Friday. The end of October.

It has been a glorious week outdoors.

Color is everywhere.

The weather has been mild. The last couple of days, I’ve left the windows open all day and night. No need for a fire.

It is 6 a.m. Dark and silent outside. The temperature is 65 in and 65 out.

October’s end. The windows are open. They let some of the year’s last weather in. I lie in dark and silence. Then a soft gust comes—more like a puff of breath from some forest god’s sigh. Hundreds of leaves high above the house detach. They flutter and patter and scuttle on the black invisible roof just a few feet from where I lie. Then the world settles into silence once again.

A dread winter is looming up on the mountain high above. All the portents point to it.

I am such a small creature huddled alone in the dark. The vast forest all around does not note my insignificance.

Another breath of air.

Another cascade of leaves rains down.

They fall from high above. They flutter and patter and scuttle on the black invisible roof just a few feet from where I lie. Then the world returns to silence. Darkness and silence.

My week has been filled with confusion and brooding. Too much time alone. Two too often idle hands in the dark. (What should my hands be doing here and at this hour?) I’ll reach for a book or a pad. My right arm will rise and search for the wire hanging from the bed lamp clamped to the headboard. A pool of light comes on and words propped on my torso and knees are illumined.

Some good comes of the awakening. The words above, which are poem*, came. They flowed from my mind, down my left arm, through my hand, which guided the pen to scratch and roll ink words onto paper. My eyes and ears were involved as well.

Too much brooding about life and work and how my time is spent.

And… what’s next?

I cannot stop. I am a kind of engineer of the book train. If I hop off, there will be a crash. Books will start piling up from behind. They will never stop. I’ve discovered the train is endless. Infinite books rushing behind me. I must keep up, or there will be disaster.

The Flying Dutchman was doomed to travel incessantly and never make port.

Perhaps my afterlife will be a never-ending journey, a hopeless task leading endless books to rescue.

The week was an exciting blur. They all seem like that.

I checked an artist’s concert off the bucket list.

Loreena McKennitt.

On my first trip to Europe when I was 19, I went to the Tate when I visited London. One of the only souvenirs I got in Europe was a poster of Waterhouse’s The Lady of Shalott.

It was a bit crushed when I got it home, but it decorated my dorm room. I will likely visit her again when I’m back in London soon.

In the 80 and 90s, Wonder Book stocked new CDs as well as used. My philosophy was similar to my reasoning on renting and selling videos:

“Stock the stuff the big guys don’t think is profitable.”

(But that I, with my exquisite taste, personally like. If you believe in something, you might do a better job with it.)

Plus, I would get to watch or listen to these hard to find things myself.

One of the vendors I bought from was a folksy, Celtic outfit called Silo Records. They were in Vermont. They did a great job sending out review copies of CDs. (Another perk.) Most were by artists I’d never heard of. The first McKennitt release, Elemental, has songs using the words of Yeats and Blake. When I first heard it, I was swept away. I even sent a fan letter asking for a signed photograph. Perhaps the first and last time I did this with a stranger. She sent one.

So, I began selling her CDs. Wonder Book did well with these “niche” offerings.

Until the World Wide Web made selling full price—anything—impossible.

We discontinued selling new CDs.

I remained a fan.

Skip forward some decades, and an email dropped in that she was going to perform in DC. I jumped on Ticketmaster immediately and got two tickets. 4th row. Center.

That was Monday. I met my older son at his home in northern Virginia. He drove my car in, and we parked near the Warner Theatre. We went to the Elephant and Castle for pub grub. There was still plenty of time, so we walked to the Willard and had cocktails at the Round Robin Bar there.

I love the place. Twain, Dickens, Whitman, Hemingway… presidents…

Then to the theater.

It was magical. So beautiful it hurt. She is about my age, but her voice was like a bell.

Something about it made me sad though. As if my heart was removed and would never be put back.

---

The weekend had been all books when it wasn’t “things.”

Lots of exciting books.

An 1862 book on South Carolina slavery.

A cheerful recording of Chairman Mao’s Four Minute Workout.

The image of that jolly smiling fellow with the cute mole on his cheek belies the fact that he is history’s greatest mass murderer.

But the best book came from a friend.

Troilus and Chriseyde.

One of 6 copies done on vellum.

My friend called it “the book of the year.”

It is perfect in every way. A “time traveler.”

From what we can tell, it has never been at auction or listed for sale by a bookseller (except a light penciled notation, “Dawson’s 1934.”)

Somehow, this made me even sadder this week.

It is all flying by so fast.

When you ride the whirlwind, there is nothing to hold on to.

---

Thursday.

Such a beautiful day. Nearly 80 outside. Bright. Blue skies. It is 4:13 in the warehouse.

A bookseller is visiting from Annapolis, otherwise I would have bugged out a while ago.

Sunset is in about 2 hours.

Hear that lonesome whippoorwill
He sounds too blue to fly
The midnight train is whining low
I’m so lonesome I could cry

I’ve never seen a night so long
When time goes crawling by
The moon just went behind the clouds
To hide its face and cry

Did you ever see a robin weep
When leaves begin to die?
That means he’s lost the will to live
I’m so lonesome I could cry

The silence of a falling star
Lights up a purple sky
And as I wonder where you are
I’m so lonesome I could cry

Hank Williams

I poured a shot of Willett pot still reserve.

Bad idea.

Tonight will be unhappy, I think.

But, well, if you knew that first taste…

Have you ever heard a whippoorwill?

A magical creation.

Doesn’t matter.

I worked hard all day.

So many carts.

So many books.

I worked HARD.

I lost ground.

Where do I go from here?

What is the big picture?

Sadness.

Loss.

Unable to keep up with my work.

I’ve trained others, but they just don’t have “it.”

“It” is the gift I was born with—or more likely developed out of desperation and hard work.

My tiny slice of “genius.”

I can pigeonhole almost any book in a few seconds.

The top part of my “idiot savant” skill—when I come across a real treasure, the bells go off, and I do the right thing by it—often before I have had the chance to open the outwardly anonymous book and see what is inside.

Maybe, like the old gold miner, I “know” the treasure simply by its invisible aura after handling tons of sand.

The silence of a falling star
Lights up a purple sky
And as I wonder where you are
I’m so lonesome I could cry

I know where you are.

Crazy.

But for those glorious months 8 years ago… well, we could have conquered the world.

As it is, I rose to a new plateau.

Perhaps the gods were involved. If they were, they succeeded in making me a better book machine.

To counterbalance that gift, those monsters saw to it that I was cast from a great height. I often feel I am still falling to this very day.

I peeked in on the visiting bookseller. I saw he had a handful of books on his cart. I didn’t want to interrupt his hunting.

I turned and silently left the room he was in. It was the end of the day for most. I crossed the building, passing others leaving in the opposite direction.

I went out the back door and into the dockyard. There’s lots going on. Machines are pushing dirt and stone this way and that. The giant drainage pond is taking its final shape.

The tree planters came back. They put in another 20 or so. This year, I’ve caused 120 or more trees to be planted. And that doesn’t include those I have planted or transplanted on the mountain.

Put that in the plus column.

The newest trees are in the background—on the other side of the dry “pond.”

My mind filled with thoughts of past and future. Present good and present disappointing. I crossed the building to my car and drove home.

I’d completely forgotten about my Annapolis bookselling friend!

How self-obsessed. I should’ve at least said goodbye and introduced him to some there who could help.

I texted profound apologies and wondered at my state of mind.

I took the truck down to retrieve the big two-wheeled recycling container. I brought a saw with me and stopped on the way up to cut some big deadfalls that were too closed to the road.

When in confusion and times of turmoil, cut some wood.

That’s eternal.

As eternal as the orange and red and golden leaves in the magical forest.

Color is around me everywhere.

I’ll apologize again this morning.

“Eedjut!”

My friend did find a nice shelf of books.

I just texted another apology.

---

Wednesday

70 inside. 59 out. The dawn is a thick dark orange band above the horizon. It is just before 7. The sunrise is at 7:31.

The next few days will be in the mid or high 70s. I think it is too early to call it an Indian Summer. That’s usually in November, isn’t it? And it is supposed to come after the first killing frost.

We haven’t had a frost yet.

I might as well open some windows when I leave today.

My home is as clean and cleared as it’s been since before COVID.

There are still some boxes of papers I need to force myself to go through—get rid of or file.

Should I save my electric bills? They are almost always $0.00. I prepay the bill by sending in $1000 every 9 -10 months. (It used to be $500 but the rates have gone up.) I like to live “small” up here. But I live well, I think.

When I got home last night, I emptied another 40 bags of mulch off the pickup. Now I need to cut the bags and spread on beds and paths. Today is recycling, so I drove the big blue container down the mountain tooth county road. It was filled mostly with empty mulch bags.

That should be enough organic material for the new beds and rejuvenate paths.

It has been a colorful week at home and at work.

The leaves are changing.

I’ve been on a bit of a creative binge with Books by the Foot color bundles.

I came up with these two yesterday on a whim.

One is called Sunflower. The other Sunshine.

Last weekend, I put 5 together and shot images—True Love, Black Heart, Noir Bleu, Blanc Noir and… I forget.

https://mailchi.mp/booksbythefoot/beautiful-little-stacks-of-books-perfect-for-end-tables

The potted plants need to be carried in. That will change the vibe of the house. I like it the way it is. But I can’t let the plants die. I will just have to deal with all the space they take up. Might as well begin tonight.

I need to open up the ATV trail. I stopped riding it a few years ago—COVID. I walked up there last week. There are a lot of dead trees blocking the path.

I should transplant more of the redbud seedlings. Some are getting chest high. Those will be tough to extricate from the rocky soil. They cannot stay that close to the driveway.

I have enough extra stone to make a new bed and a wall. Add that to the cold weather chores.

There’s a bunch of fallen wood I should haul in and cut up for 2026—maybe fall 2025.

I’m proud of the housework. It wasn’t easy. Difficult and stressful.

At work, another 20+ trees appeared. “I’ve” planted well over 120 as part of the reforestation aspect of the new buildings. It was hugely expensive and designed to “offset” the trees that were taken down on the building site. Of course, the building site was just a vacant lot in an industrial park. Long ago, it had been pasture. Scruffy brush and trees naturally sprung up.

I don’t mind. I’m proud to have 3 new little groves on what had once been lawn on the Wonder Book Warehouse lot. And there are many dozens more all around the new buildings.

Here are some of the newest ones.

They have amazing machines that drill a hole for the root ball to sit in. Another machine sets the tree in the hole. Then the ball is covered with soil and mulch. At night, they bring water trucks for the new plantings.

---

Tuesday

The bouillon is hot salty chickeny. Somehow fortifying.

Sick food.

Well, it is not food, but I am sick.

I came home about 5. So many chores everywhere.

No. I need some down time.

I did put the big dog bed cover into the wash. 70 minutes cold. I’ve never done such a thing before. I wonder if it will work.

I should just toss it and buy a new one.

The dog bed has gotten years of wear. It lies on the floor in front of the breakfront that stands against the wall the big flat screen hangs upon.

We (four now) can keep our eyes on each other while I recline and watch something.

“Tumble dry.”

I guess that means no heat.

We will see how it turns out.

(The hot liquid flows throughout me after I sip it. It warms and invigorates me.)

It was 62 out and 62 in when I got home. I didn’t start a fire when I got home late last night. I just fell into bed and let Giles flop up against me. He was big and warm.

Dreams…

However we are gifted these occasional visions, they are a blessing, a respite and, I hope, a tantalizing glimpse of what permanent dream-life is to come.

---

Monday. A new week. What things may come?

It was a weekend full of things. Statues to stereos. Blue glass to bluegrass…

I manually priced hundreds of things for the stores.

On Saturday at work, I was doing my usual. Carts of books.

While up on the mountain, my home was being made new again. The great room is dusted and cleaned. I eliminated or moved all the extraneous stuff. I’m proud of it again.

I went on a wild goose to the tag sale house call. They asked me to come back and bid on the physics library and the leftovers from last weekend’s sale. It was a windy fall day. Leaves were being stripped from trees and scuttling across the roads in front of me. Some kind of bike ride was going on for much of the route. There was police presence at major intersections to warn drivers and protect the riders. I felt sorry for them. Often October days are cool clear and calm. Saturday had spitting rain and gusting winds. I’d often slow to a crawl until I could see far enough ahead to pass a little herd of bikers. When I arrived at the McMansion, there were still a lot of books left.

“We’re going to have another sale next week.”

?!

“The physics collection is still untouched.”

Well, I knew that. And I already reviewed it the first time I was out. What a waste. Why did they encourage me to come back out?

I won’t be back.

I’ll send a scout out to pick up the physics if my low-ball offer is accepted. Only about 10% of it exciting. All of it has fuzzy mold growing on it.

What a waste.

When I got home that evening, my housekeeper was still there.

“Almost done!”

I told her the disposal wasn’t working.

“There’s a switch underneath. Let me check.”

“WHIRRRRRRR!”

I had called my plumber buddy, and he had failed to show on Thursday. No text either. He’s losing “buddy” status.

“Wow! Can you fix roofs?” I kidded.

“No. But I have friends who can!”

---

Monday.

Travis and I are flying down 270 to the Gaithersburg store.

It is a glorious fall day. Sunny. 50s—60s. The trees are coloring just a bit more.

I spent all weekend cooped up in the warehouse with books and stuff. I would visit out into the dockyard periodically to play with the dogs and get some fresh air.

It was dark by the time I got home with the three dogs last night. I turned on the exterior lights and blew off the driveway, patio, porches, steps and decks. There was so much tree debris and so many leaves. The blower weighs about 35 pounds, I think. Once started, it doesn’t idle—it blows. That creates a lot of torque (is that the right word?) It makes it more difficult to hoist onto my shoulder as the jet of air makes the heavy thing push itself around. Plus, that’s how I injured my shoulder a month or so ago. After all these years, I discovered that if I start it with the blower hose pressed against an immovable object, the machine doesn’t “flop around” so much. Still, I was very careful and gingerly got the strap up onto my right shoulder. It is still tender and hurts to move in certain ways. I certainly don’t give it any rest with the kind of work I do. My arms are constantly lifting and moving things.

Fortunately, I can blow all the organic stuff into the woods or gardens where it can decompose.

Soon, there will be thick layers of leaves everywhere as the forest sheds its canopy.

I’ve been hauling some wood to the house, but the woodstove fires are still rather small. Soon, the iron wood rings will come out of the barn and replace the wooden wine crates I use as plant stands on the porch.

But first the potted plants need to make their exodus—introdus?—before the first freeze. I’m pretty good with indoor plants. But then I tend to choose those that are hard to kill. Some are years old now and weigh 50, 60… more? pounds.

---

Poem mentioned earlier:

* October’s end.

The windows are open.
They let some of the year’s last weather in.
I lie in dark and silence.
Then a soft gust comes
—more like a puff of breath from some forest god’s sigh.
Hundreds of leaves high above the house detach.
They flutter and patter and scuttle on the invisible roof
just a few feet from where I lie.
Then the world settles into silence once again.

A dread winter is looming up on the mountain high above.
All the portents point to it.
I am such a small creature huddled alone in the dark.
The vast forest all around does not note my insignificance.

Another breath of air.
Another cascade of leaves rains down.
They fall from high above.
They flutter and patter and scuttle on the black roof
just a few feet from where I lie.
Then the world returns to silence.
Darkness and silence.

My week has been filled with confusion and brooding.
Too much time alone.
Two too often idle hands in the dark.
(What should my hands be doing here and at this hour?)
I’ll reach for a book or a pad.
My right arm will rise and search for the wire hanging from the bed lamp
clamped to the headboard behind me.
A pool of light comes on
and words propped on my torso and knees are illumined.