Oh, how cruel the wind…

The wind…

It is roaring down the mountainside. Bare, skeletal treetops flail. The faint light of the night sky defines their silhouettes. I know dead brown dry leaves are being pried from the earth and chased down the slopes. Why there isn’t a mountain of dead leaves at the foot, I don’t know.

The house is full of soft breathing at 3 in the night. (Remember, morning doesn’t officially begin until 5.) I breathe. Awake because… I don’t know. Haunted by memory and loss and loneliness. Three dogs on the bed next to me must be breathing. No wheezing or snoring or coughing tonight. But I cannot hear them. The raging winds outside drown them out. The humidifier a few feet away hums softly, breathing vaporized water mist in the air. The furnaces run outside, somehow warming air and breathing it into the vents and out of them into every room. The woodstove is perhaps the liveliest breather. The fire inhaling air to keep it burning, to keep it alive. The iron box releases heat, and its radiance fills the room.

But the wind raging outside is nature’s breath. Oxygen flowing everywhere fast and hard. Cold and merciless. The wind is searching for ways inside my home. Though the doors are bolted, the sashes locked, the walls and roof seamless, somehow air gets in and out. It is a struggle to keep the place warm. To keep myself warmer, I pull the faux fur rug up over my shoulders and above my neck, burrowing, hiding from the too cool air in the room.

Meanwhile, I breathe. The dogs and the humidifier breathe. The furnace and woodstove work to breathe warmer air into the rooms.

Now it is morning. 7 a.m. It is still windy, but not the roaring there was in the dark of night.

Imagine these treetops flailing madly a few hours ago.

17 degrees out.

The week has been terrible. So many things going wrong.

People problems.

Bizarre legal problem. We have done nothing wrong.

The cold and snow.

Canceled trip. Again.

(I know these problems are minuscule compared to the burning in LA.)

But the weightiest issue is the passing of my mentor and friend.

It has been a dark week.

Bitter. Angry. Dark. Cold.

The dogs are oblivious. Happy to be warm, pressed up against me.

What’s wrong with me?

It is brutally cold outside. I think of the struggles of the birds. Puffed up in some freezing shelter in the forest, waiting for dawn when they can flock to my porch roof and feast upon sunflower seeds.

Cardinals in their formal brilliant magenta. (Actually, “cardinal” is a color.) Titmice, nuthatches, chickadees. Woodpeckers—red-bellied, downy, hairy. Red-headed house finches. Carolina wrens. Goldfinches in their dull winter coats.

The snow cover has a few dozen visitors at a time flitting in and out of sight.

Are they happy in their lot? Or just resigned to survive as best and as long as they can? No wonder they sing with such joy in the spring.

Here and now they have no choice.

Choice…

It has been a bad few days. After a bad few months.

I should turn the heat up. The fire died down over night. I went to bed early. I planned to read and maybe write. The warmth and softness lulled me to another place—quickly.

Hotel dreams again. A grand place likely based on the Waldorf Astoria where I spent so many happy times. When will I go again? That grand hotel is still closed.

The fire is alive now. Flames dancing against the glass doors. The stainless steel kettle of water is hissing atop the hot stove. But it will take a while to heat the room. Longer til the heat seeps through the opened French doors to my bedroom and warms the cold fingers typing this.

Saturday, I was in the “zone.” Focused. Flying through books. A biblio-athlete of sorts. The “game” on Saturdays and Sundays lasts about 8 hours each day. No long breaks. A marathon of books. I get pleasure from the “runner’s high.”

The phone in my pocket chimes. An annoyance. No one calls on weekends.

The screen glows softly, “BETH.”

I am yanked from the “zone.” Confused by the call, caller, day and time.

“I thought I should call instead of text you. Dad passed away last night… hospice recently… so many people to call… such a big family…”

‘Allen is gone,’ I think. ‘The world is different now and forever.’

We talk for a while. Names come up and faces appear in my mind’s eye. Some humor. He told a family member visiting, “I’ve never died before. I’m not sure how to do it.” That would be an Ahearn way of handling a problem.

A lifetime ago. Their house was just a couple of blocks from where I grew up. But I didn’t know them til around 1980 when I became a bookman. Then our lives crossed many times and many ways for the next four decades.

The first cardinal flits in. In the predawn light, it is a black bird. Only its silhouetted profile tells its identity.

The juncos. I didn’t mention those winter visitors from the far north. Dark gray above. Off-white breast and below. Always 8, 10, 12 of them coming and going.

The teakettle is screaming. The hot mug will feel good on my cold fingers. I’ll drop another log in the fire as I pass by.

“Would you call …?” she asked.

It is Wednesday morning already. The week has been a disaster so far.

Snow covers the world outside. Winter’s bite will continue. Lows in the teens the next ten days at least.

What to do with the dogs when it is so cold? They could stay in bed all day and consider the time well spent. I brought the extra pen upstairs from the garage yesterday morning. Would Giles bear it? Or would he go crazy and burst out of it? I ended up taking him to work.

Plows were everywhere. I plowed the driveway an extra time before dawn on Tuesday. I’d plowed the ten inches or so on Monday afternoon, but then more snow came on Monday night.

At work, less than half the people came in. Monday, we were closed. Part of me was frantic to escape and get down the mountain. But the snow continued all day. It started before dawn.

“Allen’s gone.” The thought rises to the fore every half hour or so. And some memory will flash like a brief film in my mind.

I forgot the mourning doves. They appear so big compared to the other songbirds. Their sad cooing when the windows are open evokes sadness and loss.

“All men lead lives of quiet desperation.”

Allen would have talked me out of that.

A bad few days. Better than nothing?

I canceled the trip to London. I’d be flying out at 6 tonight.

Too many problems. Dogs. Prescriptions running out for the dogs and me. A potential lawsuit. Snow. Cold. We are low on books. A promised truckload didn’t come through. It was a done deal I thought. People problems. Space problems. My creativity is needed.

Maybe a funeral.

On Monday during the storm, I noticed the suet feeders had been knocked off the chain. Deer? I put on the high boots and trudged out and hung even more. I set six cakes of fat in them for the birds to eat.

I shepherd the birds, the forest, the dogs and the books.

“Shepherd yourself.”

I should.

Gerry wanted to meet in London and go to shows. Operas. Dinners.

I’m here. In the cold and snow. Chores. Problems. Puzzles. Duties.

Guilt.

“Allen’s gone.”

There may be a service. Would I be welcome? We made up last year. I’m still not sure what I did—what was it—five years ago?—when he exiled me after 40 years of friendship. For many of those, we spoke or emailed almost every day.

“What did I do?”

“Nothing.”

Bitter. Angry.

Pricing LPs and a few carts of problematic books. Bitter and angry about that.

The LPs were beautiful. Lots of blues and jazz from the 1950s and 60s.

Allen was a jazz buff. In his old house in Aspen Hill hear Rockville, he would always have jazz CDs playing in his mezzanine library and office and show room. It was part of the ambience.

These LPs were from “killed” online sections. No idea why they didn’t sell better. Perfect condition and many in their original shrink-wrap.

There were also a lot of gospel and Christian music. Those won’t sell as well. I sent them out cheap.

There were some fun oddballs as well.

They couldn’t lighten my mood any more than the Christmas carols still playing on Pandora on the iPhone in my pocket. Still hoping carols will keep the darkness at bay. Songs of joy and peace and light.

And salvation.

“Jesus said unto her, ‘I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, …'”

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”

Bitter. Angry. Black mood.

Ernest is driving us down to Gaithersburg. I needed to get away. I haven’t visited for a while. I need to touch base with the landlord to see how the renovation is going for our expansion there. I hope nothing has changed.

We have a huge order for bulk LPs. That doesn’t happen often. It beats paying to put them in the landfill.

We can cull a LOT of dead stock and reconfigure the LP layout in Gaithersburg.

It is a cold day. The sun reflects off the roadside snow and hurts my eyes. I’m going to a new eye doctor. The one I had for 7 or 8 years was great. But he retired. He never expressed any concern after he punched laser holes in some walls in the eyes to reduce pressure.

“Doctor My Eyes”

Doctor, my eyes have seen the years
And the slow parade of fears, without crying
Now I want to understand
I have done all that I could
To see the evil and the good without hidin’
You must help me if you can

Doctor, my eyes
Tell me what is wrong
Was I unwise
To leave them open for so long?

‘Cause I have wandered through this world
And as each moment has unfurled
I’ve been waiting to awaken from these dreams
People go just where they will
I never noticed them until I got this feeling
That it’s later than it seems

Doctor, my eyes
Tell me what you see
I hear their cries
Just say if it’s too late for me

Doctor, my eyes
But cannot see the sky
Is this the prize
For having learned how not to cry?

David Crosby and Graham Nash did the backup vocals. I didn’t know that.

I once had an awesome record collection. 2000 or so. A crazy audiophile setup. The speakers were 4 feet high.

Thursday

Winter’s bite has taken a firmer grip. It is 16 degrees out, and this morning a brutal wind is moaning down the mountainside. The cold air flows over the house and down into the valley. I rose early.

The three dogs pressed tight against told me the fire had died down. The soft whoosh of the furnace running reinforced that. I keep it set low. 56. Time to rise and put more wood in the firebox. In winter, the Vermont Castings Defiant woodstove is the heart of the house. It glows, and the fire and coals pulse. An hour later, the temperature was 65 and rising out in the big room. I pulled the chain on the ceiling fan near the stove to try to push heat into the bedroom faster than waiting for the radiance to spread.

The dawn softly brightens the eastern horizon.

I made tea. The big red Winter Wonderland mug is cooling on the nightstand just a foot away.

The feeders got filled. An extra scoop of sunflower seed was tossed onto the snow-covered roof. Winters have been mild in recent years, and, anyway, I’ve been away often.

Until this year.

There’s still ice and snow on the driveway, though the sun has melted a lot of it. I just need to dodge the icy patches when I head down the mountain.

Allen… what can I say about someone who was larger than life?

When I was attending “school” at Waverly Auctions in the building in Bethesda that had a carousel in the middle of it, Quill & Brush had a boutique bookstore and art gallery on the ground level. Its entrance opened onto Old Georgetown Road. (Bethesda has since become a “city” with skyscrapers and the loss of its charm and uniqueness.)

I was a book nerd trying to climb from low-end consumer to low-end purveyor of old books.

Those monthly auctions were seminars. The room was full of bidders—mostly booksellers. The auction catalog was my textbook. I’d inspected the lots ahead of time. Made notes on some. Then, when the show started, I’d look and listen. I’d write down the hammer price next to the estimate. Data to fill my mind. The books or lots of books were actually selling in real time. The buyers could be high-end specialists or generalists. Book people who knew what they were doing, unlike me. There weren’t many novices like me. Occasionally, I’d bid on something if I thought it was going too low. Less occasionally, I’d actually end up buying a lot, thinking maybe the book gods were taking pity on me.

Before the auction—after I’d done my work inspecting the books being sold—I’d stop in the Quill & Brush. Though I was a scruffy kid, Allen and Pat Ahearn would treat me as well as they treated the quality folk looking at 4 and 5 figure first editions. They were book gods. Larger than life. Actually pretty tall humans. Allen was 6’4″? Seemed taller. Pat was maybe 6 feet. Allen was dapper. His 1950s goatee worked well. Savvy, but with a little “jazz” edge. Pat was statuesque. Beautiful. She’d dress up for the auction nights when the building was full of potential book buyers—dealers and collectors. I’d cautiously make my way around the shop, keeping a low profile. I’d stay out of the way of any real buyer. To me, it was a museum. Glittering glowing Mylar-wrapped Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Faulkner, Yeats… All with a price—unreachable in my current state.

“Someday I will belong here…”

I am trapped.

It is Monday.

I got home last night spent. Exhausted from another weekend going through cartloads of old books.

The signed Ayn Rand was a lucky find.

I’m glad I opened it up. Maybe Allen nudged me as he passed through visiting places one last time. That would be an Ahearn book in the old days.

Lots and lots of other treasures. A good harvest.

I had plans to prepare for the storm. Attach the plow to the ATV. Fill the wrought-iron rings with firewood. Bring in other wood I’d cut up but hadn’t gathered before it became covered with snow. I only managed one cartload hauled to the porch but not unloaded. And I backed the truck to a small pile I’d cut up for some reason on the driveway spur that goes to the garage.

Then it was inside to heat up an English muffin I made into a “nacho”—refried beans spread on the split muffin. Cheddar cut into small pieces atop that. Several slices of pickled jalapeno set on top. I made about a dozen and wrapped them in foil. Why? I gave a tour of the warehouse to a fine woman and her grandson first thing New Year’s Eve morning. She had worked for my attorney and expressed a desire to visit with her grandson someday. They arrived with 2-dozen Thomas’s English Muffins. Frederick has a muffin factory, believe it or not.

The snow began around 3 a.m. It didn’t stop til about 4 p.m.

I thought I’d enjoy the forced day off.

Maybe I’d write. Read. Do in house chores I’d been putting off.

No.

I became frozen in the past. Moody. Broody.

The snow piled up, and I did very little that was useful.

Brooding.

It was getting dark when I went out and hooked the plow onto the ATV and pushed snow down the driveway. It was very cold, so the snow was kind of crunchy. The pavement got cleared pretty well.

Back inside, I put a movie on. James Bond. Dr. No.

A day that could have been iconic was wasted on the past and the problems of the week.

Tuesday morning, I composed my thoughts about Allen Ahearn. I posted this to the ABAA membership.

The subject line was:

Allen Ahearn

He:
Was a hero to me.
Mentored me long ago.
Built my confidence.
Helped move Wonder to a new level when he named it one of 10 great bookstores in a front page story in the USA Today in 2000(?).
(Boy, did that get Wonder on the road to controversy early on.)
Became a great friend and role model as a man and father and family man.

The trips to Ireland with him and Pat—driving tiny Irish rental cars all over the island—were iconic.
Our families got together for holidays for many many years. Christmas, 4th of July, Barbara’s Lorien, Mannequin Pis, shows etc etc…
The Ahearn Christmas Eve parties became a major part of my family’s celebrations for many years including the final one in 2017(?).
They were Dickensian affairs. Huge turnouts of the extended family, friends and booksellers. Food and drink everywhere.
The walls were lined with beautiful books. The mezzanined Great Room had a 20 feet tree on display.
And Santa always making his appearance at the end.
EVERYONE was required to sit on Santa’s lap and receive their gift.
Allen and Nina’s wedding in 2018 was a wonderful affair. They were so lucky that their lives were put together.
2018 also saw the Ahearn Tribute organized by Lorne Bair and John and Karen from Bartleby’s with assists from Second Story and Wonder Book.
It was a great idea to honor the man in life rather than in memory. A restaurant in DC was taken over and so many friends, family and colleagues were there to express their appreciation and love of the man.

I last saw him about a year ago. We met for dinner with Nina, Beth and Martin and all was as had it had been for so many, many years.

To say my road would have been much different if he hadn’t seen something of worth in me all those years ago would be an understatement. And I am not the only one. I only wish I could bear Discuss to see the tributes to him there.

He and Pat wrote the first or second Wonder Book Blog in 2007. (It took me ten more years to get the courage to write and publish my first one.)

And, oh, the books. He got my best books for many years—mostly because he’d get me more than if I tried to market them myself. It was also an honor to find something worthy of Quill & Brush.

The books he and Pat wrote continue to be relevant. Young booksellers at Wonder are lent copies with assignments to read the chapters on why people collect and what makes books valuable.

Rest in Peace Allen. Your examples made me a better bookseller but more importantly a better father and man.

Love and respect,
Chuck

I’ve written so much about Allen and Pat and Nina in these stories. 400 or so and counting…

You can search using their names.

I even published one of these stories entitled Larger Than Life in 2017.

Here’s one that touches on the Ireland trips with Allen and Pat.

It doesn’t do justice to joy and discovery of those journeys. I know I wrote about them in a “book” I wrote long ago. They were still using Irish Punts (money) on the first visit. Allen was so tall. The “Dan Dooley” car rental that came with the package was so small he almost had to drive lying down. I’ll try to dig that up…

Then there was the tribute to Allen organized by fellow booksellers in 2018. This may be a bit better and also touches on his marriage to Nina..

DAMN! I can’t find the picture of me and Allen and Barbara and Pat seated on Barbara’s couch at Lorien. Someone must have taken it down when shelves were installed.

Where’d they put it?!

DAMN!!!

So many losses in the last few years.

John. My brother Tony. Emory. Who am I forgetting? Part of my mind is elsewhere.

Allen.

Only one old friend left…

Allen’s daughter Beth sent me the tentative obituary.

E. ALLEN AHEARN (Age 87)
On Friday, January 3, 2025, peacefully at home in Silver Spring, MD, of complications of myelofibrosis. Survived by dear wife Nina Masson, daughters Elizabeth Fisher (Martin) and Dyanne Ryan (John), sisters Anne Hall (Kenneth) and Kathleen Lelis (Gunars), 13 grandchildren, and 9 great-grandchildren. Predeceased by his beloved wife of 55 years, Patricia Ahearn, daughter Suzanne Regan (Ralph), and son E. Allen Ahearn, Jr. After a long and distinguished career working as a Cost Analyst and Contract Negotiator for the Navy Department and Department of Defense, Allen “quit the government” (as he liked to say) and worked a few years in Canada as a consultant before joining wife Pat full-time in the mid-1980s at the Quill & Brush, their bookshop and art gallery in Bethesda (originally established in 1976 in Olney, it continues to this day as an online store.) They also authored a number of well-respected reference works for booksellers and collectors, including Collected Books: The Guide to Identification and Values. Allen loved jazz, basketball, single-malt scotch, political round-table talk shows (civilized or otherwise), holidays, pets, and people. He was enormously grateful to have been lucky in love twice. At 6′ 4″ (“you can tell me I’m dying, doc, just don’t tell me I’m shrinking”) he was an affable and unmistakable presence at any gathering, with a great memory for stories and a terrific voice with which to tell them. He had a zest for life, wringing every last drop of joy even while in the weeks-long process of dying, which he somehow managed to handle with his usual aplomb perking up for adults and children alike (“Sorry not to get up, I’m having a bad day”) and saying near the end, “I’ve never died before, so I’m not quite sure how to do it” (as in most all things, he did a truly fine job.) Allen was a man who no doubt made an indelible mark in ways he never knew. For that and so much more, he will be greatly missed by one and all. Please join us for a Funeral Mass at St. Mary’s Catholic Church, 520 Veirs Mill Road, Rockville, MD, on January 21, 2025 at 10:30 a.m. A private interment at Gate of Heaven will be held at a later date.

That’s beautiful.

But not big enough.

It should be skyscraper tall and as broad as the ocean.

A skyscraper built of books. A sea of beautiful first editions. A lifetime of helping so many. And I was lucky enough to have been put into his path.

(Poem below.)

Are you there?
You haven’t left yet?
Visiting?
Making the rounds?
One last time
Are you cold as I?
It is frozen January.
The ground is hard as rock.
I’m glad I got the bulbs in.
Nothing could be buried now.
You were a great gardener.
Your harvest was wondrous treasures.
Important discoveries.
But there was a living crop as well.
You taught me well, Master.
It is dark and silent
But it was cold
I rose and went out for firewood
The frigid air bit my flesh
Out beyond the house lights
I thought I heard footsteps
Probably rustling dead brown leaves
moved by the mountain’s breath
But I did not linger
in the cold and dark and mysterious
Back inside
A log crooked in my right arm
The left twisted open the damper
and lifted the heavy steel lid
The fire came to life
Orange and yellow flames danced
There was a bit of blue too
The red hot coals throbbed
as if they were breathing
I set the wood inside
It fell with a clunk
Sparks flew and crackled
I closed the iron stove
There will be fire
A few hours of heat and light
before it must be fed again
Crossing back to the bed
My legs and back,
arms, shoulders and hands
sore from the labors we shared
Heavy words were our occupation
Beauty and meaning
The thoughts of great minds
and witty scoundrels
printed bound and preserved
by shepherds such we
You taught me well, Master
There. Back in bed
Beneath the layers of warmth
And there
Across the room
The flames dance
against the windows
on the doors of the firebox
A mentor’s work
lasts a lifetime
Friendships can be broken
Hearts can be rended
but life lessons learned once
cannot be disavowed.