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, Joyce and Frost. Surprise writers like Amelia Earhart. But mostly obscure poets—Annette Wynne, Lew Sarett, Hazel Hall…

“The poems you cherish in youth will still be your friends in age…”

And the vintage editions are so beautiful to look at.

And so comforting to hold. Small books—somewhere between duodecimo and octavo. Slight but not thin—160 pages or so.

They define comfort reading.

---

Monday

The frigid weather is supposed to breaking. Today will rise to 36. Sunny.

Thursday 58?

Friday 66?

Soon the ice and snow will just be a memory.

But I think my back pain will remind me of it for a while.

Friday’s snow continued long past its predicted hour. I plowed during (what turned out to be) a lull.

I recorded only 882 steps that day. I walked more than that. The phone was in the charger a lot. Also, I get no credit for the miles of ups and downs wrestling the ATV.

But there really wasn’t much to do but read, write and putter.

I was trapped.

All the Wonder Books were closed.

Saturday morning, I plowed again. I despaired getting out though. There were about 8 inches on the mile-long lane to the country road. And there were still icy bad patches from the previous snow now hidden beneath.

But getting the driveway clear was a start. Down and up, down and up, scraping the pavement as bare as possible. Then I decided to salt the bad patches. The bags of salt I bought were still in the bed of the pickup truck. I slid off one of the bags onto the little bed on the back of the ATV. It was solid as a rock. I lifted it out and dropped it on the pavement to try to bust it up. I bent and lifted the slippery thing.

“Ow!”

It must be 80 pounds.

Still solid. It didn’t bust up at all.

I really strained to lift it chest high back onto the bed of the ATV. I cut it open and beat it with a hammer—a heavy hammer. It just dented it. It was like concrete. I had some much more expensive snow melt and drove that down, stopping periodically to cast scoops of crystals over icy patches.

I met my only neighbor at the bottom of the hill. He lives half a mile away. He has a steep drive as well. He uses a self-propelled blower. We met where the driveways converge and chatted a bit.

“Better than the last one.”

“Yes. Not as icy.”

I decided to make one last pass with the plow even though that wasn’t needed. Sure enough, at the bottom of the drive, the winch line broke. I was able to limp back up and into the barn, where I disconnected the plow and dragged it off to the side.

I was too numb from January 2024’s curses to be angry or complain about the newest problem.

I went in and took a shower and prepared to lie around and/or putter all day. I texted my neighbor.

“Let me know if Mike comes by with a plow.” He has a view of the mile-long private lane we share. I don’t. Mike’s the neighbor with the giant tractor who digs out us all out of the kindness of his heart.

“I think he may have.”

‘Can I escape?!’ I wondered.

I dressed and got the dogs in the truck and headed down. Mike had plowed the lane! He scraped down to dirt and gravel along the edges so driving down the 4WD truck can have two wheels on bare solid ground. It was only a little dodgy here and there. Not nearly as icy as storm #2.

I stopped at 7-11 for coffee and sausage biscuits for the dogs.

The main roads were clear. Arrival at the warehouse about noon. Snow was blowing off the three-acre roof like a new storm. The docks were getting covered by the new false snowfall.

‘Snow can fall twice,’ I thought.

I did 5 hours of carts before my back started aching so badly I went home.

Sunday, I got down early. Carts all day. Some interesting finds.

A typed chapter with hand corrections of a book by Julian Huxley.

An 18th century tome on menstrual flow.

Grosz and Kollwitz.

Lots of others.

But by 3:30, my back hurt too much. I headed home to the great room to recline and rest.

Football. Inspector Morse. Puttering.

I brought up a few hundred travel manuals and monographs to cull.

I finally started laying my toy soldiers to rest.

But in rooting through things, I found a set of Jane Austen-ish metal figures and set them up on a shelf edge.

I “cooked” black beans and rice. (Boil water. Open box, and pour contents in. Boil 1 minute. Heat on low for 30 minutes.) It was actually delicious compared to a lot of the fare I’ve been experiencing at home in 2024. Added some hot sauce and truffle olive oil and a few more spices. I ate it with chopsticks.

It was hot, spicy and delicious.

So, maybe 2024 will improve with the big thaw.

I hope my back gets better. I have places to go and things to see. (And so much work to catch up on.)

The sense of isolation—being trapped on a mountain. No way down but my feet in extremis. I suppose rescue workers could get up in a worst-case situation. I didn’t like that. Though, really, I should have treated it like a stay-cation and enjoyed it.

I could have just waited out the storms.

I should have chilled—LOL.

That’s not how I am wired.

Maybe next time.

Other friends have related some bad news. They make my complaints look trivial.

I’ve waited out the COVID. I think. I hope. The cough is just occasional “chuffs.”

One friend had a trip from hell going to the Northwest to visit family. Hours on planes stuck on tarmacs. Diverted to an airport hours away. Early morning Uber to get to the right city. Snow and ice worse than here.

Two friends are facing daunting health issues.

Meanwhile, Gerry is frolicking in Tokyo. Sumo wresting? A surrealistic aquarium museum?

And I’m back in bed on the mountain on Monday afternoon. Back spasms. It hurt so much I left early.

Damn!

I’m getting calls and texts though. I can work supine.

The glass company was in the Frederick store measuring to put on sliding doors and tracks on the new bookcases installed recently.

“Text me pictures if you need advice,” I wrote to my son.

We are installing more shelving in the warehouse. I need to decide dimensions remotely.

“Text me some pictures.”

A mega-seller is trying to sell us some pallets of old books as well as pallets of modern hardcovers.

“Text me some pictures.”

My son is texting from the store that they are overstocked with framed stuff.

“Put what you need outside at $5-10. Stack them back as far as you can under the overhang so weather won’t get to them…”

“Text me some pictures.”

I just want to lie down. Better yet, take a hot bath. I never do that at home. Only hotels. But what if somebody needs me?

Pretty sure it was the heavy bags of solidified rock salt that hurt me. But there was plenty of other physical labor during and after the two storms. I’ll start using the more expensive but lighter snow melt.

I got in pretty early today. The dogs took extra work because it still wasn’t warm enough to leave them out.

I checked the more expensive books shipping out today. I didn’t find anything problematic. It is gratifying that people are ordering so many books.

There was a long employee/manager conference in the conference room. That’s where I wanted to be working. I could have interrupted and retrieved my laptop (and coffee.) But I didn’t want to disturb them.

I met with the other managers.

“We are getting low on raw books. [i.e. Books from the public or institutions.] We may need to adjust some of the data entry folks.”

‘It is like this every year around now, isn’t?’ I thought, trying to mitigate my worry. ‘Or is it worse this year?’

Annika had a cart of “Chuck” books. Books I requested to see again after whatever data she could find or books she thought I should see after she’d researched them. There was some great stuff on it.

Several of them were “my” books. Books from my Pennsylvania collection that I wanted to see the results on before putting them online for sale.

The Grateful Dead book has a signed tipped-in bookplate. Limited to 500 it signs by Jerry Garcia.

Batman has a full-page sketch of the Cape Crusader signed by Bob Kane.

Jack Kirby is also signed and limited and has 5 autographed post cards laid in.

A Dune first limited and signed by Frank Herbert.

Jackson Pollock.

…

Other great finds.

Just one “wow” book after another.

I changed my mind about a few books. I’m re-adding them to my collection.

By midafternoon, my back starting hurting again. I’d called my doctor in the morning for help. There was a prescription waiting for me at the pharmacy.

I hope this doesn’t ruin or cancel my trip. Ten hours on a plane with a sore back… YIKES!

Then home, where I worked remotely. More time in bed in January 2024.

Now it is dusky dawn on Tuesday.

The clock is ticking for me to heal soon enough to travel.

In the wee hours, these words came to me:

One part mends, another rends
From heel to head and stops along the way
The back aches and cannot straighten
The cough leaves, but pain moves on
Illness migrates from spot to spot
Time passes during down times
toward the inevitable conclusion

---

Thursday 5 a.m.

44 degrees outside. It will warm to 55 today. 66 tomorrow. 40s and 50s all next week.

The snow that was so daunting a few days ago will all be gone soon.

If my back wasn’t so screwed up, I could probably plant some bulbs.

Damn! So stupid.

I spent yesterday seated at the conference room table. I went through months of statements. 2023 had so many unexpected crises that some secondary tasks just got put aside—for nearly a year.

Now they were due.

I also wanted to avoid physical work to rest my back. It isn’t excruciating anymore. Must be the meds. But there is an aching overtone to each step. I’ve barely lifted a book since Sunday. If I need to rise or bend, I do it very tentatively.

A friend called about some books a couple of weeks ago. Ken is an amazing bookseller. He described a book over the phone.

“Send it please.”

Another.

“Yes.”

Another.

“Ok.”

…

They are stunning.

Tuesday was pretty exciting. An editor and photographer from a magazine I subscribed to and loved for much of my life came out to shoot me. I gave them the “tour” of the three-acre warehouse filled with books.

They were booklovers, so that doubled their oohs and aahs at the photogenic scenes we came across.

When the walk through was done, I left them to scout places in the building where they’d want me to pose.

“I brought a collared shirt and jacket. Do you want me to change into those?”

They did.

I was wearing my Half Moon Bay Brewery hoodie. I ducked into my office and changed into my brother Jimmie’s now-ancient Orvis blue blazer. I inherited it in 2002 when he passed away. I’ve worn it on many trips and other events. It has held up very well.

The editor called me, and I headed out to find them.

I hate getting my picture taken. But they put me at ease.

“Stand here… tilt your head up… look at the book you are holding… pretend you’re reading that book… beautiful… great smile… again! … small smile… look up at the shelf of books next to you…”

It may have gone for two hours. Maybe just an hour and a half. Maybe just 45 minutes. I bet there are 500 pictures of me in the camera.

“Clickclickclickclickclickclick…”

After each click, I’d move my head slightly or summon a smile.

I can’t talk about it now but will write more when it comes out.

Back to Thursday morning. The valley is completely obscured by fog.

It is raining. Almost all the snow that covered the mountain in white is gone. The porch has its covering changed from the white stuff to thousands of sunflower husks and seeds. I tossed a lot out there during the snowfalls. And they just kept getting buried by fresh snowfall.

The housekeeper is coming today. My home is looking better than ever. “Ever” being the onset of COVID in 2020—when time was reset, and it became a new world… and my home fell into neglect.

The slender tender first daffodil shoots are rising from the earth at the warehouse. They are like emerald lady fingers.

My friend Gerry texted me overnight. Now he is snowed in… in Kyoto.

---

Friday morning.

It is completely black inside and out. I reach back and switch on the outdoor lights and see the house is engulfed with fog.

It is warm inside. The woodstove is doing its job. It also helps that it is 53 degrees outside at 5 a.m. It will rise to 66 today. Crazy weather.

I’ll let the fire burn out.

My back is much better. I’ve been treating it with care. And I suppose the medicine is helping. I think the medicine is making me a bit foggy.

Thursday was hectic.

I forced myself to go through statement after statement. It took two days, but I was finally able to take all of 2023 to the accountant. Why put it off til the last minute? Because I dread that exercise. I’d much rather play with books, and that is where my talent lies.

The writer of the magazine story called and interviewed me for over an hour, I think. My voice is still raspy from COVID. I hope I didn’t ramble on too much. Actually, I just checked the phone. I was only 33 minutes. But still, it was torture for me to try to choose the right words and avoid gaffes.

I made the circuit to the banks and the accountant’s office then spent the rest of the day doing carts.

---

Which book do you think is more beautiful?

Simple vellum and gold? Or ornate tooling and decorations. I like them both.

Books can be such beautiful objects.

And then there is the magic inside them.

These two both win the trifecta.

Binding. Condition. Content.