“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings.”

“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried,
“Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!”
“No hurry!” said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,
“Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed—
Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.”

“But not on us!” the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
“After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!”
“The night is fine,” the Walrus said.
“Do you admire the view?

“It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf—
I’ve had to ask you twice!”

“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,
“To play them such a trick,
After we’ve brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“The butter’s spread too thick!”

“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:
“I deeply sympathize.”
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

“O Oysters,” said the Carpenter,
“You’ve had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?”
But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d eaten every one.

from “The Walrus and the Carpenter” by Lewis Carroll

Tuesday. Joey is driving me and Clark to a secret location inside the Beltway, where we will look at a location for a new bookstore.

CRAZY!?

But why not? They seem to want us—i.e. a bookstore in their space. We will see if it is too good to be true.

This is just one “room” of many.

It would need a lot of work. And serving it would be difficult. It is a long tough drive when traffic is bad.

The stuff dreams are made of. A world-class bookstore in a world-class city.

On the way back, I am dropping off a lease agreement to extend our Gaithersburg location for ten more years.

Crazy?

We are also signing on for an increase in space—over 35% more in effective square footage.

Crazy?

The stuff dreams are made of.

The money and hard work and risk mitigate the starry-eyed idealism.

But I DO believe I’m ready for another adventure.

---

Wednesday

Thanksgiving Eve.

I roasted a turkey last night. 17 pounds.

Nothing fancy. Just the bird and some potatoes to bake around its perimeter. 4 hours at 350.

The timer went off about 10. I’d forgotten to take the foil off to let it brown.

Maybe I’ll brown it tonight.

There’s a golden dawn outside.

The sun will rise in about 20 minutes.

A good sleep has helped cure many things.

But last night was a different feeling.

Pressure. Stress. Loneliness. Futility.

Tuesday was a mammoth day. Much of it was on the road in city and interstate traffic.

I dropped off two copies of the signed leased extension and space expansion at the Gaithersburg store. That’s exciting. And stressful. There will be a lot of work ahead. But the result will be… magic.

The visit downtown was daunting. A big risk. But, oh, if I could pull it off. A crowning achievement.

The stress.

Overworked as it is.

At a point in my life where there are many forks in the road. Other paths to take.

Last night while the turkey aroma filled the house, I sat eating Asian Bistro leftovers from the night before—watching the mayhem in Middle Earth as the plots begin to come together and all hope is lost. It was warm in side. The fire was a good one.

…I felt a tapping on my shoulder. Half dreaming. Half dozing. A chill poured through me.

I rose and turned the oven off.

Then to bed.

My hand was guided to draw words onto paper. (The results I’ll append below.)

Then to sleep. For a while. I awoke and read some. There was Robert Graves’s poetry in a vernacular binding on my nightstand. I struggled through them until I caught the rhythm and was lulled to sleep by the peaceful words and images.

Now it is 8. The housekeeper is returning sometime today. She was still here when I got home last night. Every light in the house was on. She can be so meticulous.

I did turn on the oven early this morning to brown the turkey. It turned out well. I may have some tonight unless something else comes up.

Now to head down to work. The day before Thanksgiving. As a child, I’d watch the clock in the classroom. Tomorrow, brothers would be home. 1 or 2 or 3. And later on, maybe with their wives and young children. The house in Buffalo would be full of food and conversation and chores and family. I would spend the morning on my belly in the “music room” reading the Buffalo Courier-Express. Comics first. Then sports. Then the A section. Finally the style section, whatever that officially was called. My position on the floor was perpendicular to the big black-and-white TV set in its blond wood cabinet. My face was only a few feet away from it—the length of the unfolded newspaper. There’d be morning kids’ shows. Captain Kangaroo, most certainly. Later, I would be transfixed by the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

In the kitchen, my mother would be performing arcane tasks in order that the feast came together later in the day.

Dad had likely gone to his office working on a paper or some medical research project he was engaged in.

My 3 brothers too would likely be absent. Maybe sleeping til noon as high schoolers and college kids are wont. Or maybe they’d be out with friends playing football.

It is Thanksgiving morning 2024. I slept well and long. When I awoke around 6:30, there were three dogs pressed against me even though it was 68 degrees inside. I arose to let them out—one at a time. There was drizzly dripping rain. The world around me was black and gray. The bare trees were black. The sky and world beyond the nearest trees were uniformly gray. I was barefoot but didn’t hesitate to step onto the cold wet black asphalt. I needed to cross to get my laptop from the Explorer. It was invigorating. I went back out and brought in a largish log to sustain the orange glowing coals through the day.

I will head to the warehouse soon. I’m pretty sure I will be the only one there. Except for the dogs. They’ll be with me. I will enjoy that. Before COVID, I was alone in the warehouse most weekends. During COVID and since, some people have embraced the calmer and quieter environment. Now there are typically 5-7 people on Saturdays or Sundays—plus me and the dogs.

Then sometime in the late afternoon, I’ll head to Pennsylvania to my younger son’s in-laws’ get together.

The fog has moved up the mountain. I can’t see more than a hundred yards or so.

I found a floral arrangement on my front porch last night. I don’t know when it was delivered. I don’t go out that way much unless I need wood when it is raining. The address was correct. Mine. But not the name or phone number.

---

Now it is Black Friday morning.

I didn’t sleep well. Maybe too much rich food at my son’s in-laws’ yesterday.

Turkey. Two kinds of stuffing (one was oyster!) Potatoes. Gravy. Pies. I forget what else.

Strange dreams. One was beautiful. Very three dimensional. It involved a hotel—so many seem to take place in hotels—and a woman. Sigh. She was clearly the one.

I came across an odd volume of poems by Robert Graves recently. He was one of the first authors I collected as a young but mature bookseller. I’d occasionally send off to England for a title I couldn’t find elsewhere. They didn’t drop into my big little bookshop of the 1980s very often.

This thing was bound by hand. A vernacular binding, I suppose you’d call it.

It is inscribed on the endpaper, “Bound 1951 Pauline Woodward.” It must have been a pamphlet. It lacks the wraps and title page. It begins with page “i.” Then “ii.” Then “iii.” “iii” is the contents. Then a blank. Then the first poem listed in the contents on page 5. Page “i” is entitled “Robert Graves.” It has a bit of biography. It lists some of his works up until 1941. It states this volume is a corrected edition of the Augustan Series of 1925. It is but 31 pages long.

Perhaps I’m attracted to its scruffy loneliness.

Anyway, a poem I read earlier this morning after waking from that dream is titled “What Did I Dream?”

What did I dream? I do not know—
The fragments fly like chaff.
Yet, strange, my mind was tickled so
I cannot help but laugh.

Pull the curtains close again.
Tuck me grandly in;
Must a world of humor wane
Because birds begin

Descanting in a restless tone,
Rousing me from sleep—
The finest entertainment know
And given rag-cheap.

I wonder who Pauline was. If she was 20 in 1951, she’d be 93 now. Not out of the realm of possibility.

I sent a text to the neighbors about the floral display. A couple of them asked me to drop it off. But one said the recipient was at an address one digit different than mine. That address was all the way down on the county road near the mailboxes. I called the number on the card and left a message. On my way to work, I left it at the end of their long drive. The sentiment on the card was one of happiness that the man was back home for Thanksgiving.

Then on to work with three dogs in my car.

I was indeed alone at work that morning. I was happy about that. I set to work on 6 carts of pretty books we’d picked up from the Folger Library last April. They all looked like this.

There was a London collection they’d deaccessioned as “out of scope.”

I spent that day immersed in books about London. Ancient London. “Modern” London of the 1930s. Neighborhoods. Castles and palaces and other edifices.

Of course, there was plenty of Shakespeare and English drama of the late 16th and early 17th centuries. There were about 70 volumes of individual plays.

Most I’d never heard of. Forgotten but to scholars of the era.

Most were beautifully bound with vellum spines.

I priced the majority off the cuff for online sales. They couldn’t all be researched to ascertain what others were offering for them online. Almost all have a small Folger bookplate tipped to the rear pastedown and a deaccession stamp below it.

But many will go to Annika. Sets. Fine bindings.

No treasures. The librarians made sure of that. But it was a day of joyful immersion in another time and place.

Then it was time to head to Pennsylvania.

Strange. I’ve visited that house off and on for decades. First as friends and, of all things, my dentist! Now as family. My baby grandson was there—2 months old now. Fun and interesting in-laws of my son. Football. Wine. Turkey. Two kinds of stuffing (including oyster.) An enormous apple pie made by my daughter-in-law.

Then back to Frederick. I picked up the three dogs and went home. The woodstove was still warm.

The week’s not over though. This afternoon, I’ll head back to PA to get together at the old stone house with both sons and grandsons and their spouses. And another turkey.

To say it has been an eventful week would be an understatement.

Last Friday, my curator was up hanging pictures. Measuring for more curtains. Making sense of my collections. She stayed and made a fabulous dinner of tortellini with sausage and puttanesca.

Saturday, there was a riot in Washington. I worked on books in the morning and then drove to a friend’s office to meet the limo that would take us to the 27th Annual Oyster Riot in the lobby adjacent to the Old Ebbitt Grill. Five friends pooled together. It was a lovely bright day when the driver let us out next to the Willard and close to the White House. There was a line forming to get in when the doors opened at 1. Waiters appeared with trays of little Bloody Marys with the best fried oysters I’ve ever had skewered atop the plastic glasses.

Then the line started moving. Our tickets were scanned. I didn’t know what to expect—except oysters.

It was a riot. The oysters were fresh and cold and expertly shucked. They’d been vetted to make the cut from as far away as Canada and Washington state. 18 named varieties set out on beds of crushed ice.

You just walk up and take what you want onto the plate with a hole in it to hold the wine glass. There were condiment stations with bowls of horseradish and mignonette and cocktail sauce…

Ten wine stations pouring freely. French Champagne. New Zealand. California. Italy. Spain. Even England was represented by a tasty sparkling wine. All the wines were winners from a vast list of entrants.

The wines and oysters had been chosen by experts selected by the Clyde’s Restaurant Group.

There was a cheese and other piquant table. A shrimp “shack” with shrimp as big as a woman’s fist.

It was three hours of delectable decadence. You needed a map to find your way around. It was crowded but never a line. Women in gowns. A couple of walruses. Movers and shakers and fanatics and people like us.

A blues band provided aural entertainment.

Did I eat 5 dozen over three hours? More? I didn’t keep track.

They were all delicious. All were better than the dozen you’d get at a great restaurant.

The station I returned to the most had Harpswell Flats from Harpswell, Maine. The species was European Flats (Ostrea Edulis.)

I was glad we had a ride home, but I didn’t get bloated or buzzed. Everything was just in… “balance.” But I certainly didn’t eat or drink anything else that night. Except water.

Sunday was a book marathon. I think I broke another record.

My wacky nephew showed up in the late afternoon with comics he’d priced for us. Then we went to the New Market Plains Winery and chatted with Howard and Sue.

I brought along Pip to give him some joy.

He’s not fat. In fact, he has trimmed down quite a bit.

That evening, I forced myself to go through some boxes that were lingering behind the bar in the great room. There was a folder of poems typed up by a woman who believed in my writing back in the early 2000s. Now there are no boxes left in the formal book room.

Monday, I picked up some Asian food and went to visit Ridgley and Terry. He helped me toss a pile of seasoned oak from his woodland yard into my pickup. Then we ate and chatted.

Tuesday was the trip to DC to look at a possible new store location.

Then the stop to drop off the agreement to extend the lease and take on a lot more space at the Gaithersburg store. When I got home that evening, the housekeeper was still there.

“Mister Chuck, I’m so sorry. I’m so slow.”

She’s a perfectionist. My home glows with all the improvements. The COVID decline and debris is all gone. I’m proud of the place again.

While she was wrapping up, I put the 17-pound turkey on to roast.

I haven’t touched it yet… The dogs will be happy with their share.

Wednesday, I met Howard and Sue at Il Porto. That fine Italian bistro was once the Rescue Mission shop when I was a beginning bookseller and I had to seek out books far and wide. Rev. Shell was kind to me and would often save donated books for me to inspect first. I tried to pay him more for them than he would normally get—probably a quarter apiece up to a buck for something really special.

My fridge is full of many kinds of leftovers. Asian. Italian. American. The big browned turkey is in the fridge downstairs waiting for me to carve it up for sandwiches.

And the books this week have been fun.

Annika set out the beautiful sets to go in The Boutique. There’s something about antique leather and marbled boards and gilt edges.

She processed the Alice collection.

I hate to let it go…

I’ve put out feelers for trips. Likely London in early January to meet my friend Gerry.

Maybe San Francisco in February for the book show and Napa.

Then… where in the world?

Today will be cold. The high is set to be 41.

---

Poem below.

I don’t know what mood set me off for the poem below. It was Tuesday night, and something struck me. Dozing before rising to go to bed, perhaps someone walked over my grave.

It is a good fire
this last cold night
A good ending
to an incomplete story
My home is put in order
Cool crisp sheets
to slip between
and wait til my core
warms above and below
The million voices calling
and millions more following
soon I will be deaf
deaf to your cries
And the order I created
will become wilderness
The arcane knowledge
passes with my passing
It was good to be alive
The touch, the taste
The sight, the sound
A garden unsown
is wilderness
A fighter undone
is a memory
A quest unfinished
is a failure
Turn out the light
close your eyes
and bid goodnight