…tired, sore, limp…

What a crappy day Saturday turned out to be.

I’m trapped at home on Sunday morning. The lying forecast on the iPhone now says it will get to 34 at 9. 36 at 10. 38 at 11. 40 at noon and thereafter.

Yesterday, the damned lying thing predicted slushy rain turning to rain only. The temperature was supposed to rise to 35 in the afternoon.

‘No problem,’ I thought while working on carts of books all day. ‘It will just be wet and sloppy.’

Then in midafternoon, I went out to check, and the parking lot was covered in gray slush. The temperature stayed around 33 all day.

I ran out of energy about 4:30.

Most of the books I worked on were old—pre 1940. A lot were “kills” from our online collectible sections. They had been on the websites for sale for a few years or longer. Despite many markdowns, they hadn’t sold. So they were deleted from stock and put on carts to be reviewed by… me.

I try to learn from my mistakes. I’m far less sentimental about a lot of books and printed matter than I used to be. I see the futility of wasted time putting forgotten authors and obscure royal memoirs and 70 to 150-year-old political biographies back online for sale. The retail stores’ comebacks have given me options for books whose looks may sell them as well as their contents.

So, a lot of the “collectible kills” will go to the stores. Many I put in boxes to be priced at the stores. This weekend’s mix had a lot of really cool things that I priced myself and put on Ernest’s table.

He will separate them and ship them to three stores according to whatever formula he uses. The most expensive ones will end up in the glass cases at the flagship Frederick store. This Zora Neal Hurston, for example.

Why it didn’t sell online, I don’t know. It is a third printing, but the dust jacket is stunning. Must not have been accurately described? Or maybe the data got corrupted, and the listing was lost in cyberspace.

There were also a lot of fun discoveries in the “raw” books as well. Finds like these Oz books will go to Madeline or Annika to be evaluated.

They aren’t as collected as they were some decades ago. The “points” for Oz titles are pretty arcane. We have a whole bibliography just for them to help ascertain what edition we have in our hands.

So I loaded up the dogs at 4:30 and headed home. The road in the industrial park was pretty slushy. The highways were mostly clear—until I got north of the city.

Then the thermometer on the big black pickup started changing from 33 to 32 to 31 to 32…

I switched to four-wheel drive. When I turned off the highway, the country roads to my home became slushier and slushier.

“Please don’t let me end up in a ditch.”

When I got to my lane, there were only a couple sets of tire tracks in the 2-3 inches of white slushy snow.

“Only a mile to go. Uphill is better than down in slippery stuff.”

As the lane wound up, up, up and the lane turned to gravel (gravel is better than pavement in snow), I was soon driving on virgin snow and slush cover. My own driveway is paved and is a steep pitch—maybe 15 degrees.

I felt the truck sliding beneath—just a bit—before the 4WD straightens itself out.

Up, up, up til I got to the big flat landing on the west side of the house. I got out of the truck, and on the pavement was about 2 inches of slushy white snow.

The lying phone said it would continue raining for an hour or two, and the temperature would rise to 35.

“I’ll be able to get out tomorrow morning. Certainly plowing would be easy if necessary.”

I was really beat and stressed. The last thing I wanted to do was hook up the plow to the ATV and push slush downhill in the dark.

I went inside, stoked the fire, turned the thermostats up and put some frozen slices of pizza into the oven to heat up.

I put on the next Inspector Morse and sat down with my sad bachelor fare.

I kept checking the outdoor temp. It read 34 all night and into the morning. Then it dropped to 33 around 4 a.m.

Sleep was really broken. I read 60 or 70 pages Barbara’s Witch during the intermissions.

At 7, it was getting light out. I sent the dogs to do their business. I followed, and the slush had turned to hard, crusty and icy.

This is what it looked like after “melting.”

“Damn! I’m stuck.”

This stuff was unplowable.

The lying phone reported that the temperature would go to 34 at 9. 36 at 10. 38 at 11. 40 at noon.

There was nothing to do but hunker down and wait.

I made some the 1837 TWG green tea my friend Gerry (not my nephew Gerry) had mailed me last week. It is wonderful. I had more and more.

Then I crawled back into bed and messed around writing this and the journal and looking at the “news”—which mostly people’s agonies around the world.

Sure enough, about 9 the sun came out, and the temperature rose to 36. The forest outside my window began raining as the ice coating the branches began melting quickly.

At 10, 38 degrees.

I remained cautious and worked in bed.

At 11, 40. I went out, and though the driveway was still covered in frozen matter, the two tracks I’d made driving up the night before were shiny black. Wet with water not ice.

“I can just follow my own tracks down.”

I had to maneuver the truck a few times to get it aligned. If I started off on the snow and ice, I might…

It turned out fine. I was at work about noon. My day was kind of ruined.

Late that afternoon, I went to Pennsylvania to finally celebrate Christmas with part of the family. My son brought in Japanese carry out.

(I had Bi Bim Bop—which is Korean, I know. It brought back Proustian memories of the tiny Korean restaurant tucked back off the road in downtown Frederick. Long gone now, Hana’s was a place where my family became family with the owners. The chef, Nichole, loved the baby boys and doted over them. She made kimchee in giant lidded earthenware containers out on the porch. It was a magical place both for the food and the familiarity. I learned to love many Korean dishes that at first seemed so alien. Bul Gogi… Her Bi Bim Bop came out in a super heated stone bowl. The meat and veggies and sauce were raw in it. A fried egg sat atop the contents. I had to stir the concoction with chopsticks, which sizzled as it cooked itself. It was marvelous. This Bi Bim Bop was pretty good but didn’t rise to the Elysian memory of 30 years ago. She closed when the city knocked down the little shopping center to put up the new courthouse.)

We exchanged gifts with tv football on in the background.

I was given a lot of jars and packages of sauces and other gourmet fare. It was great stuff, but I’ve been trying to use stuff up at home. That project took a giant step backward.

I had my current symptom of evening tiredness. Exhausted, I dragged myself home and crashed early. Sunday evening, I slept like a log. (Not the kind of logs I stoke the woodstove with—which crackle and spark and glow as they get consumed.)

Monday, I forced myself to look at statements. The accountant will soon be demanding the end-of-year stuff. It was torture. I did that until early afternoon and then drove over to the Frederick store. I called to get a hair appointment, but Mandi was booked. I stopped at Ken’s Frame shop and picked up the two Tolkien posters.

He’s had them for months, but I didn’t push to get them.

“Don’t come close to me. I’m just getting over COVID.”

“No problem. Me too.”

We shared illness anecdotes.

The bookstore was bustling with trade. The books I’d priced over the weekend had made their way over and were being stocked in the glass cases or on prominent display shelves. Old guys were on the sidewalk picking out stacks of 5 for $5 DVDs, CDs and LPs. Inside, there were shoppers of all ages foraging in the aisles.

My travel agent is about a half mile west. I headed there, stopping at the Deliciosa Bakery for a variety of Hispanic cookies. The bakery is in the same shopping center where Wonder Book was located from 1983 to 1990. Tim, my Welcome Aboard agent for decades now, had the travel packet for the trip to Turkey at the end of this month.

I left work at 4 for the first meeting of the Metaphysical Club in… a very long time. It was a good turnout. Many of the guys I had not seen since COVID. Almost all are retired doctors.

I think I’m the only one left working full time. About a dozen showed up at Rockwell Brewery. We caught up on a lot of stuff. I suggested trips like we used to do. And more get-togethers.

From there, I headed to my younger son’s home in Pennsylvania. I hadn’t seen it before. He brought in Mexican food, and then we started watching the College National Championship.

Then the COVID exhaustion hit, and I was toast. I dragged myself the long hour home, let the dogs run, put some wood on the fire… and crashed hard. I couldn’t stay up for the end of the game. Michigan won, which thrilled my son, I’m sure. He’s been a Michigan fan since we went to Detroit for a soccer tournament when he was 12 or 13. The university gave my son’s team a tour, and he became a fan for life.

I failed to mention that the housekeeper was supposed to come on Saturday. I canceled Friday because of the forecast. I sent her a couple pictures and said she would have been trapped or worse. She hasn’t been up since October. I’m looking forward to the place getting put back together.

The wonderful 1837 TWG tea? It was so good I made several big mugs of it Saturday. A couple of hours later at work, I felt my heart racing. I wondered why because I’ve scaled back on caffeine (and alcohol) over the past year. I looked it up online, and the Black 1837 was rated high caffeine. But Gerry had sent me the green. Whatever happened, I’ll drink smaller doses in the future.

It is Tuesday morning. The rain has started. Maybe 3 inches today, and the temperature rising to nearly 60.

I awoke very tired and probably could have laid in bed all morning. My cough has lessened some but still flares up unexpectedly. I’ve read it can linger weeks or even months.

I carried in a 35-pound “all day” log and slowly lowered it down onto the firebox. By late tonight, it will be reduced to a few ounces of light gray talc like ash.

I have to clean house tonight for the housekeeper comes tomorrow—finally. It will force me to put away books and other stuff. I texted her, asking if she could start coming once a month. It’s not just that I love an orderly house, but it forces discipline on me.

The flannel sheets will come up from the linen closet.

Now to work, where there are big projects with my name on them to get into.

---

Thursday morning

It is silent up here except for the occasional breathing noises of the two dogs sharing my bed.

The week has been pretty massive at work and at home.

Wednesday morning, I arose early and rushed around the house, getting things cleaned up and put away for the housekeeper’s arrival. She hasn’t been here since October—or was it September? Combination of her being ill, trips, me being ill and icy weather kept her away.

I was just too tired Tuesday night to do much.

Is it COVID remnants? Or have I not recovered my stamina after so many days of reduced activity? My cough is almost gone. I’m no longer sipping cough medicine every few hours.

Dishes cleaned. Books picked up. (I hid some on the steps up to the garret—they’re going there anyway.) Hoodies and scarves piled onto those steps as well. There are a few dozen pegs on both sides of the stairway.

Boxes of gifts for my older son and his family went out to the car. We will finally celebrate Christmas on Friday night. I haven’t wanted to take any chances around the baby who will be four months old next week. The bed got cleared off. In progress books and manuscripts got piled onto the bedside tables. I pulled off the sheets and washed them, along with a second load of clothes. Some of the clean clothes lying around I hurriedly hid in the walk-in closet. Same with shoes. I tossed some hopelessly odd or holey socks into the garden just off the porch. That bed is a sock and candle end graveyard. They will disintegrate and become compost there. (Obviously, I only use cotton or wool socks.) I prewashed some of the bathroom and kitchen fixtures so they would be less embarrassing. The laundry was folded and put away except for the socks. No time to match the many that have piled up next to the dryer. I put away the various meds and health and beauty products on the double sink in the bath that she didn’t need to be exposed to.

She arrived about a half hour late, which is the norm. She is so upbeat and positive. She makes me smile just being around her.

“Text me when you’re 20 minutes from finishing.” Though I knew she would work into the early evening. She is meticulous. Details I didn’t know needed cleaning or polishing get cleaned and polished. (This time she polished the dogs’ ceramic water bowl. It wasn’t dirty, but now it shines.)

Work.

We had to move 70 or 80 pallets to get the HVAC contractors access for their man lift to the ceiling heaters that need to be replaced.

I discovered a lot of pallets of books I’d forgotten we had. They’d been buried. There are still a number of Fratz pallets—mostly boxes of sci fi paperbacks. We actually need sci fi at the stores now. Some obscure or collectible ones may go online.

I asked Andrew to cart up a pallet of those. They look like this:

I also discovered a vein of “Gach Raw” pallets.

I thought these we long gone. But that vast horde must have multiplied here over the years. He had some wonderful books. A lot of the general stock was pretty bad. Psych or medical journals from 50s-80s. Obsolete textbooks. Uninteresting monographs. Old bookseller catalogs. I hate to pulp the work of other booksellers, but almost all are very hard to sell. Still, I often give the better ones a shot at 5/$5. Free government public health productions.

But there are occasional gems.

I had Andrew cart up a couple pallets of those.

This not only created more work for me, but it created a shortage of carts in the building. That meant that I was obligated to work on books. Maybe subliminally I “wanted” this forced labor. That is much more fun than the “end-of-year” paperwork the accountant is asking for.

There were a lot of great finds. A fine first edition of Interview with the Vampire.

This early 18th century history of witchcraft.

Early Animal Farm and Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats—both in nice jackets. A few vintage Tolkiens…

I spent most of the day standing or sitting on a hard stool in front of carts.

I did take a break to run a van over to the Frederick store. An ulterior motive was a long put off haircut. I’ve been going to Gentleman’s Choice since the 80s. My current stylist (is that the right word? Denny was my barber for many years, but he retired long ago.) is Mandi. She knows just how I like it done, even though I’m not a very good client. I only go in 3-4 times a year.

I did a walk through in the store. It looked great. No real messes. I saw the new bookcases that were installed last Friday. I need to get glass people in to put in metal tracks and sliding glass doors. That’s where we will move the vintage and collectible comics. It is exciting to be back in the comic biz in a serious way. For so many years, they were a big part of Wonder Book. I thought they were going the way of LPs. People had moved onto digital media—video games. The shift from flimsy once a month “comics” shifted to large paperboard bound graphic novels.

Then I went back to Ken’s Framing. They’re in the same shopping center as the bookstore. I took in the vintage Durer woodcuts to be matted and framed.

I’m pretty sure they are not 16th century. (But hope springs eternal.) But they are old and beautiful and merit protection.

Back to the warehouse to work on more carts.

I called Annika to where I was working and gave her some of the better books I wanted to see the results on. Others I priced off the top of my head to go into the cases at the Frederick store.

Then my body hit the wall. I was suddenly very tired. Every joint felt sore.

Time to go home.

I stopped on the way for a new shower curtain. I haven’t been to Home Goods in months. Once there, I was unable to resist the Christmas Clearance sections full of gourmet fare at greatly reduced prices.

“Great, more stuff I have to use up.”

The housekeeper was still working when I got to the house. She would’ve continued into the night if I hadn’t told her, “I want you to come more often so it isn’t such a mess when you get here. Come back next week, and you can finish what you didn’t get to today.”

She still had to wrap things up. I wanted to be out of her way. I turned on the outdoor lights and went out to plant flower bulbs in the dark. It was awkward, as I couldn’t really see where I was putting my knees down. It hurt sometimes. My body hurt generally as well. I got a hundred or so in before I saw her starting to leave.

“Wait!”

“I made you tamales, but then I fell asleep, and they burned.”

“You should have brought them. I like burned food.”

I had grilled steaks the night before.

They were aging and not in a good way.

I cut one up and put it in the leftover nacho salad my younger son had carried in at his house on Monday. I poured some good jarred salsa over it and took it in to eat while watching an Inspector Morse.

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1:23

That’s what the digital clock on the stove read this Friday morning.

I picked my phone out of the charger on the counter near the sink.

It came to life and read, “1:27.”

Perhaps I should have a Parliament of Clocks to get all the various devices in the house to agree.

It was my “Intermission” period when sleep ends in the middle of the night for an hour or two for some inexplicable reason.

Inexplicable? Maybe I can blame COVID. I can justifiably blame it for many things in my life and the world at large.

(coughcough)

My mouth was dry upon consciousness arriving. There was a big green glass bottle of San Pelligrino on the bedside table. I struggled to twist the metal cap off. My hands were tired and sore. That was likely because of the three hundred daffodil bulbs I planted in the dark 6, 7, 8 hours ago. It soon began hurting—striking the earth with the 5-pound mini adze. It hurt more using the full size pickax.

They MUST go in the ground, or they will die soon.

The bulbs are still firm. They’ve been stored in the cold, but not freezing, garage since fall.

The temperature was in the high forties. Still, I bundled up in sweats, hoodie, old beat up canvas fleece-lined coat, old beat-up Gryffindor knit cap and a six-foot home-knitted scarf wrapped round and round my neck. Some plantings I did on my hands and knees. Other rows I hacked using the pickax digging trenches in front of the stone terrace walls. I worked to get the plastic mesh bags full of 50 or 100 bulbs empty.

Giles looked down on me patiently from the front porch of the house 30 yards above me.

Finally, I could do no more. I trudged up the stone steps carrying the tools and empty mesh bags. Everything was so heavy. I put them in the garage with the remaining boxes of bulbs. Then up and around to the side porch, where I took off my boots and sweatpants. I’d been kneeling in the dirt a lot and didn’t want to mess up my newly cleaned house. They were also a bit damp from the moist earth and sweat. I hung them on the cast iron wood ring.

The log that came in the crook of my arm was so heavy.

I was soon coughing. I sipped a bit of sweet syrup to silence it.

Hungry. I looked in the fridge. Pizza wrapped in foil. Leftover from…

Redressed in dry sweats and hoodie, I trod into the big room and ate cold pizza while Inspector Morse was solving a crime despite a very painful toothache.

6:30. An hour to get ready to go into the city and watch Fahrenheit 451 on the big screen at the Weinberg.

The cold pizza tasted really good. I often dined on cold leftover pizza as a youth. Then it was due to impatience. Now it was due to exhaustion and resignation.

Soon I realized I was not going anywhere. I got an old bottle of Rioja and brought it to the endmost recliner of the 15-foot “conversation pit.” Black leather seating that gently bends into a right angle, I spend a lot of time on it. It easily seats six. I have had it to myself for some years now.

There have been some memorable evenings there. That time we watched the opera of The Little Prince stands out.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It was a relief—that epiphany. I’d really wanted to see the movie. My company, Wonder Book, was sponsoring it.

Nature had come first. The bulbs had made me sick in tired.*

(* “sick in tired” is a “point” for the first edition of The Great Gatsby. If your copy has the sick in tired typo on page… whatever… and your copy has the other points necessary for a true first, and if the copy in your hand has a really nice dust jacket, then you’re holding a $250,000 [and up] book. If you don’t have the jacket but your copy is really nice, you have 10-15,000 bucks in your hands. Maybe more. Prices are rising. Inflation is nudging things upward as well.)

Then a can of chicken noodle soup enhanced with some basil infused olive oil, hot sauce and ground pepper. I rinsed some wild rice and put that in as well. If I heat it slowly, the rice will soften… enough.

Morse finally got to a dentist—a woman who told him to “act like a man” when he was squirming and moaning with her hands on metal instruments in his mouth. Her assistant, also a woman, also had tools in his mouth.

The episodes are a couple of hours long or longer.

I regret not getting to the movie. Another COVID victim.

Back to 1:23 a.m.

I had gone on a house call Thursday at my best friend’s home. He’s a retired doctor and has a wonderful sci fi, fantasy, mystery collection. He had asked for a 60-box bookectomy. Andrew and I arrived at 10:30. It is a beautiful home, gorgeously laid out, full of interesting objects and family portraits. Most of his collection is relegated to the basement. Wall after wall after wall after wall… of immaculate books. He does have a glowing office upstairs with polished leather and gilt tomes lining it.

While he says he is downsizing, I noticed a lot of new arrivals—mostly Folio Society limited edition and Subterranean press sorts of things.

Even though he isn’t buying books from me anymore, I was impressed he is still collecting… while downsizing. He is a few years older than me.

‘Keep moving,’ I thought.

It was great fun working with him over the years sourcing great books for him.

Andrew and I started carrying the white banker’s boxes up the stairs. Andrew carrying two at once. Me not. We staged them by the kitchen door so we wouldn’t let too much cold air inside.

When there were too many boxes in the kitchen, I switched and began carrying those out to the van. It was only a few feet from the kitchen stoop.

Andrew continued bringing boxes up the narrow basement steps. (The price of youth and strength versus age and authority.)

The cold air soon had me coughing. The doctor passed me a small handful of cough drops.

One boxed was unlidded. On top was a brightly colored The Burglar Who Met Frederic Brown by Lawrence Block. I made a note to snag it to read.

One of the first book series I collected as a beginning bookseller was the Bernie Rhodenbarr Burglar Who… series. Bernie has a small used bookstore. I could identify with that. He is also a burglar and crime solver. I could fantasize about that. Andrew dropped me off on the way back to pick up my car, which had been repaired in minutes by the excellent people at Rice Tire—just a few hundred yards from the warehouse. I grabbed my laptop, scarf and the Block book from the open box behind the passenger seat.

It was printed in 2023! A signed limited edition.

Yep. I had to read that for old times’ sake. (I had finished Barbara Michaels’ Witch the night before.)

I had recently gotten rid of all my old Bernie Rhodenbarr books in the great deaccession of my old collection up in Pennsylvania. I felt I’d long ago outgrown them.

Back at the warehouse, I had the doctor’s boxes palleted for my future review. I’m not sure.

So not many minutes after 1:23 a.m., I reached across the bed and started the Lawrence Block. He will be 85 this years. Another heartening fact.

Soon I was back in dozing land and then asleep.

It is Friday morning now.

I’m gonna force myself out to plant some bulbs. Hard freezes are coming after Saturday.

The heart is willing, but the arms are reluctant.

I got another 150 planted before my hands got too cold, and it was getting late anyway.

A nice long hot shower and down the mountain to work.

---

I forgot to mention we did a walkthrough of the new buildings on Thursday afternoon.

They are finished!!!

(I think.)

The two tenants will take possession quite soon, and we can begin collecting rent.

I’m deeply in debt, but I understand it is a great investment.

The buildings turned out beautifully.

They are nearly identical. 52,000 square feet each with thirty-foot clear ceilings.

I have a new title now.

Landlord.

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I was so busy this week I have fallen behind on carts again.

I will have my work cut out for me this weekend.