Monday, April 6

A beautiful cool day.

Clif is driving us to the Gaithersburg store. I haven’t been there for a few weeks. The mega-buys have kept me tied up at the warehouse every day.

Trees are blooming along the streets and highways.

The redbuds (or Judas trees, as my mom called them) have begun to bloom. I’ve been pruning the seedlings and saplings I’ve planted all over the mountain. Like all gardeners, I’m gratified at the successes and perturbed and confused by the failures.

“Why? What did I do wrong?”

They are beautiful all year, but in spring, their blooms can be effervescent.

Wikipedia describes the color as “magenta pink.”

These are the North American species of Cercis. The true Judas tree species is native to southern Europe and western Asia.

But I guess Americans, like my mom, appropriated the name.

Eastern Redbud (Cercis canadensis), a small native tree currently in bloom, is sometimes also called the Judas tree or Flowering Judas. Part of the legend behind this name and this lovely native goes back to Christian folklore. The mythology surrounding all Redbuds originally dealt with a species in the same genus found in Judea and various other parts of the Middle East that is also called the Judas tree, Cercis siliquastrum.

The legend says that originally all Redbuds were tall, strong and stately trees that bore beautiful white flowers. However, when Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus and committed suicide by hanging himself, the tree he chose to use was the Redbud. The tree was so ashamed of the role it played that forever more it would not grow big or strong enough to be used for hanging. The wood from then on would be brittle and the flowers, no longer pure, lost their white color and blushed instead. Thus we get the alternate name for Redbuds: the Judas tree, the tree he chose for his death. Probably closer to the truth was that this tree grew throughout Judea and thus was called “Judea’s Tree” which was changed somewhere along the line to just being referred to as Judas tree.

When I last counted a year or two ago, there were about 75 babies I’d bought or dug up from certain doom. They were planted here and there and everywhere. This week, tiny leaves are emerging. When the blossoms fall, there will be little trees with heart-shaped leaves all around my property.

The main wave of daffodils is ebbing. Millions of tiny ferns are rising from the earth and unfurling their croziers all over the mountain. The world around me is greening. So it begins again, a new year filled with new life.

My whim of covering the terraced beds with mulch yields surprises and different views.

This colony of Solomon’s seal pokes up through the mulch canvas.

I knew they were there, but they didn’t show as babies among the dead leaves and other dead plant debris from last year’s cycle.

And, what’s that? A few plants pushing up from the mulch ten yards away.

“Couldn’t be.”

Yes. Jack in the pulpit. In the middle of “nowhere.”

A few volunteers that I had no idea were there. What about the ones I’ve actually planted here and there? No time right now to go looking for them.

Are the trilliums up yet? Do they need protection? They’ll have to take care of themselves unless I can find the time to attend to them.

All this new life emerging from winter’s barren world.

The two new gardens I put in so late are a success! Gratifying. My gardens have leapt the dead zone and colonized the other side and below the paved drive.

Beautiful.

All those flowers are new this year. They will multiply and come back every year forever, I guess.

Too many balls in the air. Thank God the kinds of gardens I’ve learned to put in up here need very little attention. Or, like me, none at all.

I didn’t sleep well last night. Merry and Pip had frequent spells of wheezing. I was so tired I just suffered with the frequent wake-ups until it was too much. Around 3, I dragged myself out of bed to put them in the pen. Of course, they saw that as an opportunity to go outside. Pip is almost completely blind. I fear he will wander away. He must have some sense of light, as when I call (and call and call and call…), he meanders back toward the house; bumping into obstacles on the way, he can find his way to and up the porch steps. I think the porch lights are a kind of beacon for him. He doesn’t seem to mind his ailments. Perhaps it is better not to know you’re blind and your body is failing. Just keep going with what you’ve got.

“Was I always like this? Doesn’t matter. I am what I am now. That other life is gone.”

The little guy is cuddling up to me in bed this Tuesday morning. Such a sweetheart, unless you’re a groundhog. To them, he was a fearless killer. He and his brother knew instinctively how to tag-team attack the rodents—which could be twice as big as Pip. One dog would face the varmint, distracting it from the other, who would attack from behind. The battle would end when one of them got hold of the back of the critter’s neck. (How can you FIND a groundhog’s neck? The beasts don’t have a defined one, and their thick skin and fur coat are so loose on their bodies that it makes it difficult for predators to get hold of anything vital.) A couple shakes, and the neck would be broken. A quick kill. No suffering.

The roofers are done. I don’t have to rush out this morning to get the driveways clear for their trucks. It looks good. The new gutters are bright and shiny. I’m not sure about the shingle color I chose—too late now.

I’m tired. Maybe it is leftover from the weekend’s marathon book extravaganza. I really pushed myself to get through as many carts as I could.

So many books. So many beautiful and meaningful.

And my responsibility until someone else adopts them.

Duty competing with life.

Wednesday. A cold morning. 29 degrees. This may be the last hard freeze. I let the fire go out. Careless. Should have stuck a big log in it last night.

Pippin is on the bed down by my knees. He is gazing at me with love and devotion. His milky white blind eyes can’t see me but must know where I am. I reach down and squeeze the loose skin on the back of his neck. It comforts him. It comforts me.

The boom continues at work.

“1070 orders dropped in from them overnight.” These from one mega buyer who is ordering that many books, more or less, every day.

The big store pull may be finished. No need to pull any more than will fill the second truckload. They, that mega buyer, have expressed no interest in a third truckload. That’s good in some ways. It’s been a major distraction. We’ve sent hundreds of yellow plastic tubs to the stores every weekday for a couple weeks now.

60,000 books pulled off the store shelves and Gaylorded.

A very big sale. It can pay down the loans some.

They will ship out on Friday.

The Book Rush of ’26. This century’s Gold Rush for printed matter. Who’d have ever thought used books would be a desirable commodity for huge corporations?

I wonder how long this roller coaster ride will last?

So many balls in the air. So many moving parts. What should I focus on? Where should my time be spent? I thought I could do it all. I have been. 8 days a week since I returned from Scotland last September. Can I maintain the pace? Can my team?

“Hire 4 or 5 more pullers,” I tell the managers.

3 or 4 six-figure orders. 7 or 8 five-figure jobs. We’ve put them in a queue by date received and knock them out one at a time.

I bought a thousand pounds of stone yesterday. It comes in 85-pound bags from Irwin Stone. I’m using the “Delaware 1-3” river rubble. For some reason, the entrance onto Mulch Road from the paved driveway is soft much of the time. When I pull onto it, the tires sink in and leave ugly ruts. I hope these will provide a firm surface to enter upon. I’ve used the same stone along the edges of the driveway to prevent erosion. That seems to be working.

I backed the truck down the driveway and angled it toward the entrance to Mulch Road. It is much easier to unload when the truck is tilted downhill. Climbing up into the truck bed was awkward. The bags were rolled toward the tailgate. I aimed the top of the bags toward the back. The bunched-up plastic where the bags are wired shut acts as a handle for me to drag them off and let them fall to the ground.

Thursday

The getaway panic is setting in. It’s been 7 months since the trip from London to Windsor to Oxford to Stratford to the Cotswolds then the Lake District and Scotland—Edinburgh and Glasgow… and points in between.

I’m on my way to look at another store location. I’m in the backseat trying to work on the laptop. Joey is driving. Clark is navigating. The Jeep’s backseat is not made for comfort. It is a loud rocking ride back here. Such a frivolous vehicle, but good for mountain climbing and descending. And I hope for ice and snow. I put big nubby tires on it. They add to the rough, somewhat loud ride. But it is fun. When I learn to peel back the ragtop, it can be a convertible, or, if I go all the way, the whole thing folds up. A kid’s car. It IS fun to drive.

The new roof and gutters look good. Had to be done.

When I got home last night, I indulged myself. I cut up all the deadfalls I’ve brought to the upper driveway into stove length. I should burn through all of that before the stove season ends in a month or so. Then I went into the barn to split wood. The damn tree people left a lot of chunks that are way too big. The last thing I want is to hurt my back lifting firewood into the pickup truck. I’ll probably reach out and tell them I won’t be calling them again. Weird. I’ve been a customer for 5 or 6 years. Spent a lot of money each year. I asked them not to leave any big diameter pieces longer than 12 inches. Some of the beasts have got to be 80 pounds.

I switched the red knob on the splitter to “On.” Then pulled out the wire loop that serves as a choke. A couple of yanks on the cord, and the machine roared to life. I pushed the choke back in. The engine settled into its healthy rhythm. I grunted a big piece of tupelo up into the cradle. Fortunately, the cradle is only a couple feet off the floor, so the lift is not too onerous. A lever sets the hydraulic bar with the cast iron wedge at its end in motion. When the tip of the wedge touches the wood, it pauses as if gathering strength. The engine revs itself up, and… “POP”, the log splits. Most wood splits cleanly. Maple will essentially fly apart, a clean break. The tupelo, or black gum, I’m working on now has interlocking fibers in its trunk. So, while the log breaks in two, it doesn’t completely separate into two pieces. It is held together by strands of stringy wood of varying thickness. Sometimes I’ll flip it over and split it again from the other side. Sometimes I can separate it by hand. Sometimes I just give up and toss the two still attached pieces onto the pile to stack. It’ll be easier to break in two when the wood dries out and becomes brittle. It takes six months for the wood to dry, to season.

(Sound on.)

I enjoy this kind of work. I’d be bored pulling on ropes in a gym. Plus, every split is heat for next winter. The ash will be recycled into the gardens.

If you don’t hurt at the end of the day, you haven’t worked.

One of the last fires of the season is glowing a few paces from my bed.

I’ve had a day of so many ups and downs.

And through it all, the leitmotif of the physical book is what counts for me.

Family, friends, grandkids, homes, the dogs, gardens—yep—they are what it is all about. But when those lives are stripped away, what is left—the book and me.

Because for me books are air, water, food and, yes, love.

Unchangeable.

This beauty may last for a thousand years.

I will be long forgotten.

Everyone I know will likely be as well.

But if I do my job and if a few dozen future booksellers do their job, when 3026 rolls around, a pair of hands will hold the polished leather Caxton. A pair of eyes will drink in its beauty and content and meaning.

Unless… unless we invented our replacements, and what remains is deep-thinking machines drinking life from humming data centers.

It is 4 in the morning. Friday. I didn’t sleep but a little. Too many balls in the air. If I drop one, they’ll all fall, and that will be it.

I can’t keep doing this.

I can’t keep up the pace.

I’ve got to get away.

I can’t afford to get away. Too much business coming in.

Journal #30 was finished yesterday. I wonder what #31 will record. #30 began at the end of August 2025 then presided over the biggest book boom we’ve ever experienced.

Dawn is breaking. The dogs went out to relieve themselves. Turkeys were gobbling in the woods somewhere up above the house.

Crossing the house back to my bedroom, I looked out the bay window. There are still lots of daffodils in bloom. The redbuds in the front and along the drive down the mountain are peaking pink.

“Focus on the good and what is working.”

A bookseller friend dropped off a big load this week. (We get a lot of these. That’s a good sign.)

He asked about smoky books.

“Not so much. They’re hard to sell.”

“There are some nice books in there. Vonnegut firsts…”

“Ok. We’ll try. It might take a year or so to air them out.”

“Don’t pay much for ’em if you can’t use ’em at all.”

We’ll see if they pass the smell test.

The amaryllises continue to bloom prodigiously. I hid this one in a pot with other plants 4 or 5 years ago. It goes outside in summer dormant. Then it winters over inside, and “boom”, it sneakily sends the stalk up and surprises me with color when it opens.

We went over the March sales figures. All three stores were up over March 2025. Gratifying, especially considering we’ve been so distracted with the big buys.

Me? I’m just grinding away, pushing books to the stores and online and, as a last resort, to Books by the Foot.

I decided to order some “legacy” photos from the article about us in March 2024. This was only 2 years ago. I feel so much older than the guy in the picture. The photographer sent some outtakes, and we will use the two that were published. When she sends the full-size files, I’ll get some 8x10s printed. We can sell them in the stores… LOL.