Aldine Press

The first fire.

Monday I got home. The weekend had been monstrous. I went through so many books.

I was mindful of my arm.

I was tired when I got home. I knew the temperature would get down to the 40s overnight. It was time to bring some wood in. The wall in the barn, which is lined with 7-foot high bins stacked with seasoned wood, was blocked by a mountain of cut and split later arrivals. Those aren’t ready to burn yet. Further back, my path to the wall was blocked by the wood splitter. I can lift and turn or pull it, but it is very heavy, and I didn’t want to risk pulling on the stitches in my arm. They stand out—black strings against my skin. Also, the tires are flat. (I’ll fill them up tonight. The portable air pump is at the warehouse.) So I parked the cart next to the splitter and clambered over it. The wood needed to be carried from the wall to the splitter and tossed over it and into the cart. Logs which would be easy to carry one handed were chosen and dropped over the splitter into the cart. It was pretty easy pulling the cart to the side porch. There’s a slight downhill decline from the barn to the house. The driveway just outside the barn is covered with about 4 inches of dead brown dry leaves. There was a satisfying crunch rolling the cart and treading over them. The woodstove had become a display surface for bric-a-brac during the summer, and all that stuff needed to be removed. I installed the new catalytic converter and was happy it fit. I’ve been saving pizza boxes and cardboard flats for a few weeks. Cardboard and paper served as a base, and small branches were set atop it. I struck a 3-inch wooden kitchen match and set the pile alight. The dampers were open, and I left the door a bit ajar to create a draft. Soon the orange glow was dancing behind the windows on the doors.

I was surprised how quickly the room warmed. In half an hour, it was 76 degrees in the kitchen, dining area, main room…

I awoke Thursday, and the house was still 71, and the stove warm. I’ll let it die out. No need to waste firewood when the day will not be below 50, and the house will retain its warmth until this evening.

But I’m sure I’ll start another fire this evening as the overnight temps will go down into the 30s.

So it begins again.

Winter is coming inexorably. The daily rituals will change accordingly.

I see the plastic surgeon again on Wednesday. I hope I’m cleared to use my left arm more. It seems fine. The scars are closed and dry. I’m anxious to do so many things.

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It is 4 in the morning on Friday the 15th. I awoke for some reason. Maybe the rich food at the lavish open house my attorneys’ firm hosted. It was held in a soaring marble lobby and foyer in a venerable building downtown that was once the Francis Scott Key Hotel. Key was Fredericktonian.

I stirred in bed a bit and reached for the book I’m reading. That got Giles’ attention, and he made it clear he wanted to go out. I followed him for the same reason. It is cold and drizzly. 43 degrees. I brought some firewood in and added it to the woodstove. Because of my arm I haven’t carried the iron wood rings out of the barn yet, so the wood in the cart was a bit wet. But that doesn’t affect its flammability. It has been drying for four years. I remember harvesting the wood in that bin during the early throes of COVID. I took it from my vacant lot, which is now occupied by two new 52,000 square foot warehouses. A friend came and stacked it because she was bored and the closures left her with nothing to do. The wood was stacked so perfectly I have left it untouched all this time.

The orange eye glows from the stove’s glass doors not ten paces from bed where I type this.

What am I reading? One of Barbara’s books. Be Buried in the Rain. It is a Barbara Michaels title. 1985. A kind of southern gothic romance mystery ghost story, I think. This is a worn ex-library copy which I rescued off a cart that was to be pulped. 99% of ex-library books are impossible to sell—even for a buck. The writing is excellent, and I’m drawn to pick it up again and again. It is good to hear her “voice” again. So many phrases and personal philosophy espoused by her protagonist (a med student called in to sit with her half paralyzed grandmother in the ancestral rural Virginia antebellum manse) are ones I heard her speak in person.

I still miss her eleven years on.

I put the teakettle on to boil. Added wood to the fire. I won’t attempt to go back to sleep.

I am way behind on many fronts.

(The whistle is screaming, and I got up to pour the boiling water over a tea bag. Too lazy to use looseleaf. Two outdoor security lights are on. Maybe the fog rolling up the mountain triggered or perhaps some creature passed through their zones of influence.)

Behind not just because of my arm, but also because of other business and personal distractions.

The plastic surgeon reviewed my arm on Wednesday morning and pronounced it fit to use.

“Just don’t do anything crazy with it.”

It looks pretty normal. Size and color.

I’m glad there is no more awkwardly bandaging it. Or showering with my left arm in a garbage bag.

It is exactly a month since I was struck down onto the Dutch pavement. In many ways, it has been a lost month. Though I was functional for most of the time, the damage was a constant reminder. And a worry.

“Necrosis… blood poisoning… infection…”

Last weekend, I was still under instructions to not use it much. But I was so far behind that I applied myself and got a great deal done.

The boxes go to the stores. The yellow tubs to research. The carts to Data Entry or Books by the Foot.

I found a lot of treasures that I priced individually.

Ernest will split these up for the three stores—probably in the glass cases.

There were some exciting finds. Many were from old stock which hadn’t sold for years and were condemned and then carted up for me to reevaluate.

Why didn’t this signed Edward Steichen sell?

It must have been marked down dramatically over the years. Maybe it was lost in cyberspace. Or mis-described.

This little vellum gem appeared from… somewhere.

Aldine Press

1535. Looks like it was bound yesterday.

When I picked up this Anne of Avonlea, I was sure it would be a later printing.

Nope. Another first edition. It can join the much rarer Anne of Green Gables I discovered not very long ago.

I did doze. It is now 7 a.m. The mountain is fogged in.

I’m so glad I asked the landscaper to blow the leaves off my quarter mile driveway. They were 4 inches deep, covering much of it. My blower weighs about 40 pounds. It takes 5 or 6 pulls on the starter rope to start as well. I didn’t want to put my arm through that. The stress might still pull out some stitches. It looked so good when I got home in the dark last night. If I’d waited, the leaves would have gotten wet, matted and slippery.

Almost all the leaves are down.

So much for self sufficiency. At least for a week or so.

Now begins the sprint to Christmas and New Year. Time will fly even faster, and I hope the books will fly off the shelves for the next six weeks.

Then suddenly it will be 2025. January is always cold. Sometimes brutal.

I’m looking into traveling again—next year. Places to go. Things to do. Until then, it will be the same for me. The constant infinite variety of the printed book. And the constant challenges of the complex business I’ve signed on to.

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I’m in at work.

Surveying the day ahead—and the weekend ahead I see only insurmountable hurdles.

These carts are just a portion of those awaiting my attention.

More will be added all day.

Annika… I need to review these rarities on carts.

And then she has this backlog.

Sigh…

Be careful what you wish for.

I could walk away from it all, but then I feel a responsibility to the printed word.

And what could I do that would be as fun?

(When it is not daunting or overwhelming… or maddening.)

The dogs are back. While my arm was recovering from surgery, Giles was boarded. He was returned on Monday morning all washed and with a bandana around his neck. The bandana probably should be over his face. The Masked Mutt. He is criminally insane when he’s not sweet and loving.

Merry and Pip came back on Sunday from Pennsylvania.

It is good to have them all back. My “family” in residence.

Now my arm is functional again, I need to get going on the flower bulbs. And the trillium. I still have hopes of establishing more colonies of them. There aren’t easy to grow.

These wondrous bindings came in.

They’ll likely go to the Boutique where we offer beautiful books that need to be seen to be appreciated. If we just listed them online with the other 2 million books, they’d be “lost at sea”—invisible.

Here’s a quick video of the kids’ section at the Frederick store. It has been substantially expanded recently.

I’m proud to think that many of these will influence and become a part of children’s lives.

The deal on the building fell through. Embarrassing. But not our fault. I’m fatalistic. It wasn’t meant to be. Something else will come along. Actually, two things are simmering further south.

We will see what the future brings.

And though the sunrises are gone til next spring’s equinox, the dawns can be striking.

(This image is not enhanced.)