Friday, May 8

Is it over? Is it finished?

It’s four in the morning.

Black.

Silent.

My bedclothes are more of a tangle than ever. My home is as well.

After seven months of sprinting for the huge orders for books pouring in from nearly a dozen companies, all now seem to have gone silent.

Is it just a lull? Or is the “Book Rush” over?

There are a bunch of strangers in the warehouse. We hired a lot of people to pull and pack the big orders. They spend their time out in the stacks. I only see them when they are coming or going—to the restrooms or the exits.

They’re picking from the lists of the last straggling orders. There’s still plenty to do. The miles of shelves are in shambles. Many of the bookcases are half-full. We need to condense hundreds of thousands of books. We need to refill them.

There’s a kind of physical and mental letdown when after a period of intense physical and mental labor on a race or project or… whatever… it all stops and you have to get off the rollercoaster.

“What’s next?”

Maybe I can untangle my home. I can certainly untangle the bed. It’s just about time to switch out the flannel sheets for cotton ones.

And there’s plenty to do at work. The endless stream of books flowing in needs to be sorted and sent hither and thither.

That’s how I spent Thursday. After Wednesday’s bust, I was even further behind. Cart after cart. Shelf after shelf. Book after book. Then I’d amble up to the Books by the Foot area. Up there were a few dozen carts that had been loaded with charity sale leftovers. I had to review them as the charity had also been saving antiquarian books for us, and everything was packed together.

I am a scanner? That’s what it feels like. My eyes pass over about thirty spines per shelf in less than a minute. Four shelves per cart. Occasionally something “clicks” in my mind, and I pull a book off and set it on another cart. But over 90% of them don’t “click.” Grisham, Nora Roberts, Cornwell, Steele… they don’t “click.” Visible to my eyes, they’re invisible to my brain.

Then back down to the regular sorting area. Then back to BBTF.

I’m a machine. A servant to the book.

When the day ended and I was home, I saw I needed to continue my wood work. The tree that fell while I was away and had been cut up earlier in the week needed to be picked up, and the pieces taken where they belonged. The firewood to the barn for stacking.

The branches dragged across the drive and down the steep rocky slope to be piled.

That will become a little habitat for birds and other small creatures. It will slowly decompose and shrink. But now that it is established, I’ll start adding deadfalls to it to clean up the forest floor in that part of the property.

When I perform this kind of manual drudgery, I force myself to count the logs or the trips across the drive.

“Ten more,” I tell myself, creating an artificial quota. After ten, I tell myself, “Ten more.” Repeat until I’m satisfied I’ve done enough.

I planted nasturtium seeds.

Then I felt I could go inside and make something to eat. Then I could rest a while and watch the Peter Wimsey miniseries The Five Red Herrings.

Sitting in the great room, I looked around at my bookshelves. At least they’re not in a tangle.

Wimsey makes me think of Jeeves for some reason. The website “Ask Jeeves” was unplugged on May 1. A victim of AI. AI, the robot we are teaching to replace us?

It’s Friday. The week sped by. A blur.

Maybe the “Book Rush” isn’t over. Maybe there’s just a lull.

It certainly was exciting. And profitable.

If it is over, after the condensing is finished, we will need to figure out something else for strangers out in the stacks to do. Maybe we can bring them in from the far ranges for other tasks.

It’s four in the morning. Monday.

Black.

Silent.

My bed is a tangle of flannel sheets, blankets and a comforter. The half-dozen pillows are a jumble. By the time I crawl off to bed, I’m too tired to straighten things out.

Or is it too lazy?

Because of the bedclothes’ confusion, there are cold spots. I still light a fire every night, but I’m not diligent about stoking it. (Too tired? Too lazy?) So, if things get chilly, I find myself stretching and tugging.

“Just get up and straighten the mess out!”

Pip and Giles are sleeping silently nearby. Pip’s blindness and orientation issues have made it simpler to carry him to the door and aim him outside rather than cajoling him to follow my voice across the house. Poor little trooper. But I’m not sure he knows much is wrong. Just happy to be alive and breathe fresh air. Eat. Be stroked.

The tree people are coming this morning. I surrendered and called for help. The way the tree near the house split and fell (not all the way) makes me feel uncomfortable messing with it. Too problematic. I did ask them to just cut it on the ground and cut it into 12-inch pieces. I’ll haul the wood to the barn. I’ll haul the brush to the pile I’m building below the steep drop-off below the upper drive and parking area.

Last evening, I was clearing the parts of the tree I cut up before surrendering. Dragging the brush down off the driveway, I looked up and saw the sun setting in the forest. The big new patch of daffodils is still in bloom.

Sigh. Sometimes all the work and stress is worth it.

The weekend was the usual joyful grind. Thousands and thousands of books.

I misplaced a book. Can you imagine? It was a first edition of Charles Williams’ Descent into Hell.

I found it sometime Saturday and put it… somewhere. Later, it started to bother me. It wasn’t in the usual places I set things I want to see again. I looked. And looked. The weekend time is precious. I can get so much done without all the people and machinery bustling around. I didn’t panic, but it niggled at my mind.

“I’ll find it on Sunday.”

I didn’t.

It’ll turn up. They always turn up.

It’s not a very valuable book. No dust jacket. “Good” condition—which means pretty worn. I found several hundred books more valuable than it this weekend. Maybe more. But Williams has that Tolkien connection—the Inklings and the readings at The Eagle and the Child in Oxford. It’s a “theological thriller.” I should read it.

Well, it’ll turn up.

My arms ache. My lower back is a little sore. I’ve done another couple of day’s good work. I’m relevant. I’m justified. I earned my place. But I’m paying for it. I hope it is nothing serious or permanent.

It is Monday. A beautiful spring day. Sunny. 61 degrees. Ernest is driving us down to the Gaithersburg store. I want to see the progress we’ve made in resizing and relocating the STEM sections and other projects there.

Also, I want to get out of the warehouse. I had to “pay” for the trip to France by pushing my mind and body through thousands of decisions this weekend. I had so much fun that it hurt.

On Friday, the family all got together for dinner in Hagerstown. Two sons, three grandsons and spouses. It has turned out pretty well. All great people. I wish I could see them more. Maybe I’m working too much.

On the way over the mountains on I-70, I passed a long backup on the eastbound lanes. I used to drive that stretch every day when I lived in Pennsylvania. There were backups in both directions quite often. When I returned to Frederick, there was still a backup on the eastbound lanes. Hundreds of cars were directed through a rest stop parking lot. The next day, I checked the newspaper. Nothing. I searched online. It took a while, but I finally found something on a scanner site. “Three critically injured. One ejected. Two airlifted. Highway closed for hours.” Then nothing.

On Monday when I got into the industrial park where Wonder Book is located, my way was blocked by a police car with flashing lights. The road is a big loop or circle, so I turned around and got to work from the other direction. There had been an accident not far from our entrance. Six EMT people were on their knees at the curb nearly across the street from our parking lot. There were working on a victim who was screaming in pain. There were multiple police cars and a couple of rescue vehicles. I walked to the edge of our property and tried to figure out what happened. There was a red pickup in the middle of the street. Its driver’s side front end was crushed, and the wheel and axle were broken. The injured person had to have been on a motorcycle, but I couldn’t see that machine, just a lot of broken pieces. I figured the motorcycle hit the truck, and the rider flew forward on the pavement 60 or 70 feet. Brutal. He must have been going very fast. Strange, our street is not a through road. The only reason to drive on it is to get to work or visit one of the businesses. The EMTs worked on the person for quite a while before loading him into an ambulance and taking him to a nearby field where I saw a helicopter landing to take him away. I searched later and only found the police Facebook page advising people to avoid the area due to a motorcycle accident. Then nothing.

I write the above because of the changes from the collapse of the local “newspaper” is that there is no longer a local source of “news.” The “record” of a city or area with all the local news, legal notices, help wanted, auction announcements. We still get the physical paper—out of loyalty more than anything. There was nothing about the tragic accidents all week. Just gossipy features about high school kids’ projects and Frederick County’s “Signature Bird”—the kestrel—and other feel-good stuff.

And so the chill night chases me to bed and warmth
The fire flickers forth orange in the dark
I heard cathedral bells tolling a warning
Flood and fearsome death rose
The sound shook my bones
My ears bled and eyes and nose
But the stones held firm
Walls and roof battered held firm
My faith, our faith, held firm
Though all below was washed away
The cathedral bells rang
Through storm and flood and fearsome death
Some were swept away in torrents
Back to the sea from which all life sprang
And the bells tolled for thee and me
And those swept away in the torrents
We stood battered, yet we stood
Upright, erect against the tide
Remember the sun and blue sky
They shall return. The earth will dry
The bells shall ring with joy not warning
The bells shall ring the night to dawn
The sun will rise orange
Against the black horizon
Death and destruction will be chased
To the west where all darkness flees

Wednesday, May 6th. I can’t seem to sleep past 4 a.m. anymore. The France jetlag should be over.

My wacky nephew came up to the house yesterday. It is the first time I’ve let him. He lacks… a filter sometimes. But I needed help stacking wood. And moving it. And splitting. Some pieces were just too big to risk my back lifting onto the splitter. The floor of the barn was pretty full. At the business end of the splitter, the split wood was piled high all around it. For some reason, I can work endlessly stacking books. Stacking wood? Torture. With Gerry there, I had to keep going. The first chore was clearing the deck and filling the partially empty bays where the wood is stored and dries. There are four of them. We worked on different ones to keep out of each other’s way. I had Pandora playing on my phone nearby, and the time went by fast, stacking and chatting. We topped up two completely.

One will need a lot more.

We hadn’t worked long. I asked if he wanted to bring some up from the woods partway down the driveway. He’d driven his pickup truck and went down to get a load. I headed behind the house where the tree people had taken the mess that had fallen while I was in France.

(That trip was so wonderful. Globus did a great job organizing it. The guide, Karen, was masterful. The bus driver—amazingly skilled on often narrow and twisting roads. I still feel like I’m there sometimes. I need to return. I haven’t been to the south of France much. Provence. And then the Basque Country and Galicia. So much world to see.)

I had cut it away from the house and back to the three-foot stone garden wall.

But then it started looking daunting. Even a bit dangerous. I didn’t know what it would do where it broke into splinters. And that was about 15 feet off the ground and very thick and heavy. So I asked my arborist to have it cut into small pieces but to leave the trunk standing near the break. That’s called a “totem.” Eventually woodpeckers will put holes in it, and then other birds and creatures can live in and on it.

My nephew is a “picker.” Mostly old toys. But he does make some interesting finds. He brought this hunk of old wood to show me.

The brass plate reads:

Fort Dinwiddie
Virginia
Built 1755

It’s a piece of the stockade from Fort Dinwiddie. I think that’s pretty cool. A physical connection to America’s colonial era. “George Washington saw this log.”

Wednesday

What a day.

I’m in a bar watching Paris Saint-Germain play Bayern Munich. The Paris team, PSG, is pronounced “Paree san jerman.” It’s an accident I’m here. I left work after the lights came back on. I was frustrated and frazzled. The whole day had been a bust. The debacle spiraled when I walked into the warehouse about 1 p.m. All the lights were off (except the emergency lights that come on when the power is off.) There was a crowd of people milling around near the office. One of the managers announced, “The power company says the lights won’t come back on until 4. I’m sorry, we’re going to ask you to go home.”

Great. I had plans to make SOMETHING of the day. Now the place would be dim for the next 3 hours. There was nothing I could do. Helpless. A few of the managers lingered, closing out programs for the day and performing necessary odds and ends. I wandered across the building. 5 or 6 of the loading dock doors were open. They can’t be closed without power. But the area near Dock 1 and 2 was pretty well lit by sunlight. I could work there til the lights came on.

Then there were interruptions. Urgent calls. A full van arrived and needed to be swapped for an empty one. Larry appeared with a load of books. He needed a check, so I had to wander across the dim warehouse to the office and write one out using the flashlight on my phone so I could see what I was writing.

I got back to Dock 1 & 2 and began going through a cartload of books. I have a system. A series of empty banker’s boxes to one side for books to go to the stores. Each box will be a different price. When that box is delivered to a store, all the books in it will be stickered the same price.

To my other side was an empty cart. Books I think worthy of the internet get set on those shelves. I stack them in price piles, and when the stack is high enough, I write the price on a Post-it and attach it to the top book.

A couple of yellow tubs are behind for books worthy of sending to Madeline or Annika to research.

But the loading dock was cluttered, and I was frustrated setting things up. I started getting mad at fate. That’s never a good sign.

Then the lights came on. 90 minutes before predicted.

I texted the managers who needed to return and log out of things and perform other necessary tasks.

I decided to bail. I was close to twitching.

I couldn’t go home. Someone was working there, and I didn’t want to be around that.

“I’ll treat myself to something good to eat.”

I headed downtown. The police still had the roads blocked? Initially, they had done it because all the traffic lights in the area were out. I had to exit onto I-70 East and then backtrack. Such a mess. Everyone else was trying to find a way to get where they were going. I got downtown and then pulled over to check. The place I wanted to go was closed until Thursday. I thought of another place and drove out West Patrick. I pulled into the lot. No one there. Doesn’t open til 5. Maybe I’ll go out to Modern Asia next to Wonder Book. I headed out to Rt. 40. Gridlocked. I bailed and exited onto US 15. That was how I came to find myself in Glory Days. It is a sports bar with several dozen big-screen TVs on the walls. A soccer game was on a few of them. It was PSG vs. Bayern Munich! I didn’t think I’d get to see it. Maybe it was fate. There were only a few people in the place. It was still early. I chose a table with a good view of the game.

“Stella, please.”

So, I exhaled and watched the big game. The winner would advance to the Champions League final. That’s like the Super Bowl in the US. Top European teams play against each other all year to get to this point. It was essentially France vs. Germany—though the teams are made up of players from around the world. It was an exciting match.

I had another Stella Artois and a Black and Blue salad.

Harry Kane, a top player from Britain, scored in the final minute, but it wasn’t enough to keep PSG from advancing.

It settled me somehow. I went home and split and stacked some wood.

It is a chilly Friday morning. Pip was whining in his pen. I picked him up and set him outside. He must have some innate sense of the property’s layout after 15 years. He meandered to his favorite garden and blindly pushed his way through the bleeding hearts and hostas to do his business. He’s so small that I couldn’t see him. I followed his movements by the plants moving. I called him back to the house, and he made his way back awkwardly—bumping into potted plants and other obstacles.

Now I need to finish this and shower and get to work.

All the stores had a great April. BBTF and the website were very strong too. And that’s not counting the BIG buys. We track those sales separately—like a windfall.

Outside, the leaves have almost completely emerged. The view from my window is a sea of green with just a bit of sky peeking through the canopy.

Work is good.

Life… could use some tweaks.

My home in disarray still has good “bones.” The bookcases are not in disarray.

The books abide.

Oh!

Someone found my missing copy of Descent into Hell on Tuesday. It was on a Books by the Foot cart.

My bad.

Not a big deal in the scheme of things, but now I’ll have to read it.