September 21st.

An anniversary.

September 21st was my first day of business in 1980.

I wonder what it was like then.

I know there was an electric circular saw, 1″x 6″ and 1″x 8″ inch #2 pine boards, Minwax Special Walnut Stain, finishing nails, 4’x8′ Lauan paneling to use as backing…

Those first months, I was more a shelf builder than a bookseller.

You need bookcases to sell books.

I had leased 1800 square feet just beyond The Golden Mile (a.k.a. Rt 40/West Patrick St.) The Golden Mile began at the interchange of US 15 and Rt 40. It ended a mile (more or less) west at the hugely popular Fredericktowne Mall. That mile was lined with shopping centers and fast-food joints, restaurants, gas stations… So many national corporations had their iconic logos on signs along there. It was a golden strip to do just about any kind of business.

But the Mall was the most popular. On weekends, it felt like 5th Avenue at Christmas time. So many people walking, talking, window shopping, jostling… Streams of humans flowed like corpuscles in arteries. Kids added to the crowds. The Mall was the place to go and be seen by other kids.

Beyond the Mall—the end of The Golden Mile—traffic dropped off drastically.

So my little shop, Book Alcove of Frederick, was at the mile and a tenth mark, I would guess. Close enough, I guess. You could see our pylon sign from the Mall entrance. We were in a tiny four-unit strip center. It was “anchored” by a High’s Dairy Store—really just a convenience store that served ice cream cones too.

Building bookcases. That’s what I would have been doing in September 1980. Mostly. There were occasional customers too. Somehow, I could tell when the front door opened. There was a little bell hanging above it. It would give a little “tinkle” when the door opened. I doubt I could have heard that over the circular saw. Maybe there was a draft created. I’d be working in the back room with the back door propped open. Or even in the parking lot outside.

Maybe I could just sense that someone was coming in.

Survival.

Bookcases meant more books.

More books meant more choices for customers.

More choices meant more sales.

More sales meant the experiment might work.

How many bookcases could I build in a week? I know I got faster. Learned shortcuts.

I had to fill that space with bookcases.

When the little shop was filled with bookcases and the bookcases laden with books, then I could become a full-time bookseller.

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It is a tangerine dawn. It began as burnt orange.

Sunrise is in about 5 minutes. 6:56.

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It is another anniversary as well.

Ten years ago at the end of September 2013, we settled on the warehouse. That building is about 80 times bigger than the first store. We bought the warehouse from the US Post Office. It took 6 months to get to settlement.

Then another race began. A race for survival. We had a 9-month deadline to be out of the old warehouse so it could be demolished. June 30, 2014.

I wrote about The Move not long ago.

That story did not capture the monumental effort that was put into The Move. It couldn’t. The project was massive.

Nor does it reflect the fear and panic associated with it.

It was a huge risk.

We had to pay double rents for those 9 months. That was another incentive to speed the process along.

The goal was to fill the new warehouse with bookcases. The more bookcases, the more books we could put online. More books equals more sales. More sales mean a better chance of survival.

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There it is.

The first sunrise to emerge from the forest as the sun journeys south.

I need to lean out the window a little to the right to see it.

It is close enough to be the first day of fall as well. The equinox. Officially, it is September 23rd this year. But I always think of the seasons beginning on the 21st of March, June, September and December.

The sun is directly above the equator now, though it doesn’t seem like it from here. You just have to trust the science.

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Now it is September 2023.

What a journey.

I’m not quite sure where to go from here.

The books are now just overwhelming.

So many.

I can’t stop. The backup would create gridlock in the building.

And I’m committed. I have a responsibility.

But I’m overwhelmed.

Drowning.

I can’t build any bookshelves to take more books. The building is full.

Or is it?

What if…

I should be landing in Paris just about now. I was so looking forward to it a couple of months ago.

Then things got… broken.

At this moment, I’m glad to be here, in my bed, with the fall sun rising.

A new season beginning.

A new life in the world.

I’m a grandfather.

Griffin Stephen Badgely Roberts was born in Wisconsin last Friday.

His dads drove him home to Virginia a few days later.

I picked up the laundry yesterday on the way home.

I’ll put these summer shirts away.

The housekeeper is coming tomorrow. I need to clean up for her. I didn’t get the great room cleared out for her. Maybe I’ll just pick up and stack stuff so she can vacuum and dust.

But I might go to the county fair tonight. It ends this weekend.

And I have things to plant and transplant. Mulch to spread. Manure and soil to dump to fill the new beds.

Well, I can’t complain that there’s nothing to do.

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Speaking of which—Ernest and I are racing down the interstate to the Gaithersburg store.

Mostly I wanted to go to escape the “Cart Anxiety Syndrome” I’ve been experiencing lately. (Check the DSM—it is there on page 373.)

But now we have an urgent need for 100 linear feet of beat up coffee table books.

“Oh, joy!”

An easy, if strenuous, therapeutic purge. The store staffs will be happy with all the shelf space we create.

My right shoulder is much better. I can actually reach the top of my head. Last week, I had to bend to my hands to wash my hair, etc. It still hurts to extend it. And it is a bit “weak.”

But soon we will arrive, and I will take on the bookseller’s working pose—on my knees in the bookshop. I’ll be pulling outdated travel coffee table books. Tall books are most often shelved on the lower shelves.

“Who the hell would send a 1960s London view book?”

(Maybe me?)

But I may not be doing much of the “To the Top Shelf Stretch.” It would cause me pain.

This morning, I spent a little time with a hand illuminated “Nunnery” book. I just made that term up. It could also be called a “Monastery” book. It depends on the gender of the devotees. I have about a dozen of these now. You’re certainly aware that religious institutions needed to raise funds somehow. Some made beer or wine. Some baked or made confections. Some made books.

That is a nice low limitation. Most are. That’s why you don’t see them often. Also, I think they are not on a lot of people’s collecting (or selling) radar.

Each page has a large flowing hand rendered capital in several colors.

This puts lie to the adage, “You can’t have your book and read it too.”

So much to do…

And I really carry the guilt that I haven’t done enough.

What’s next?

What is the next level?

Or have I risen as high as I can go?

The contractors are working on my huge pool.

Actually, it is the drainage pond for the new warehouses. One or both of them may be finished in October. It will be nice having some money come in. I don’t think the “pond” will be wet. It will have a liner with largish rocks atop that.

Too bad. It could be a cool swimming hole. Or fish! I could stock it!

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“Owww, owww, owww…”

We pulled a ton—perhaps literally—of really bad coffee table books.

All those tubs are filled with culls. There are a lot more tubs to bring out too.

I think (I hope) that the badness is more a testament of the good stuff selling and dregs remaining. This store has been doing so well since COVID.

My knees are fine. My shoulder hurts.

But the work was very satisfying.

So much to do.

So many moving parts.

Now we are racing. (No, Ernest is not speeding—I just think he is—maybe I’m becoming my mother who, as my passenger, would frequently throw her hands to the car ceiling in terror that I was about to kill us both. She’s been dead since 1977. So far, so good.) …Now we are racing back to the Frederick warehouse. Someone is dropping off books and “needs” a check—today. There’s no one there to evaluate their books.

Last weekend was the usual. A vast herd of carts loaded with books. 16 hours. Sitting on a stool reading spines. Then rising and rotating the cart 180 degrees. Then pushing it away and pulling another up to the stool.

Sit. Stand. Sit. Stand. Sit…

In addition to the regular, I had two house call collections carted up. One was from the fall of 2021. One from early 2022.

One was “musty.” It smelled a bit. The books were from a Hungarian immigrant couple. They were doctors. They had escaped the Communist system there and the revolution. I was in Hungary about a year ago. The history of the Nazi and Soviet purges (murders) was pervasive. A lot of the current population grew up in those times. A “black and white” life. They remember.

Their books had been stored at ground level, but the house hadn’t been climate controlled for a while. Thus the musty odor. I’d set them aside to air out.

The other lot came from a smokers’ house. They were Francophiles, but I think both were government employees. One worked for the US Census. My last job before becoming a bookseller was as a census taker in 1980. This collection had a lot of extremely esoteric academic French books. Economic history. Sociological history. University press hardcovers that smelled of stale cigarette smoke. Most had never been opened, I’m pretty sure.

These had been set aside to air out.

I felt the time was ripe for them to come out of their boxes and have their shot at survival. I felt I should be the one to go through them in case they were still ripe with smoke or mustiness.

Sit. Stand. Down. Up…

At least my thighs are in good shape.

Both collections were ok to go out to market.

I got through a lot of books, a lot of carts. Maybe I set some kind of record. But then I feel that way pretty often come Sunday evening.

After work, I went to J&P Italian and Pizza. I wanted to drive some carryout up to Pennsylvania as a treat to the one who had broken her hip. Recovery is progressing. Walker. Cane…

While I waited, I had a beer at the bar with a half-dozen TVs glaring sports into my eyes. They have 1623 on tap. That French beer evokes happy memories of trips there.

Do I wish I was in Paris now?

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Later in the week, I finally got to some of the tubs in the office space we are trying to open up. There were some good books in them.

About two-thirds were books Madeline had researched and wanted me to review for different reasons. About one-third were books I wanted to see again after she had looked them up. I’d put blue “Chuck” slips in those so she’d know to put them aside.

The William Tecumseh Sherman has a signed free frank that his daughter had clipped from an envelope and tipped onto the free endpaper. We got a collection—pre COVID—of Sherman family books. I was told the seller was the “last of the Shermans.”

So many great books.

My plans for clearing up the office space didn’t get very far. Too many distractions.

Maybe next week.

How much further behind would I be if I’d taken the trips to Dublin, the Baltic states and Paris?

I shudder at the thought.

Or maybe it’s the chill in the air.

Hopeless.

Ernest and I are back. I hopped out of the van. He is backing it to Dock 2. There are 21 loading docks in this building.

It is almost 1. The day is pretty much shot.

I made a bank run and then another.

Would I get to the Great Frederick Fair tonight—Thursday night? I had to drive past the fairgrounds to get from one bank to the other. Lots of family groups entering and leaving the gates. So festive.

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Tuesday, September 19th.

Chilly with the windows open. Giles is pushed up against me in bed. More for warmth than affection. I’m ready for fall and cool, then cold, weather.

Good dreams and a good sleep.

I dug the last potatoes last night. Boiled them. Sprinkled olive oil and garlic salt on them. Snipped some wild garlic chives over them and then ate them with a fork. Perfect. The texture just right—between firm and mushy. A wondrously simple food. A “gift.”

I will certainly plant a lot more next spring.

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Wednesday

I awoke in the dark, triply sore.

My shoulder ached but not as terrifically as last week. I can now raise my arm above my head—tentatively.

My right thigh cramped. The muscle—whichever one it was—stood out hard as rope and would not be appeased by any pose I attempted.

My gut was in turmoil, as if some being lived in there. Gurgling, growling and stretched full of itself.

I rose and sought the usual cures. I returned to bed and awaited their effects.

“I just want to sleep in when morning comes. Put a pillow over my head to shutter dawn’s light and stifle morning’s sounds.”

One day away from the ranks of books. Some upstanding, waiting in orderly rows. Each eager for their turn to come. Others shelved on carts in disarray. Flat. Leaning. Skewed. Akimbo.

(Akimbo?!)

Odd shapes and sizes. Too tall. Too deep.

I see them in my mind’s eye. I hear their call some miles distant.

Or is it madness? Possession. A life spun out of control.

I should be frantically packing for Paris this morning. I was so looking forward to it. Then I wasn’t. The time is not right. Too much to do. And the recent turmoil has unsettled my mind, and the effort just seems to insurmountable.

I know why I cramped. Last evening, I prepared a new bed for a couple dozen trillium rhizomes. I cut, lifted and spread a couple dozen bags of composted manure. Then I dug small trenches with the hand adze and gently pressed the plants into the soil. I covered and smoothed the soil over them. I carried two watering cans down so they’d get a good moist start.

Then I fired up one of my four orange Husqvarna chainsaws. My right arm, with its sore shoulder, only serves as a trigger finger and to lightly tilt the blade up or down as needed. The left hand and arm bears almost all the weight, does almost all the work.

I had dragged a lot of deadfalls to the front porch a couple of weeks ago. I keep a couple of black cast iron rings loaded with firewood there. If I run out of wood on the side porch and it is too rainy, icy or snowy to take the cart to the barn, I can simply take a tote downstairs and step out on the porch where the wood and I are nice and dry.

There’s a little “yard” there. I have a cable tether screwed into the earth. I wanted to tie out big dumb goofy Giles there so he can watch me work. If he’s “loose” on a tether, he doesn’t bark incessantly like he does when he is penned and can “see” me loose and realize he is not.

He has run off a couple of times recently when I took my eye off him. The vast forest around me is daunting. If he got lost, searching would be hopeless. Thus far, he has returned in an hour or two.

I was concerned the cable would get tangled in the firewood and so decided to cut it into stove lengths, which would not snag the hound.

I also went into the forest nearby and dropped a couple of dead trees. Standing dead wood is dry wood. I’ll be able to burn it right away.

Anyway, that and other chores got unused leg muscles aggravated. They paid me back in the wee hours.

What caused my gut to rebel, I’m not sure. I made canned tuna salad. Maybe it was too rich and spicy.

I had a wonderful dream. In that dream, I was deliriously happy. She was back. I would very much like to go and find that dream and live there.

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Friday morning.

The laptop is propped up on a couple of pillows.

I need to finish this.

Perla will be here in a couple of hours, and I still have to do pre-cleaning so she can come and clean.

Giles has started panting and emitting a gentle whine. Nature calls. He hops off the bed, and I follow him—dishabille. It is chilly. 55 the thermometer reads. We step out onto the driveway. He trots off into the woods and is searching for the perfect spot. The pavement is littered with hundreds of acorns. It is a bumper crop this year. Does that portend a bad winter? I’ve learned not to park under the oak next to the house. Nuts falling from on high can leave little micro dents on the vehicles.

Now we are back in bed. Poor Giles. Prostrate next to me. A limp long lithe stretch of black and white fur and flesh.

What’s to become of you?

Goofy pain in the a**.

I did go to the fair last night. I met a friend who I’ve been estranged from for a couple of years.

COVID—it messed up so many relationships.

We looked at a couple hundred rabbits vying for ribbons. Chickens. Turkeys. Cattle. Sheep. Goats. Alpacas.

The piglets were so cute.

The people were in competition with the creatures for exotic appearances.

Where do they come from?

We sat and shared a platter of ribs with sides of baked beans, coleslaw and cornbread. It was delicious but way too much food.

Then we walked around the fairgrounds. The lights and sounds and smells. Carnies and kids. Young couples. Teen bucks and does. Farm folk. Oddballs.

Then it was time to quit. She left through one exit. My way was through another.

I went home. Bumped up the mountain. Took care of the three dogs.

I couldn’t sleep. Maybe too much coffee.

Maybe I was trying too hard to find the way into that dream.

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I’ve been too busy to get into the collection Larry brought last week.

“The big Dante might be something,” he said.

“Only if it’s four or five hundred years old.”

I did take a peek.

It is a beauty.

A large slipcased folio. Botticelli and Bruce Rogers.

Limited to three hundred copies.

What else is there?

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Giles

Big dumb goofy gawky
But graceful when he lopes
His paws thump the ground
when he gallops
as if he bears thoroughbred hooves
Mindless of his mindless strength
when he is in, he must needs rush out
when he is out, he is headlong strong to get in
Whining whimpers if you turn your back to him
Incessant WOOF, WOOF, WOOF if you walk away
When I come home and approach his pen,
he shudders and shakes til he vibrates
His mouth working in silent pants
Teeth and lips straining to canid smile
Calm on a lead til a movement distracts
He leaps, lunges
my arm strengthens to stay in its socket
He lies upon the bed next to me now
a long lithe limp stretch of black and white fur and flesh