Monday, December 4

I slept deep and warm. After the boring of football last night, I wandered across the house and buried myself in comforters. I made a nest of pillows about me. I reached for a book on the bed in the dark but gave up. It would be too much exertion. Then I was gone til morning.

I let the dogs out after writing a while. The forest is damp from the weekend’s rain and fog. The earthy smell of decomposing leaf mold means the land is enriching itself with the trees’ droppings.

The fire is low but alive. I brought in a log—a fork. It was pretty heavy.

When I approached the stove, I sized it up.

“This isn’t going to fit.”

Indeed, the base was too wide to fit in the loading portal on the top. Undaunted, I opened both of the front doors, being careful not to let any ash spill out. I puzzled the piece in turning it this way and that. Part of it would not go in far enough to close the doors. I put on the heavy black-leather fire gloves—they reach halfway to my elbows. I reached into the womb of the firebox and turned and tilted and lifted until the thing settled into place.

Success.

I don’t have to carry it back outside and cut it up more sometime.

The bed is so cozy, so overstuffed with comfort cotton and polyester; I don’t want to rise and face the day.

It was a marathon weekend. I got into carts that have been backlogged since last spring or earlier. There were many forgotten treasures that had been set aside until… I learned more… er… had more confidence.

At the end of Sunday, I found a cart that, under some layers of camouflaging “stuff” had about 35 books with a note on them “For the Georgetown Fair”—which was last May.

Obviously, they didn’t make it. My last act was to pull them off and price them for the glass cases at the Frederick store. Mostly “eye candy”—beautiful books. Time travelers who have not aged in many decades. (I use “who” intentionally.) I wish I knew their secret.

Pretty bindings of unknown books. Pretty editions of Winnie-the-Pooh, The Wind in the Willows, Peter Pan…

Then I headed out. I went to the Anchor Bar and had a few Buffalo wings, part of a wedge salad and a Labatt’s Canadian beer. A retromeal. I sat on a hightop-cushioned bench and watched several football games play out before me at one time.

Then back to the warehouse for the three dogs. Then home. I scrambled up a dozen aging eggs for the boys’ breakfast. I’ll mix in some dry. The shells went out into the garden.

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Well, so much for an orderly get away week.

The contractor sent me an email late last night. He is coming tomorrow, Tuesday. He will tear out a wall of shelves in Gaithersburg and replace them with glass-fronted display cases. We will be able to showcase and protect “better” books and “things.” That means we will have to empty those bookcases. And do what with the books?

Then he is coming to the Frederick store to plan more glass cases there for vintage collectible comic books.

Work life just got a little more complicated this week.

My plans had been made. New plans have been thrust upon me.

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I was sore all weekend.

The pickup at the Folger Library last Thursday was not a good idea. My arms, hands and shoulders ached and throbbed at the end of the day.

After a few night’s sleep, they would feel better, but it was still as if I’d been in a fight.

On Saturday morning, I emptied the mulch from the truck.

Maybe two more loads, and the foolish project will be done.

A difficult marathon day with carts and books at the warehouse.

Then up to Pennsylvania for a kind of small family “makeup” Thanksgiving at the old manse.

That night, I had wondrous dreams. I recorded them in my journal the next morning.

I got to San Francisco to my brother Tony’s hospice deathbed before he was too far gone to recognize me. His family had held me off—wanting some of his old friends to visit first. They didn’t know how fast he would decline. I was upset but didn’t show it.

In the dream, I got to his bedside and asked to be left alone with him for a while. We talked in whispers. I told him how much I loved and respected and looked up to him. How much he taught me. I thanked him for the life-changing books he’d given me as a child. We made our peace, and I said everything I’d wanted to say but couldn’t in April 2021.

It was a divine gift.

In another, I was young and vital again. Athletic. Sure I would change the world; I would do something important.

And—

I was in love.

It was a divine gift.

A taste of immortality.

There were others too. But they vanished upon wakening and could not be retrieved.

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Monday

Ernest is driving us to Gaithersburg. We need to plan and prep for the delivery and installation of new shelving tomorrow.

He’s driving too fast.

But then, there are a lot of cars flying past us in the left lane of I 270. Maybe I’m becoming my mother. When I was first driving and she was in the passenger seat, she would frequently throw her feet to the car’s firewall, hoping there were supplemental brakes there, I suppose. Both hands would fly to the ceiling, I guess in an attempt to save herself. A noise between a gasp and a screech would complete the distraction. I’d look around and upward for impending doom.

At least I did the first 100 times she did this.

I’m not doing that to Ernest. I just look up surreptitiously when I feel the van is not on the straight and narrow.

(Actually, it IS me. His driving is fine and never more than the speed limit.)

I thought I had the getaway week all planned out. Now it has gotten more “problematic.”

Maybe my Book Muse feels I need a little more challenge.

The hard work over the weekend settled my holiday (negative) spirit some. The good rest on Sunday night has my hands, arms and shoulders feeling pretty normal.

What would this bookseller’s life be without some panic injected into the situation?

Another annoyance—the key fob died on the Explorer. It is the car I drive to the airport. I had a few days of warnings on the dashboard.

“Key Fob Battery Low.”

Then one cold morning last week, it wouldn’t start. I had been told that if you hold a dead fob near the ignition, it might work.

I’ve called the Ford dealership several times. Texted. Emailed their service department. So far, no reply. They are very busy. Too busy for a customer who bought ten or so vehicles over the last years. My excellent sale person, Desmond, retired not long ago. I can’t blame him. COVID made it so he had nothing to sell. His last contact was an offer of an electric van at an incredible price.

(Incredibly high.)

Vehicles should just “work.” The new ones with all the computerization have become overcomplicated. We’ve had weird issues with a number of them. Taking a vehicle into the dealership has become a time-consuming and expensive chore.

I do have a second key fob. Maybe I’ll go to another dealership to see if they can change the battery while I wait.

---

Well, we did another major purge.

Westerns will end up with maybe 8 shelves. The General Fiction (Gen Fic) mass market paperback section has always been a dumping ground for things the stockers don’t know what to do with. Crisis breeds ideas—brainstorming. We needed to reduce it by 50%.

When I think of Gen Fic, my first thought is Michener. Once immensely popular, he no longer sells well. (Maybe it’s because he is lost in Gen Fic.) Space. Chesapeake. Mexico. Tales of the South Pacific. Good reads. Big fat ones. Maybe we could sponsor a Michener book club. We have enough copies.

Seriously, Gen Fic has been dumping ground. For some reason, it is a place where war and sailing novels go. Schaara, Alexander Kent…

Those authors write “Adventure” stories. We have a very successful Mystery and Adventure section. I made the decision to move war and nautical novels there. There are already a lot of authors who are not “mystery” writers there. Tom Clancy…

Another large segment of Gen Fic has been books that are clearly aimed at female audiences. (Can I say that?) Belva Plain, Victoria Holt—even Joan Collins. Why not blend those books into the erstwhile “romance” section? Romance already includes many writers who are often not romantic. Nora Roberts, for one.

I explained my thoughts to Ernest and Patrick, and they seemed to get it.

I did a quick purge of women’ books and military and some lit and kids. I left instructions to continue the process.

When we climbed into the van to head back, Ernest quipped, “You could call the new women’s section ‘No Man’s Land.'”

It’s a joke!

Pretty exciting to solve multiple long-term problems in one fell swoop.

Gen Fic and Westerns will deservedly get downsized. That way, when we move kids and Mystery/Adventure, we won’t need to downsize them at all.

The shelving being installed will be glass-fronted bookcases so the Gaithersburg store can display collectible books and other items!

Ok… ok… ok…

Deep breaths.

Getaway week.

Dogs. Passport. Euros.

We are heading northwest on I 270.

What else HAS to be done today?

Key fob!

Haircut? Nah. I can look scruffy. Long hair hides many other faults. Maybe I should grow a beard.

Circumstances had me and my son and Clark to be in the warehouse at the same time Friday.

“Wanna meet about November sales?”

Already? Why not? Get it out of the way.

BOOM! All three stores were up over November 2022. Books by the Foot—up. Online sales—up.

Costs up. Worries—always up.

Everything is looking up.

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Wednesday morning

I awoke just after 5. The windows in the woodstove doors were dancing in orange firelights. All else was dark. The big pot atop the stove was hissing softly, indicating the water in it was boiling.

Though the sunrises have moved south into the forest, there are grand dawns when the clouds are right.

Tuesday morning was afire!

I got into work early after sweeping out the mulch leavings from the bed of the pickup. The mulch path or trail or drive is mostly done.

A couple more loads with newspaper spread underneath should do it.

I had an appointment to pick up the last boxes of books at the Folger Library. The van we took for the first trip wasn’t large enough. I had been advised it was by “someone.” There were about 20 boxes left. I’m not going to point any blame at whoever advised that the van could hold “200 boxes.”

I could tell the Folger wanted us to finish the job.

I was in no mood to drive down to the very heart of DC (the Capitol is a block away.) And really in no mood to carry more boxes down those cast iron steps. (The 60 or so round trips I made last Thursday were still a “sore” memory.)

Clif was off hunting for a couple of days. I thought Andrew…

When I got in, he was unloading a truck of remainders. Some of the wooden pallets had failed, and the boxes needed to be restacked. What a mess.

“Have you ever driven in DC?” I asked.

“I’ve driven around it…”

“Well, I could navigate until we get close and then we could switch.”

I knew none of the other drivers would be willing. DC is a mare’s nest of one-way streets and areas blocked off of security. “Parkways” where commercial vehicles are banned—even book vans.

But emptying the trailer was taking too long. I had to leave.

So, the Wonder President got thrown into the breach yet again. I drove solo. I took the same route Clif and I had taken the previous week. When I got near the Capitol, cops standing on corners would wave me away from the turns my iPhone wanted me to take.

“Rerouting…”

I finally got to the little red Federal townhouse on 3rd St across from the actual Folger Library.

A security guard appeared and asked me what I was doing. She called in on her radio, “Wonder Works is here to see…”

The librarian soon appeared. She wheeled the 17 boxes of books to the door. I schlepped them across the iron porch and down the iron steps and across to the van in the drive. The guard stood behind the van watching—there wasn’t anything else exciting going on at the library, I guess. I made small talk with each box I carried past her.

“Nice day.”

“Yes. Nice and cool. No rain.”

“I’m getting too old for this,” I quipped.

“It’s bad for your back and feet. My podiatrist…”

There were a few more boxes to pickup in the actual library, but there wasn’t time for the hinted at “tour.”

Getaway week…

Then back out of the District of Columbia with all its dysfunctions—physical and spiritual.

I disobeyed the phone if she wanted me to me to take roads that had “NO TRUCKS” signs. Eventually, I was back on the Beltway.

The contractor was coming to install the long awaited display bookcases with sliding plexiglass doors we had designed. They would replace the oddball kid bookcases my mentor Carl Sickles had built decades ago.

If you look closely, you can see remnants of the puke green shag carpet that had covered the floor for so many years.

I wandered around a little. Inspecting. Brainstorming. Peeking in one of the vans, I saw someone had sold us drawers full of books.

Not a big surprise. People will use any container they can find when clearing out books. Pillowcases. Suitcases. Laundry hampers…

I don’t think we’ve ever gotten books in a casket. Yet.

The contractor arrived with his pickup truck and trailer laden with wooden box-like structures. Is that what we designed all those months ago?

I couldn’t wait and headed back to Frederick.

It is a getaway week, so I have a routine of things I need to get caught up to feel comfortable leaving.

I couldn’t get to any of those things because people had for me.

“We need more top shelf space.”

So three managers and I wandered through the vast maze of rows of books, looking up at the top shelves, wondering what could be done with the books atop them. It gave me a stiff neck.

Then Jessica told me there was an urgent need for antique leather for an upcoming famous horror movie by a famous director. I decided we could sacrifice some of the Boutique for the cause.

By day’s end, I was too fried to do anything but carts. Playing with books is not work. It’s likely my best skill.

I should try it with my eyes closed.

Then home.

I brought a few cartloads of firewood from the barn to fill the iron rings on the porch.

I put in some laundry. I watered all the plants—all 70 something. I brought up a few more boxes of books. There are still boxes from my old Pennsylvania collection that need to be sorted. The keepers shelved. The culls priced for online sale. (The end is in sight.)

Meanwhile, Monday night’s 1/2 leftover burger was reheating. I got Saturday night’s leftover 1/2 wedge salad out. Opened a bottle of Montepulciano.

I wanted comfort fare, so put on Midnight in Paris—yet again. It has been a while, but since I discovered it during COVID, I’ve watched it a dozen or more times.

The dream of the past being a better era to live in.

It is a literary masterpiece.

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Thursday, Dulles Airport

Always a marathon day getting the house secured, getting to work and making sure all loose ends are taken care of and then the drive to the airport, parking and running the gauntlet through ticketing, security and the marathon journey to the gate.

I have an hour to kill before boarding. Then a hop to Newark and then overnight to Lisbon. It was supposed to be a direct flight, but United changed that with no options/no refund.

Things are different for me health wise as well. My post COVID affliction has no symptoms, but alcohol can trigger issues unknown. So my traditional airport martini is problematic.

It just sucks.

But otherwise, nothing has slowed me down.

Wednesday, I worked like a demon on a getaway day. When I got home, I had a few missions. One was to blow off the leaves. Though the last fell a week or two ago, weather or circumstances prevented me from that annual task. “Tasks.” It takes several sessions to get all the dead leaves where they belong on the mountain. My shoulder is recovered. (My excruciating heel spur has vanished!)

Part of me heals. Part of me breaks.

I pulled the cord on the Husqvarna blower, and the machine roared to life. (I wear ear protection.) It must weigh 30—40 pounds—I’ll have to actually weigh the beast sometime. Hoisting it up when my shoulder was injured was a painful problem—as was pulling the cord.

Now? Easy peasy.

When I began blowing the millions of leaves… (I think that is a rational guess. I know what a million looks like because we know there are 2.5 million books on the shelves in the warehouse that are online.)

… When I began blowing the leaves, two problems became immediately and abundantly clear. They were wet underneath the top layer. Dry leaves fly like they are weightless. Wet leaves are reluctant to leave the earth. Once airborne, they refuse to fly far. Wet and heavy.

Worse though, there was a slight breeze from the east.

I was blowing wet leaves against the wind. The leaves would fly up in the air and then return toward my face.

“Damn!”

The best laid plans.

I’m pretty adept at this skill. I have a blown a lot of debris over the years. I worked angles and accepted losses—losses were the leaves that flew up and back behind me.

So, I made some progress. I worked my way around the house. I went down the steep driveway until it was too dark to see. Back up to the north side of the house and across the big deck. Then around the back of the house—the west side where the mountain rises steeply and boulders in the near dark become anthropomorphic monsters.

I would have to wait til morning to see how much I’d accomplished.

The dogs were thrilled at my attention. Giles was a veritable bouncing ball.

“Sit! Sit!! SIT!!” You poor moron.

We went inside, and I put leftovers on to heat. Anything I don’t eat needs to be frozen, or it will spoil while I’m absent. Manicotti wrapped in foil from a family get together—a makeup for no Thanksgiving week get together in the Pennsylvania house for the first time in 33 years.

I put on the last of the Maigret DVDs. Once finished, I can take them in and send them to the store for sale. My house is becoming much more streamlined with all the “debris” removals this year. It actually looks good. Not like some COVID bachelor hoarder’s mountain den.

The timer went off on the manicotti, and I went to add some sauce and let it get really hot.

Oh, my God. The “foil wrapped” pasta was in a Tupperware tub! Well, the plastic hadn’t melted…

While it was heating the rest of the way, I wandered around the house with a watering can. I gave every pot a little dose of water to see it through my absence.

Dishes. Suitcase. Dogs. Firewood into the woodstove. Little chores everywhere.

I went to bed early and read Something Wicked This Way Comes.

Awake at 5. I wrote some journal pages. I wrote some of this. It was cold. I hadn’t banked the fire well. I have recently bought two different throws from Costco. Largish—they are about half the size of a king blanket. There are whitish so they don’t show Giles’ hair. They are very thick. Plush. I have some real nice faux fur spreads, but with my new bedmate, I don’t want them ruined by being “hairborne.”

So there’s about 8 inches of fabric atop me. I’m kind of a “princess and the pea” with so much of a cushion. It was so warm under all that.

Then it was time for trip prep. I have a mental and a written list. I won’t bore you with that. Then down the mountain with three dogs and luggage and stuff I was getting rid of.

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Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the steam
Merrily, merrily, merrily
life is but a dream.

The flight to Newark is packed. I’m in back. I don’t get special treatment with United.

(Note to self…)

I guess I want to do the trip. As long as I feel good.

I’ve been grinding away at work.

So many fun books.

A beautiful folio of The Lady of the Lake. That book reminds of my father. One of his books that I inherited was a rather plain early 20th century copy of that. His family also had a set of the Waverley novels. I put it aside but haven’t had a minute to look inside at the plates. I’m sure it will become part of my Arthurian group.

A tiny letterpress “The Lord’s Prayer” was rescued from a book. It is finely printed on card stock. I plan to get it framed. It will be a very small frame. The whole prayer covers little more space than a quarter.

Two Paul Dunbar first editions. This one in a gorgeous Alice Morse designed binding in very fine condition. A real time traveler.

This cookbook by an African American woman is quite unusual. Only 3 copies are held in institutions, according to OCLC. No auction records. Nothing else by the author. And it is signed.

It is so gratifying to “rescue” something like this. And I’m proud that our “machine” can catch things like this and we have the resources to recognize that it is not just another vanity cookbook.

And we are branching out!

Wonder Book & Radio??

Our stores are far more diverse with every passing month.

Diverse?

How about some ties?

There are a few hundred. I’ve kept back the Edward Gorey tie and the Picasso “signature” tie as well at the Three Stooges and Jerry Garcia. I’ll figure a way to market them. Until then, come treasure hunt at the Frederick store. They are on sale!

You can look for the ugliest tie for that special someone at Christmas. A memorable gift. I was struck by some bespoke examples from iconic stores that are long gone. Garfinkel’s. Woodward and Lothrop…

Another find this week was an 18th century tome on hunting rabbits.

Chapter 1:

“Be vewy, vewy quiet! I’m hunting rabbits.”

Elmer Fudd

lol.

A vellum spine fine press edition of Dr. Johnson’s Prayers and Meditations. It is just a beautiful creation.

Not so attractive was the signed inscribed “testimonial” treatise on rabies. It happened to arrive in the same box as a vintage fowl and game cookbook.

The Littlest Angel has been a good seller this holiday season. I saw three gorgeous early variants go out in one day. That was a favorite of mine as a small boy. I learned the lesson the best gifts are not always the most expensive but those with the most meaning, the most heart.

So many more.

My cup runneth over.

I have my usual complaint. But it is “A Lover’s Complaint.” For I love the books that rule so much of my life. They give so much back.

But the frustration strikes me more and more often as time passes. I will never get to them all.

I rushed through a number of carts before I had to leave for the airport today. There was an autograph album and small edition of Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” I’ve never seen before. I filled a tub for Madeline to research and one for Annika.

All that rushing, and I’m sitting on the runway at Dulles. There’s a “ground delay” in Newark. Too much traffic. The airline couldn’t predict that when they rescheduled my direct flight? Will I miss my connection and spend the night in New Jersey? Well, United is off my list. Not my first unfriendly experience with them.

I could be doing so many other things.

But then, this captivity has me writing this.

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There were some very kind comments on last week’s story.

Thank you!

I sometimes wonder if there’s not too much vanity in them. But I try to be honest—except when things get too personal with friends or family. Then I write around the edges.

I may finish the current journal this week in Portugal. (If I get there.) That will be volume… I don’t recall… 20?

Much ado…

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Now it is time to send this off across the ocean.

It is a bright cold day in Lisbon.

The hotel doesn’t have a room ready, so I’ll just see where my feet take me.

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12/5/23

The red half moon rose in the east
I gaze at it longingly
A goal never to be achieved
My head upon my pillow
I see its color mute a bit
as it moves higher from the horizon
Then Lethe’s potions close my eyes
I awake hours later
How many? A few.
The room was too cool for comfort
I rose, went and fetched wood
In the much colder outdoors
I saw the white half moon now high above.
It was sailing toward Orion.
His club raised. His belt cinched.
The moon will journey daily forever
I have watched its flight
Child, boy, youth and man
Round and round it circles
Round and round it spins
The stove glows just steps away
I make fire upon the mountain
I make water from the bedrock far below
I make wind with machines to clear debris
On this spot upon this earth,
which spins round and round
And circles round and round
another, great fiery, sphere