The sky rumbles. Rain pounds on the roof.

It is Thursday. Another week has flown by.

The doctor called this afternoon and gave me good news. My eyes appear to be ok. I had no symptoms, but he had seen something in tests at his office that concerned him.

I have thought ever since, ‘What would life be like without eyesight? To never read another book? To be unable to go through books reading titles and copyright pages?’

I asked a few questions. This doctor is always in a hurry. The eye doctor before was calm and patient. He retired.

I’ve had much of the summer to contemplate the worst. I wondered if the tired, rubbing, itching eyelids and sensitivity to sunlight—were new things or had it been like that all along and only because I was focusing on what I saw, how I saw, how my eyes felt… did it seem that things were worsening?

“You don’t have any metal in your body, do you?” The tech read off a list of devices that people have installed for various reasons. I was in for a MRI.

“I have a platinum screw in my left arm.”

A “tiny thing” the surgeon told me 24 years ago. Needed to reattach the biceps muscle that had been torn loose in a soccer accident.

“That’s no problem.”

It was just me and her in the lab room at 5:30 on a sunny late summer afternoon.

“Lie here and cross your arms over your body. If you want to stop, squeeze this.”

She put a rubber ball in my hand that had a long tube attached to it.

Earplugs had been given to me.

“The machine is very loud. You’ll be inside about 40 minutes. Then I’ll inject contrast, and it will go on another 8 minutes.”

The thin platform I was lying upon slid into a very large round gate—for lack of a better term. It looked like a portal to another dimension in a science fiction movie.

Then the humming and beeping started. My body vibrated. Was my poor head being pounded by thousands of magnetic waves?

The beeping changed constantly. Higher. Lower. Deeper. Faster. Slower.

What did it mean?

I was helpless while the machine had its way with me. I could squeeze the ball and escape, but I’d just have to go through it again.

I recited my mantra—the Paternoster—over and over again to make the time pass. Occasionally, the machine would stop, and the bed I was upon would shudder.

‘It’s finally over.’

No. It would start up again. The beeping. The humming. The vibration.

There was a tiny mirror above my eyes. If I looked into it, I could see out a window into another world. Cars speeding by on the highway.

‘That’s US 15. I’ve gone north and south on that road most of my life now.’

Hum. Buzz. Beep.

‘Those people are free out there. Going home or out to dinner. I’m in some sci-fi device that is pounding my skull with magnetic waves. It is looking inside my head and recording every bone and fleshy detail. It is ‘reading’ my eyes. Someone will look at the inside of my head and see if anything is amiss.’

‘Well, I know the answer to that,’ I thought. A little “inside” joke.

It took forever. Hours. I mentally killed groups of minutes.

I knew I could have panicked. But I practiced serenity and patience.

‘It will end eventually.’

A disembodied voice spoke.

“We will stop for a minute while I put the contrast in. You’ll feel a little sting. I’m sorry.”

Back into the portal. The machine roared to life.

Buzz. Hum. Beep. Beeeeep. BEEP.

Then it was over. My body slid out of the portal.

“That was only forty minutes?”

“Yes. You can sit up now.”

Were the cells in my head still vibrating?

“Your things are in changing room 2. Follow the signs out to the lobby and have a good rest of your evening.”

I walked through the subterranean hallways following signs “Lobby This Way” with an arrow pointing the direction I should turn. Occasionally, I’d see someone sitting alone in a closet-like waiting room, but mostly it was a vast building with no one but me—following the path to get out.

Through the exit door and into the bright sun outdoors. It made me squint.

“Is that a symptom?”

Then a few miles west and up the mountain.

I changed into work clothes, got a chain saw and walked down into the forest. There was a tree I’d dropped last winter. Its trunk was propped a few feet off the ground on its stump. I walked to its crown, crumpled onto the ground. The dead branches were cut off, and when I got to thicker wood, I began cutting it into woodstove lengths. I worked my way up the trunk, which got thicker and thicker. Some deadfalls were nearby, and those were cut up.

Then I walked back onto the mulch road where I’d left my pickup for a couple of days. The bed was still half full of mulch. I wanted it empty so I could start using it again. I pushed the starter.

“Clickclickclick…”

Dead?

Yep.

In the middle of the woods.

“How can I get this out of here?”

I envisioned a tow truck dragging it out with a long cable.

“I wonder if I can get the Jeep close enough to start it?”

Up the slope to the house and into the garage.

“Where did I put the jumper cables? They’re usually hanging here by the door.”

Well, I got the Jeep close enough that the cables would reach, and the truck came to life. I needed to get the bed emptied, so it was left running while I clambered up into the truck bed and tossed shovel loads of fluffy dry brown mulch over bare spots. I moved the truck several times until all the mulch was shoveled out. Then the truck was driven out and backed into the gravel drive next to the dog pen. Back down the slope, and the Jeep was brought up.

There was a feeling of accomplishment even though the dead truck had been an unwanted extra task.

Would it start the next day?

I found out Wednesday after I got home.

“Nope.”

The jump was much easier as the truck was facing out on the driveway, but it took a few tries to get the engine to turn over.

“It’s getting worse.”

Since I had it running, I decided to take it to Rice Tire. They take care of all the Wonder Book vehicles as well as my own. The truck was backed up next to their huge building, and I walked the quarter mile to the Wonder Book warehouse, where I could take one of the vans back home. It was just before 7. I’m rarely there that late. There were only a few people working the late shift when I came in through the back door at the loading docks. It was eerily quiet out there. All the lights were off. The long view down 21 loading docks still takes me aback.

So many books…

I crossed over into the data entry area where there were just three stations occupied.

“Where is everybody?” I asked the manager in charge.

“Vacations, and the high school kids work days during the summer holidays.”

I looked decidedly scruffy in my worn dirty sweat pants and hoodie. There’d been yard work before trying to start the truck. The red berries of the Italian arum were harvested and spread over bags of topsoil raked smooth in various gardens.

The next morning, I awaited the arrival of the paver to give an estimate on seal coating the driveway and spreading the tons of large Delaware River rubble I’d had delivered a couple months ago.

“You don’t want the steep slope seal coated. It will be slippery.”

It’s a good sign when a contractor advises you against giving him work. He could seal coat the upper landing. That would look good. He’d spread the rubble too. He wasn’t sure if there was enough. Both sides of the driveway are lined with tall Japanese stilt grass, so you can tell where there’s been erosion. The purpose of the 4-inch rubble stones was so water would not erode more soil along the asphalt’s edge. I’d also asked him to give me a price on paving the quarter mile of gravel lane my only neighbor and I share. Most of the gravel has washed off, and though that section of road is pretty flat, the ride has gotten decidedly bumpy as the mountain stone bed has been revealed.

Thursday night, I drove the ATV down the driveway with a Husqvarna weed whip. About a quarter mile of stilt grass and weeds were knocked down on both sides of the driveway. I trudged up one side with the machine humming softly due to earphones I put on. Bits of plant debris occasionally struck my face, but my eyes were covered. Then I whipped my way back down to the ATV at the base of the drive. There are bad spots, but much of the drive has soil at a good level just below.

Maybe the big pile of rubble will be enough to prevent further erosion.

(During storms like the cloudburst tonight, water streams down the mountain.)

Despite the problems and the cost of the repairs to the truck—It needs a new battery and one of the steel wheels was cracked—I enjoyed the outdoor labors this week. There’s a kind of earthy satisfaction in wood and plants and mulch and machines that can get things done.

I’m very thankful I can do this kind of work in this environment. The rewards are sweat and dirty hands and plants, trees, flowers, firewood… and the intangible joy of working with nature.

Maybe some of the projects I’ve been trying to get done will finally be accomplished.

---

There’re times I think I might have a sixth sense about books—”knowing” they are autographed or otherwise special before opening them. And then being gratified upon looking inside and not being surprised at the hidden treasure.

Well, maybe not so much.

I sent this set of The Stones of Venice to Annika a couple weeks ago, thinking only that it might be a collectible edition of Ruskin or at least a fine binding (with a little bit of polishing.)

I spent about half of Tuesday in her workroom going through carts of books that she wanted me to look at or that I wanted to see again after she had done research on them.

When I got to the Ruskin set, there was a “signed” slip in it.

We use these thin slips of pretty inert paper to distinguish autographed books because a signed book is just another unless you know it is signed.

“It’s signed?” I inquired aloud.

“Yes. A limited edition.”

Indeed, it is autographed by John Ruskin in an unusual place and with no indications or advertising that the signature is there.

Well, at least I was a good enough bookseller to know to send it to her.

There were a lot more treasures on her carts as well.

Most of these are first editions and a lot are signed.

These and many more will go to the Frederick bookstore when the glass doors are installed on the new wooden bookcases there.

Others, less publicly appealing but still important, went to data entry.

Then there were the “problems.” Things I felt unpriceable for various reasons.

The Julian Huxley manuscript… how do I value and market that?

And the Gandhi and an odd dramatic version of Alice in Wonderland that we can’t find comps on.

---

Monday was Labor Day a week early for us.

A full day of manual labor at the Hagerstown store.

We drove two vans up. One was because another bookseller was coming to buy 1000 or more books at wholesale. We’d need to store them at the warehouse for a while. The other was because I felt it was time to address some of the dead stock at the Hagerstown store.

We’ve done a lot of reorganizing at the Frederick store and many categories have been or are being resized and moved. The store will be much more balanced than a month ago.

It’s hard work, and the vision doesn’t always pan out happily. But change is necessary.

I had two targets at the Hagerstown store. Cooking and Humor.

Humor was about 8 bookcases. Many of the books dated—forgotten writers like Erma Bombeck and Dave Barry were greatly over represented. I felt the excessive size and the dead stock were not funny.

“Cull it mercilessly for the 5 for $5 section and Book By the Foot. Look for things that actually belong elsewhere. Like the Sedaris brother and sister—will people find their books better in the unorganized melange of humor, or should they be under ‘S’ in some other organizable category? While you’re at it, kill Christmas.”

Chuck is killing Christmas?

It never sells—not even at Christmas—which begins in October at bookstores (September at Costco.) Except the classics like Dickens—which belong with Dickens other books.

“Put aside anything that looks special or vintage. We’ll send new arrival Christmas books over in September and create a TEMPORARY Christmas at the front of each store.”

I assigned Ernest to cull the way-oversized cooking section so we can expand the adjacent 5 for $5 section.

I met with the store staff.

“The place looks great. We need better signage. When you create a sign, pretend this is your first time in the store. What does ‘Rentals’ mean? ‘DVD Rentals’ tells the whole story. ‘Sale Books’? Most of the store is books and media that are a fraction of their original cost. ‘Books $1.59 Each or 5 for $5’ tells the whole story.”

I spent some time wandering around, visualizing what positive changes could be made.

“This can be much smaller. This should be expanded…”

Then I attacked the World War Two front, which was overflowing with duplicate and obsolete generic general histories.

Sports? Why do we have seven shelves of aquatic sports? Most were old softcover Red Cross or YMCA things and the like. Obsolete—not old enough—not new enough.

We returned to Frederick with two full vans.

A template was established to greatly expand the 5 for $5 books, CDs, DVDs and especially the kids 5 for $5 book section. (A young couple had come in while I was there asking about it. Someone must have referred them here. Their child was about five. It was gratifying to think that Wonder Book was offering affordable kids books to people like this. Getting books to kids is an investment in the future. The world would be a better place if everyone knew the pleasure and satisfaction of books.)

---

Monday

It’s 4 in the morning. The end of August. I slept deep and hard. 9 til 4. 7 hours. Not bad.

My body feels young and strong when I stretch it under the sheets. My arms and shoulders are hard. Book muscles. I am a little sticky with sweat. The aura of sweat is a salty scent. Not so familiar as it once was.

It was a good weekend. Whatever ailed me seems gone. Perhaps I sweated it out.

The ceiling fan whirrs above me in near silence. The cool air pours over the bed. All is blackness but these words glowing on the laptop. Crickets call out in the forest. Their volume is pretty low. There is no other sound. No cars, trucks, trains or planes.

Mulch was spread on Saturday and Sunday before work. The truck is now half empty.

Saturday, I found the inspiration to go through 5 or 6 boxes of old, old office “stuff” I’d taken home. They’d been festering in the great room for over a year. There were a lot of old memories in those boxes. Family, friends, long gone employee problems.

One old guy was soliciting my help to get him out of jail. I’d forgotten the incident. Bar fight, I think. Knife? He wanted me to appear as a character witness. Handwritten notes. A subpoena to appear for him. I barely knew him. I forget how it all turned out. 20 years ago… a different world. He was old then. Now? I can’t imagine.

Ephemera. Old 8×10 press photos of Pele with typed captions attached to the back of each. Original Muhammad Ali photos and negatives from the 70s. Those should be worth something. Out of my bailiwick. A little stack of old menus. I had affection for them at one time. I still do if there’s a personal connection or if they speak to a time and place. The book of the “21 Club.” It’s signed by Jack and Charlie and some of the other people there who were celebrities in their own right. Travel pamphlets. Some my own. Others saved because they were cool and too fragile to put in the bookstore as it once was. Now they can be protected in plastic bags and hung from walls or wooden bookcases.

A jumbled ream of old manuscripts. Mostly poetry. I put those in a couple of folders to review when I get around to it. Maybe some haven’t been recorded. If they’re printed and I’m in doubt, I can always make a couple copies and add one each to the milk crate in my office and in my bedroom—my “archive.” If handwritten—that’s a little trickier.

Pulp.

Save.

Sell.

A lot of space appeared on the oriental carpet.

Looking around, I’d call my decor Early 20th-Century Pseudo-Victorian Bachelor. Lots of books and things to catch the eye everywhere you look. Not much clutter left. My late and Post COVID Era effort to neaten things has made great strides.

I’m going in to work early today. I was so tired when I left on Sunday evening I didn’t label everything I did. I left at 5 and went to visit my friends at New Market Plains Vineyard. They were closed when I got them, but the owners and I sat out under a tent.

It was warm. Low 80s. The thousands of grape vines surrounding us were laden with clusters of sweet fruit. Harvest time is soon. I marveled at the miracle of agriculture and human endeavor. I chatted with Howard and Sue about friends, books, grapes, local history… They had some pizza delivered. I was so hungry from the day’s labors. I wolfed down the first slice of “everything” pizza.

The dozen or so tastes and textures were a sensory delight. It was a good way to end the weekend, the week, August, summer.

---

Friday morning.

I’ve been up since 4.

Screwy.

I’m still happy about the good news concerning my eyes.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

It started getting light about 6. Outside there’s a heavy mist and fog. I can’t see into the forest very far—much less the valley below.

Sunday will be September. Monday Labor Day—the traditional end of summer.

I had to drive one of the work trucks home.

I’ll get someone to drive me home to get one of my vehicles today sometime. My pickup won’t be repaired til Tuesday at best.

The high today will be 76.

I didn’t finish the Baltic State story. Next week for sure. There are about 6 pages of notes and all the photos I took can prompt me through the fading memories.

The latest Round and Round story’s second part is about half done.

This is week 372 of these stories. Manic? Pathologic? A gentle madness?

Well, it gives me something else to do every week.

During the heavy rain last night, I had two Zweigle hot dogs. They were on Wegmans seeded rye toast. Mustard. Ketchup. Lettuce. Food of the gods.

I watched a few old Have Gun—Will Travel. Richard Boone was a rough-looking cowboy hero. Back when westerns ruled the airwaves. Gene Roddenbury wrote the episodes I watched. The show was a little before my time, but I must have seen reruns as a child.

The dogs fretted and panted due to the rumbling thunder. They slept in the indoor pen.

Poor Pip is still coughing. I made an appointment with another vet to see if they can find a solution. The antibiotics didn’t work, and the cough suppressant is less effective. He’s in good spirits but isn’t running or chasing balls like before.

It’ll break my heart…

The porch roof was washed clean by the heavy rains. All sunflower husks went down the gutter.

I did so many books this week. Just like every week. It’s my life’s work.

The only thing in bloom up here right now—beside some late hostas—is this wild clematis that I’ve let grow up this weedy tulip poplar.

It’s also called virgin’s bower, and the little flowers have a sweet gardenia-like fragrance.

An email came from the night manager that there were roof leaks at the warehouse. They were in Annika’s room and a collectible room. He said they moved the threatened books.

Another worry. That area has been repaired by roofers recently. (Apparently not.)