I awoke at 4. My atomic clock flashed the red digits against the ceiling in the blacked-out room.

“Why can’t I live at normal hours?”

I rose and crossed the house. The three dogs trailed me. They went out into the dark. I filled the teakettle and put it on to boil.

The clock on the stove read just after four.

While the water was heating and the dogs were lollygagging out in the damp darkness, I took my phone back to my bed and crawled under the flannel sheet, comforter and a couple of blankets atop that.

“5 a.m.?”

!!!

“Oh, right. Spring forward.”

The sunrise will now be at 7:30. I haven’t seen one in a while. It has been cloudy or foggy every day for quite a while.

When was life last normal? Early January, I think.

I recall the landscaper here helping to plant bulbs and spread mulch atop the many garden beds. It was magnificent. He covered all the defects and faults with a rich brown blanket of wood chips.

(It is still beautiful. The smooth brown plain is now being pierced by hundreds of emerald fingers pushing up from beneath the earth. Soon it will be thousands.)

I recall vividly cleaning the house. Vacuuming. Putting on the flannel sheets. The house looked really good. I was satisfied.

Then winter struck with day after day after day of single-digit mornings. Then the storm dropped a foot of heavy snow. To make things worse, a couple of inches of ice fell atop that, creating a hard frosting above the soft cake of snow beneath. Unlike most years, the smooth white plain covering the gardens didn’t soften. It hardened. What I hadn’t plowed or snow-blown the first couple of days turned rock hard. Snowcrete. A neolog, I think.

Then, later in January, hurrying across a dark room to let the whining dogs in, I stepped on the rawhide chewy shaped like a little log. It rolled ridiculously under my stockinged foot. The polished wooden floor made things slipperier. I went airborne. My left leg shot out. The big muscles on the back of my thigh stretched further than they should.

“Hamstring!”

Another month of pain and awkward walking, sitting, bending followed.

Now it is March 8th. 57 degrees outside. It will rise to 68 today. The rains have finally stopped.

The sunrise? I suspect it has slid into view in the gap in the forest. Maybe I’ll see it Tuesday.

Yesterday was an epic one at the warehouse. Though we acquired over 60 book carts in recent months, we are still “low on carts.”

The craziness of last week—the mad landlord, the building purchase, the very expensive inside the Beltway rental, the doctor appointments (“My eyes are fine.” “We’ll just keep an eye on them. You’ll want that cataract fixed when it bothers you enough.”), my beloved 6-piece black leather sofa/recliner complex’s sudden demise, the messes of winter debris outside and inside revealed…

Too many moving parts in my life. Not enough fun or friends.

The distractions and other tasks added to the backlog of carts that I don’t trust anyone else to review.

Cart after cart after cart… After 6 or 7 hours of standing, my left leg swelled. My knee became reluctant to bend. It suddenly began screaming in achiness.

“Too early to stop now. It would just make tomorrow worse and create the chaos I hate on Mondays.

And it is amazing fun. Or what passes for fun in my obsessive life.

Someone’s Jefferson and Churchill collection flowed through my hands. Over 50 of each. Many were way too familiar. Others I had never seen before. He or she also collected British political stuff. How many books can there be about Lord Beaverbrook?

A signed Sandra Day O’Conner. Nancy Reagan…

Then, a small slim T. S. Eliot. There’d been a dozen or more earlier in the day. Jacketless or later printings or tedious essay collections.

But this.

This was perfect. A tiny bookseller tag from a Blackpool shop was affixed to the front wrap.

Whenever I see an unfamiliar bookseller tag, I wish I could time travel and visit the shop.

What is the most common bookseller tag? I think the Old Corner Bookshop in Boston. I see a lot of Vroman’s Pasadena bookstore too. Both must have been meticulous about attaching their tiny ads to every book they sold.

I turned to the copyright page, certain I would see line after line of publishing dates, multiple printings.

Nope.

A first.

I flipped to the first page.

Let us go then, you and I,
when the evening is spread out against the sky…

“Ahhh…”

My swollen leg stopped throbbing. Burdens of trying to do too much lifted. I was someplace else. Another time. Another place.

In the room the women come and go
talking of Michelangelo…

College?

My second mug of Mariage Freres Covent Garden Morning black tea has cooled on the nightstand next to me.

“Will I go?
Can I go?
May I go?
Until I try

I will not know.”

There’s a thin gap between the horizon and heavy cloud cover. Perhaps I will see the sun. I will know in 16 minutes.

“Ahhh…”

It is there.

A bit obscured, but its warm light is burning over the distant horizon. Soon it will rise above the narrow gap and be lost from sight behind the clouds.

It has already moved so far north. This miserable weather, I have missed so much. When it moves into the forest, which will leaf out green over the coming weeks, I will not see it again for six months.

I have missed so much.

The three-quarter moon shines in my easterly windows.
Its cold light hits walls and floors obliquely
A patch comes to rest
On the pillow next to me
I reach my hand over from the dark
Palm and fingers are illuminated
A moon shadow silhouette
Forms upon the soft feather-filled pillow
Upon which your head used to rest
It is cold light I hold in my empty hand
Gone, gone, gone
Like the sun creeping
On her passage
North in the spring
South in autumn
Its light warming in the former
Cooling in the latter
The moon has swung over the house
Now a fainter light enters western windows

1:49

Late, but not early. Early. Late would be 4. 5 is morning.

“Wait! Is it two or is it three?”

The numbers flashed in red upon the ceiling spelled two. I rose to let the dogs out. Passing through the house, I noted the clock numbers glowing on the stove.

1:54

“It must be three. The atomic clock upon the nightstand has not reset itself. It is supposed to accept a signal from its master… somewhere.”

To be sure, I touch the iPhone in its charger next to the sink.

3:03

“God. I’m somewhere in between. What time did I fall into bed… yesterday? Have I had enough sleep?”

The dogs came in and were placed in their pen. There they can wheeze away from my bed, where I yearn to return.

I turned the light on to read a bit. I finished the penultimate tale in the collection I mentioned last week. The Fairies Return. It is a druggy take on Sleeping Beauty from the collection first published in 1934. The story is written by G. B. Stern, whose books I have handled many, many times—but dammee if I’ve ever sold one.

I flipped open the laptop to write these words, and a WaPo article on the last letter of Mary, Queen of Scots glowed forth. Written on the eve of her execution—she was beheaded in the morning—it has not been displayed for decades.

A rabbit hole—as in a fairy tale.

I recalled the crucifix she held as the axe came down. Walter Scott had collected it along with thousands of other artifacts in his fairy palace in Scotland. I saw it last September on my tour from London to Windsor to Stratford to Grasmere to… ending in Glasgow.

The laptop glows 4:31 in the upper right-hand corner. I know that’s the correct time.

“I’m doomed.”

I’ll close the laptop, and the room will go dark til dawn.

Good

Bad

Ugly

The stress turned up to “11” the last few days.

Problems, opportunities, opportunities with problems flying at me from every direction.

By yesterday afternoon, I was frazzled, near catatonic. I left the building and wandered across the dockyard. It was sunny and warm. 78! I wore my heavy winter coat—new in December but now soiled with book work. It is still chilly in the building. There’s a little wire picnic table with two matching chairs at the south end near the ramp to the entrance. I used to go out there at the end of the weekend days when I worked alone. I would write there and decompress. I had a good close friend then. We would chat or text and perhaps meet later for dinner and drinks down there or up here. COVID and politics changed all that. Yesterday, Tuesday, the building still had 60 or 70 employees inside. I sat down facing the sun and closed my eyes. Soon I was baking comfortably in my brown Carhartt coat. It felt so good to be warm. Then it felt so good to be hot. I let my head fall back a bit and dozed. I was at peace. I was away from the turmoil and people and their wants and needs. It was brief but cathartic.

Then I was up. Up the ramp and inside to face the music. A couple more strategy meetings and I left.

At home, I felt I must take advantage of the good weather. So many afternoons it has been too cold or I’ve been too injured to do much but bring in firewood before sitting before the TV and watching old shows like Cheers and Lord Peter Wimsey.

I changed into yard clothes and headed to the barn. I chose what might be the oldest of my four Husqvarna chainsaws. Gas and chain oil were poured into the proper holes. A few pulls on the cord, and then the engine turned over. The choke was pushed in. I pulled, and the machine roared to life, its dangerous chain spinning frenetically. It idled as we crossed to the house. In front of the porch was the pile of deadfalls I dragged out of the forest in December. Was it December? During the deep freezes and snows, it was buried within a mound of snowcrete. I wanted to get it cut up so it would dry again and could be used in these last weeks of woodstove use. Then I took the truck halfway down the drive where logs had been left by the arborists. They were encroaching on the drive. I also suspected they were on top of some daffodil patches.

“Damn! They left some too big. I can’t lift that without risk…”

I know we had specs. The main one was that I’m a good customer and I’m getting too old to lift 80-pound dead weights without risking my back. I think we had measured specs too. I’ll measure some of the big ones and see if I should complain. It would be dreary to cut the giant pieces in half.

You should aim your vehicle downhill when loading wood. Otherwise, it can roll back at you! LOL. Actually, if the truck is angled downhill, it is easy to roll the first logs toward the front of the bed. I picked up the ones I could and filled the truck. The too-big ones I made sure I rolled off the emerging daffodils. They’ll be fine.

It is Wednesday morning. Pip needs to go to the vet for blood work on my way to work.

Looking through my emails, two huge orders dropped in overnight.

One for 40,000 online books and a lot of money.

Another for six truckloads of books from the web and the stores. Almost a quarter million books. The details ($) still need to be worked out, but… wow!

It puts the low five-figure rent dispute with a landlord in perspective. Out of the blue, the landlord said that there was a rent problem in 2020. We and they are searching for the cause. They contend that has made every rent late for the last 6 years. My contention is that “if” there was some issue in 2020, only that needs to be looked at. Every single rent payment since has been on time. Each check is marked with the month and year it is paying.

AND WHY are you bringing this up as a crucial problem when you haven’t mentioned it until February 26th, 2026?!

Instead of being cordial or businesslike, they chose the nuclear option. “Default.” “Eviction”—if not paid by Tuesday—yesterday.

We have been there for 21 years. They never complained. Incredible.

I take pride in paying the bills and paychecks on time.

So stressful.

It is Friday the 13th.

Great.

Cold again. 30 degrees.

A red waning crescent moon is rising in the leafless forest to the southeast.

Sigh.

My leg is mostly better. I missed the two physical therapy sessions this week. I wasn’t feeling well.

I haven’t regained my stamina. All those days of doing very little walking leave me winded walking up stairs. I started trying to rebuild that, lifting and carrying wood.

There are hundreds of pieces to harvest. Some are across the old logging ditch. Fortunately, I had a bridge put in a dozen years ago.

Daffodils are blooming here and there. The symphony of flowers is building slowly.

My April trip to Egypt has been canceled.

The war is too close, I suppose.

Should I go somewhere else?

Or should I stay here? A prisoner to books during this boom time, which may end any time, but will almost certainly never happen again.

The fire is flickering orange against the glass doors in the next room. I stirred the remnants of last night’s small blaze. I just rose and crossed to it and dropped a couple of small logs in through the heavy steel lid on top.

Inside, the amaryllis is having its own concerto. I brought three from the floor in the laundry room and set them on the wooden stand in the bay window.

There are about a dozen more in various stages of growth. I’ll get them off the floor and onto showy places as they grow more beautiful.

The teakettle is rumbling atop the woodstove. I don’t know why I don’t heat water there more often. It is free heat. I grabbed a tea bag out of a random box of Mariage Freres. Covent Garden Morning. “Luscious, Aromatic, Nutty Notes Black Tea.”

Thursday was just overwhelming. I had to leave at 7 to meet a major builder to give me advice on the condition of a building I’m looking at.

Winds were roaring, and rain was spitting in my face. The day before had been in the 80s. This rain was supposed to turn to snow later.

Going down the mountain, I had to stop twice to move large branches that had fallen across the road. Fortunately, no trees had been blown down. (When I returned home that night, I harvested those branches and a few others for free heat.) I made my way via back roads to Interstate 70 and headed west to Hagerstown.

The building I’m considering is an old marble bank building. It is a stunning beauty with problems. The main level has a huge walk-in vault.

It almost has a steampunk vibe to it.

The basement was dry and could be a fantastic film set. Two more even more ancient vaults. One is filled with hundreds of deposit boxes.

Oh, the treasures these must have held.

There must have been a dozen old furnaces down there. There were even remnants of a coal furnace. The contrast with bright, airy, marble in the shiny lobby was stark. Customers would never have known they were standing above a vast dungeon-like space.

At least it was dry.

There’s an elevator that took us to the second floor. It was filled with offices.

Stunning.

But too much work. Too much risk.

Sigh.

If only I wasn’t so…

Sigh.

I drove back to Frederick with snow splatting on the windshield.

It was midmorning. I looked at the emails.

Everybody wants books. LOTS of books. But with stipulations.

I was at capacity before all this.

“Hire 5-6 order pullers,” I wrote in an email and shot it off.

“What can I do? It’s really too big for me. I’m just a book guy…”

I sent off videos of the Hagerstown store aisles. A buyer may want to sweep numerous categories.

“It’s ok. It will fill back in.”

In the early 2000s, Conor and Tomas Kenny would visit from Galway, Ireland. Conor would point to various and ask, “How much for all the World War 2?”

We’d fill a container and ship all the history across the sea. But it refilled quickly.

The dawn predicts that it will be a beautiful sunrise.

It is! (Turn your sound on.)

I don’t know what to do.

I let Ernest loose on the Tom Verlaine remnants that we got from bookseller friends who had acquired the hoard. Ernest is a big fan. The stuff we got was a mess, and I put it on the back burner. Piles of magazines and even junk mail. Ernest made a cart of stuff he thought I should see.

“Is this a poem or lyric?” Ernest’s note asked.

Visitors from a business that helps older people downsize came by with some books. One collection has a lot of nice kids books. A box or two of signed Brian Jacques UK 1st editions.

“Is this J. K. Rowling autograph right?” I asked Annika.

“Not sure. I need to do some more digging.”

The stunning William Blakes came from a friend near San Francisco.

I love Blake. I’d love to go back to London and see those old friends in the galleries.

And the daffodils. More are opening every day.

I’m so tired at night. Is it remnants from the Hammy? It’s only been about 5 weeks.

I dunno. Something’s not right.

Well, time to go clean and head down to see what’s next

…in wonder land.

And this fun little video was created by the young guy who does many of our social media posts.