Opening image is a tromp l’oeil painting in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence.

I’ve finally recovered from Italian time. My knee feels mostly recovered from Italian steps and stairs. The whole thing seems almost like a dream now. I’d like to go back. Verona. Florence. Food.

Sigh… SO much work though.

The work of getting ready to go. The work of going. The work of being somewhere where resting is the thief of lifelong memories. The trauma of returning. The work of catching up on the work I didn’t do while gone.

So far, August has been cool and calm here and in Italy. A blessing to wake and pull covers over me because the breeze coming in the bedroom windows is chilling me.

I worked this weekend as well.

Saturday, I left the warehouse at 2 to drive to Hershey to see the Outlaw Music Festival. I’d gotten tickets months ago. I went down the list to get someone to go with me. Near the bottom, my crazy nephew had agreed. Friday, he canceled. His son was having his 16th birthday party on Saturday. I continued down the list. I stretched pretty far to remote possibilities. Almost acquaintances. No luck. Pretty pathetic.

Well, I wasn’t going to excuse myself. I drove up on my own. About 2 hours. I passed sites of decades of memories on the US 15 corridor through Maryland, across the Mason Dixon Line, passed Gettysburg (where I lived and had an old stone house for 20 years), all the way to Harrisburg which was filled with soccer and coaching memories and finally where there were more years of soccer practice commutes and where my son’s life was saved as a newborn by a great surgeon in Hershey.

Sigh… a highway of my life…

It was a long, long walk from my parking spot. I got there just after 4. The concert was supposed to begin at 3:45. It was sunny and warm—mid 80s. Crowded. Long lines for food and merchandise. I got a beer and a bag of popcorn. The merch line was extra long, but what else was there to do? Yep, I bought yet another hoodie.

Finally, the opening act began playing. Pretty much country. The lead singer had his hair combed up and back, a la Johnny Cash or Elvis. I thought they were the Turnpike Troubadours and that Dylan would be next. Nope, they were something else (turns out, they were the Red Clay Strays.) When they finally left the stage, I thought Dylan would be next. Nope. Another country band. They WERE the Turnpike Troubadours. Another very long set. That ended about 7:30. My day had started at 5 a.m. I’d worked hard at the warehouse before leaving. I dreaded the drive home.

I bought a sausage on a roll with grilled pepper and onions for dinner. I squirted mustard and ketchup atop it and made my way to my seat. 2nd row center. Dylan came, and his band set up as far backstage as possible. He was further hidden by the big keyboard he stood behind.

It was great to see him and be in his presence. His songs were a-melodic (is that a word?) He opened with “Masters of War”, which I didn’t recognize until I could understand a few mumbled phrases.

“Name that tune” continued with songs like “All Along the Watchtower”, “Highway 61 Revisited”, “Love Sick”…

I did recognize this pretty quickly, but…

Still, it was great to see him. But I don’t think I need to do the work again, hoping I might hear a “song.”

84 years old… Lucky to have had him as my life’s “soundtrack” since I was a very little kid sneaking into my older brother’s forbidden garret bedroom.

Willie Nelson was frail. 92. I was too frail to stay for the whole show. I limped a mile or so across the huge parking lot. I was lucky I found my car on the first try. As it was, I didn’t get home til after midnight. I’m glad I can still do it. I dunno if I wanna go through that kind of work again—alone.

When I finally got home dazed and exhausted, I stepped out of the car. I’d left the dogs in the big pen at the warehouse. Home alone. The security lights didn’t come on for some reason. I was in complete darkness.

Crying. Howling. Whining.

A pack of coyotes was not too far away.

So CREEPY!

I put the iPhone flashlight on and hurried up the stairs into the house. Fumbled with my keys, slipped inside, pushed the door shut firmly and locked it.

We went viral on Instagram last week.

We let a young man do some posts recently on @booksbythefoot. It now has had over 167,000 views! 12,200 likes. I used to have some luck at this—getting low five-figure likes. But Instagram has evolved. I’m left behind posting pretty book pictures and occasional short videos.

What’s it mean? Who knows? Social media is… something I don’t understand.

Monday, I went down to Gaithersburg. The store looks great. The customers are embracing it. It is a “new” bookstore.

Now it is fine-tuning. Mostly organizing categories better and filling all the still-empty shelves. Customers taking so many books makes even harder to price and shelve enough to get ahead.

I’d texted my locksmith a few times over the last couple of months to do a few things. I’ve worked with him for decades—and his father before that. Gene’s Lock Service. Gene is the dad. 92 now. He retired finally at 85. The first time Allan responded to one of my calls was probably in the early 1990s. I thought he was a kid. He’s done dozens of projects for us over the years. I called. “The voicemail mailbox is full.” I didn’t like that. He’d done some work at my house in February. Fixed a lock that I thought needed to be replaced in minutes. Saved me re-keying 6 matching locks around the house. We chatted a bit about his dad. His son and daughter-in-law are now working there. I told him about the looming Gaithersburg project coming up. “I’m having some surgery in April…” He seemed fine. Fit. Youthful looking.

Monday, I called their office number. I was awkwardly told he didn’t make it through the surgery.

I was shocked. He was just a kid. He was 62. Not a lot younger than me.

“I’m so sorry for your loss…”

He was a great guy.

Old Mortality tapped me on the shoulder.

300 boxes an hour.

Yep.

A book machine.

I think this was the third year the Cosmos Club did a fundraiser with their members. It is a win-win-win event. The members can bring their unwanted books in to a favorite place and maybe have a glorious lunch after. Their individual quantities are too small for house calls, but the collective action brought over 300 boxes into their ballroom with its lecterns at one end. To think of all the speakers who have addressed the DC movers and shakers in that room!

The pickup date had been on the calendar for a few months. August 12th. When they are ready, they want the boxes out of there. We couldn’t default or delay. No excuses.

When I got the box count—”about 305″—I knew we would need 2 big vans and four people to get things out in one visit.

Getting in and out of DC is always problematic. Traffic. Security. One-way streets. Incredibly confusing signage and “rules”…

“Let’s leave at 9.” That’s after rush hour, and hopefully traffic and the eternal commute problems will have been solved. We started a little late. Phone guidance into the city varies. The destination might be the Capital One Center, but depending on traffic, construction, accidents, events, protests… your route could be on 5 or 6 different major arteries. This time, the iPhone chose I-70 to the Beltway (495) to the River Rd. exit to a cross street to get onto Massachusetts Ave. and ending on Florida Ave., which is where the iconic building’s rear “Garden” entrance is. It is a beautiful serene spot in the bustling center city. The last leg—about 4 miles of Mass. Ave.—takes you past a lot of embassies (from Great Britain to Cote d’Ivoire), the Naval Observatory (where the Vice President lives), the Islamic Center (once the largest mosque in the western hemisphere), American University and many other iconic sites. That stretch of Mass. Ave. is a gauntlet of traffic circles and lane closures and other driving obstacles. Driving a big van down there is no fun.

But we got there. Pulled through the fancy old iron gates (carefully) and backed toward the door to the auditorium.

There were a LOT of boxes.

This shows the last phase. Both big vans were filled to the top.

I didn’t want to strain my knee taking boxes out, so I focused on stacking boxes 3 or 4 high and tilting the stack back so the nose plate of the hand truck could easily be slipped under the stack. I’d help tilt the stack back so it could be wheeled out to our van.

We made great time. When the room was emptied, I looked at the time. We’d been there just an hour.

300 boxes an hour!

I probably lifted over 200 making stacks. Some were huge and heavy. While I lift thousands of books a day, I don’t lift a whole lot of boxes anymore. Like a queen bee, I’ve become specialized.

And after my arm was injured in Amsterdam and had surgery, I never have rebuilt the strength. The car wreck set me back too.

On the ride back, I was a little shaky from the heavy lifting. I suggested my son stop at the Tatte Bakery. He and his now wife discovered it when they were dating in Boston. The chain has been expanding a lot in the DC region. The phone found one, and I stayed in the van while he ran in and got some treats to take home.

Back at the warehouse, we were backed up with numerous full vans from the stores. Weird, we were getting low on books in nice weather, but now people are bringing LOTS to us in August (which has started heating up.)

When I got home, I had thoughts of getting on the bed and writing. I was beat. But then I looked up at the maple that had broken in half up behind the house. Its leafy crown was covering a large patch of ferns. Though my body said no, my mind took me to the barn. I put on ear protection, filled a saw with gas and chain oil. I choked it, and after a few pulls, the orange Husqvarna roared to life. My limp is barely noticeable now. I walked up the rocky slope, keeping an eye out for snakes hidden in the fern field. I cut off the long top branches into draggable lengths. I left the broken trunk there. It is kind of quirky looking.

I like quirky.

It is green wood, and I didn’t want to put green wood on top of the seasoned wood in the barn. I’ll probably cut it down when I’ve burned enough in the late fall to start a fresh pile to dry out for the winter of 2026/2027.

Dragging the branches down the slope gave me a view of the barn I hadn’t inspected for a while. Part of the roof was leaf covered and saplings were hanging over it. That’s not good. Not only is it ugly, but the trees and leaves hold moisture over the roof, which can damage the shingles. Strong winds could cause the sapling to whip the roof and siding. So I cut down a dozen or so saplings and dragged them to the pile. I’d aimed the cut ends downhill on the driveway to make loading them easier. The black pickup was backed up, and the branches loaded.

I drove down to the mulch road, hoping the whole mess wouldn’t fall out. A lot of the long branches were dragging on the ground. Over to one of the “habitat piles”, and I added the branches to it.

It felt good. I think the body needs to get worked to stay flexible and strong. I was soaked with sweat and went in and showered.

I was in the mood for Tolkien, and put on The Rings of Power while the leftover filet and mashies I’d had with Howard and Sue at Monocacy Crossing last Friday heated up.

It had been a good hard day.

I headed home to rest and write. Changed my mind.

More weeding, woodcutting… I’d like to transplant, but there’s been no rain, and there’s none in the forecast. The areas where I want to add plants are pretty remote. Carrying water to them is… out of the question for more than a couple of trips.

I put 10 pounds of chicken in to bake for the dogs. It is cheaper than dog food—which they are fed as well. And they love it. For some reason, they aren’t eating the rawhide chews I give them. They used to gnaw them out of existence in minutes. So, there are a lot of pieces of rawhide lying around for me to step on in bare feet. What if I put them under the chicken to soften and absorb the chicken juice and fat?

It worked. Problem solved. Happy dogs.

Italy

I’m still there in my mind sometimes.

When I left, I wasn’t sure it was a good idea.

Then I was there and found my legs and knees could handle work. I guess I’m pretty much recovered from the car wreck. (I still need to replace the vehicle…)

I didn’t write about Florence!

6 hours in Florence. Insane. But I signed up for the whirlwind tour. It covered a lot of ground. Maybe I’ll get back someday.

They don’t permit buses in the city. We parked as close as possible. We met our local guide Leonardo (of course.) He was in his 60s I’d guess, had a man bun and was very laid back. We followed him like ducklings into town. We are provided with listening devices that hang around our necks. So he can talk conversationally, and we all can hear him.

He led us past a number of Medici villas and chapels and gardens. And then into the city center. It was pretty crowded.

Near the cathedral (which was worked on by da Vinci and Michelangelo and is still unfinished), Leonardo chastised a German tourist who was sitting on the sidewalk with her kids reviewing a guidebook.

“Madam, this is not a beach. Please stand up!”

A little later, “These are steps not benches! Please leave so we can pass!”

Leonardo showed us all he could in a few hours. He was leaving us in Croce Square outside a leather shop. Part of the tour was to see how leather is processed in Florence. (And you could buy a custom-made belt or have a leather jacket custom-tailored while you wait.)

I wasn’t into that. I asked Leonardo a parting question, “Do you think I could get into the Uffizi?”

“Ah, it is always busy. And you’d only have 90 minutes…” In other words, no.

But I’d only have this one chance maybe. I took a photo of our meeting spot, asked the iPhone for directions to the art gallery and took off. It was an 8-minute walk. My 90-minute meter was running.

Finding the ticket office was complex. It was in a nearly hidden nook. The line was short though. A good sign.

“Can I buy a ticket for right now?”

The answer was affirmative.

Then the next task was to find the entrance.

Accomplished. I think.

Through security.

Signs led me toward “Exhibition Begins.” It was like the airport. Lots of steps down hallways and across empty rooms—seemingly pointless steps. Finally, I was close.

Stairs. STAIRS! Flight after flight after flight of stone steps. I’d already walked a lot today. I’ve walked a lot this week. I’ve climbed countless stairs this week.

One must work for culture. Art ain’t easy. Finally, my sore knee made it to the first gallery.

Giotto. Del Sarto. Botticelli. Da Vinci…

I could never see it all. But I gave it my best. The gallery is very Byzantine. Blind turns. A few steps down to a hidden gallery with a Bernini and an el Greco.

There was a nice tromp l’oeil painting of an open book by an unknown German artist.

I lucked out and found a window from which I could see the Ponte Vecchio.

What did I miss? I’ll have to get a book. Know anywhere that may have one?

I made my way back to the Piazza Croce. The church there looked magnificent. But there wasn’t time to go in to visit the tombs of Galileo, Michelangelo, Macchiavelli…

But I did have enough minutes before the rendezvous to have a beer in the square. The tiny bar was charming. The young bartender acted as though serving me was the most important thing he would do all day.

There are some perfect moments in life. This brief respite at a perfect time and place is one.

Sigh…

Better to have a small taste of a place than to never have savored it at all.

Back to the bus and on to Padua.

It has been a good week for book finds.

There’s no time to get into many. Maybe next week.

Yesterday, there were a couple of carts with vintage novels in dust jackets. Each was wrapped in a sandwich bag and marked on the outside with notes like “70 year old” in bold magic marker. At first glance, they were junk. Grace Livingstone Hill, lurid romances.

Then there were some vintage mysteries. Perry Mason, John Rhode… but all were A.L. Burt, Grosset & Dunlap or Tower editions.

Except one.

Wow!

And Superman as a bonus.

Sigh…

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