Out of the Blue -- A Book for a Baby Boy

After yesterday’s E-bay Encounter today is like a warm breeze blowing in off Lake Erie. It’s the ferry ride to Put-in Bay, the boats moored at the dock, the Butterfly House where flying jewels land on Papa’s head and make our little grandson laugh. Today is the kind of day every bookseller needs, a day filled with gratitude, humility, and the joy of doing what you most love to do.

As is the case with most of life’s small pleasures, this one turned up out of the blue (I love that phrase “out of the blue”). It all began with a phone call from a guy wanting to know if I could possibly be the person who’d sold him an Edwardian photograph several years ago. After thirteen years as a bookseller, the odds of me being able to isolate one cabinet photo out of the thousands and thousands of items I’ve shipped are slim to not-a-prayer. But something in the recesses of my brain went “click!” and without hesitation I remembered not only the buyer, but the photo of the little girl in velvet leaning against a tree wearing an enormous hat and clutching a bouquet of flowers. Amazing!

What’s also amazing is that the caller and I connected again as though we had just hung up an hour ago. Part of the reason why I remembered him is the fact that I had TALKED to him, something online selling doesn’t provide nearly enough opportunities to do now that most sites process credit cards for you, instead of allowing you to run your own business and do it for yourself. But we won’t go there today because I am determined to eke every bit of pleasure out of this event I possibly can -- no negativity allowed.

So then. The reason my caller had combed the internet for my phone number is a decidedly new and traditionally un-masculine dilemma. It seems he has been invited to a baby shower and has to produce a favorite book from his childhood as a gift. Like me, he loves vintage, so nothing slick, shiny, and new will do. But there's an additional problem – he didn't grow up with books, so he doesn’t have a favorite. Immediately I thought of The Story of the Sandman, but I wanted to choose the perfect thing for this new little boy-to-be, so I sat down on the floor and paged through books – Wally Piper’s Bumper Book, My Picture Book of Songs, The Red Fairy Book, the wee Cubby Bear books, The Children of Friendly Town, The Cheerful Cherub. But in the end The Story of the Sandman seemed, as the smallest bear’s bed had seemed to Goldilocks – “just right.” So I snapped some pictures of it and sent them along with the promise that if he didn’t like it I would try again.

Zing! Back came an ecstatic response -- he loved it. I love it too and I also love the opportunity to be part of the fun. So I asked if maybe he’d like some vintage gift wrap for it. I have a cache of paper from the 50’s, as well as some wonderful old ribbon( they don’t MAKE ribbon this nice these days) and I even have a blank gift card trimmed out in baby-boy-blue – no charge of course for any of it. I’d be happy to wrap it too, but I can’t because he needs to write an inscription inside. But I can send the pieces-parts in the package and he can wrap it himself, or get someone else to do it. He thought that sounded like a great plan, but there was just one more problem – what do you write as an inscription? That can be tough if you didn’t get books as gifts when you were a child, but it’s a snap to solve. I will compose several, send them along, and he can choose one, copy it into the book, and be good to go. And that is exactly what’s going to happen.

I tell you this small story for several reasons. With internet booksellers multiplying like bunnies these days it’s a rare gift to be remembered this way. It’s also deeply pleasing to me to solve someone's problem, make a fun event special, and connect in a real way with a customer in cyberspace. But there’s another reason I relate it and that’s this – in a Big-Box world the independent bookstore can be like buried treasure. Find the right one and shopping is a pleasure again. BE the right one and wonders happen, seemingly out of the blue.

An Open Letter to Ebay; Or, We Gotta Stop Meeting Like This!

Dear Ebay,

I thought we broke up at the end of May. I talked to a customer service rep, filled out your lengthy exit quiz,deleted my listings and promptly repaired to Bonanzle with them. In case you aren’t aware of this lovely site, Bonanzle is the place where, to quote Big Bird, “the air is sweet.” You really should check it out sometime. It’s toxin-free, so there’s no need to wear a protective mask, they like you just the way you are, and they’re easy on both your spirit and your bank account. But of course it may not be for everybody, so I’ll understand if you’re not charmed.

That’s not why I’m writing anyway. The thing is – you and I still have a problem. No matter how vehemently I express my need to extricate myself from this relationship you refuse to let me go. A couple weeks ago you threatened the loss of my power seller status and then this morning you informed me that there is even worse trouble in River City. NOW my Top Rated Seller badge is about to be history too due to nonperformance over an eight week period. Honey, I know you don’t like being dumped, but you have to understand that when a girl breaks up with you it implies that she does not want to keep holding a funeral for the relationship. I tried to be just friends, which is why I left my buying possibilities open, but clearly you’re an all-or-nothing kind-of-guy, which leaves me with only one option – a clean and total break.

So this morning at five a.m., with a rip-roaring head cold, I tried to close my entire account. At first I thought my difficulties were due to my obvious impairment, but no. The problem is you. You acted as though you were unaware of our break-up and asked me yet again why I was leaving you. I checked two boxes – the one about high fees and the one about your no good, very bad attitude. But I guess a double-whammy really hurt your feelings because you promptly informed me that I must narrow my reasons to ONE. It was a toss-up, sweetie, I’ll be honest, but in the end I went with attitude. I know, I know – that hurt too, which must be why you then zinged me with the information that I can’t leave until I cancel my subscriptions, which I didn’t even know I had. So I went to where you lead me (didn't I always?) and discovered that subscriptions are the thingies that report my sales. For future relationships and their eventual sad endings (and there WILL be others) you may want to make a note. When someone stops selling on your site they don’t NEED the thingies that report the sales so you could just go ahead and close them and save both parties a lot of pain.

Anyway, moving right along ... I closed the subscription and then tried again to close the account. But no! NOW you told me that you owe me $14.35, a paltry sum considering the pain and anguish you inflicted on me this past year. But I very much deserve some recompense, so I checked the box saying I preferred the refund to the other option, which was to waive it. Yes, you actually have a go-ahead-and-keep-my- money option. I promised myself I wouldn’t get snarky here, but ebay darling, you do have understand that this isn’t NICE. If you had to attain the kind of public ratings sellers on your site do your DR-whatevers in the categories about playing well with others and running with scissors would be even less attractive than your final value fees. If I recall, the recent Auction Bytes seller survey sort of conveyed this very thing, but far be it from me to rub salt in your wounds over THAT.

The bottom line is you informed me that I can’t leave until you decide whether or not I actually GET the refund you told me I had coming. Yes, I applied using your handy little form and you basically said, “Not so fast missy! I decide whether or not you actually get this thing. Oh, and by the way, even if you do, it takes 30 days.”

This means of course that I am stuck with you for the duration unless I let you keep my money. As much as I’d like to let you just so I wouldn’t have to see your face again at 5 a.m., a principle is a principle, and as Dr. Phil says, you teach people how to treat you. Besides, you were really sort of sweet about it all, now that I think about it. Not only did you tell me in one email that you want me to succeed, but you also told me in the final one --and I quote -- “It is our pleasure to assist you. Thank you for choosing eBay, we value your business.”

Aw shucks. I bet you say that to all the girls.

With love and anticipation of $14.35,
tess

Banister Days -- Thoughts on Children's Books

It’s so hot today, and after yesterday’s bibliotherapy, I found myself thinking about sticky inner-city days when I was a kid growing up in south Akron. We had an old white porch swing for awhile and it was my favorite reading spot until it came crashing down one memorable day. After that I either had to choose between a webbed aluminum lawn chair, or the banister. Clearly, the banister was best. Not only was it wide enough for a skinny little kid to recline, but it provided a bird’s-eye view of the street in case anything interesting went on, which in the early days of my banister reading it did not. The later years more than made up for it, but THAT’S a whole other story. For now just add a lumpy cushion to prop against the porch pillar and there you have it – the place where I met magic.

Like most kids, I was deathly afraid of bees, but I’d be so lost in my book I’d barely register their buzzing amongst the fragrant white flowering bushes that didn’t quite come up to banister level, but almost did. I was too busy hanging out with Beezus and Ramona; Betsy, Tacy and Tib; Katie John; Jennifer Hill; the Moffats; the All-of-a-Kind Family; and Carolyn Haywood's gang -- Betsy, Star, Billy, Eddie, Penny, and Peter. Oh, and Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women too, especially Jo, but of course that’s no surprise. More than a hundred years after Alcott brought her to life, tomboy Jo March is STILL the Popular Girl.

The thing about kid books is they’re such sneaky little devils. They get you when you’re young, lodge in your brain, nestle in your heart, and somehow become part of who you are. You think you’ve forgotten some of them, but then something will happen and from nowhere you’ll remember a scene, or a snippet of dialogue, and wonder where in the world it came from. Last week when I saw Ginger Pye by Eleanor Estes in a paperback reprint at the neighborhood garage sale a rush of remembered pleasure came over me to the point that I actually squealed with delight and told the young mom standing next to me how great it was. I knew I’d loved it, but I couldn’t quite grab hold of either the plot or the characters. All week that book niggled in the back of my brain and then this morning I moved a pile of books and what did I find but Ginger Pye in an old edition. Immediately, I sat down and read the first chapter and – wham, just like that! – I’m back on the banister vicariously living the lives of Rachel and Jerry Pye in their tall Victorian house in Cranbury, Massachusetts. But it’s what I read on page eight that nearly toppled me off my revolving office chair.

“Rachel had the Secret Garden from the library and Jerry had one of the Altshelter books, and neither one of these books was an “I” book. They both always opened a book eagerly and suspiciously, looking first to see whether it was an “I” book. If it were they would put it aside, not reading it until there was absolutely nothing else.”

So THAT’s where I got the phrase “I books!” I remember telling my kids when they were young that when I was little I never liked the “I” books.

It makes me crazy the way people denigrate children’s authors by implying that “anyone” could write a children’s book. Back when I was writing and teaching creative writing at conferences there was always a contingency of conference goers who felt that writing children’s books was a little “less than.” I begged to differ then and I beg to differ now. Children’s books are the first stories we hear. We come to them as malleable as Play-Doh, so new and clean and shiny, each sporting our own bright color and each anxious to figure out the world beyond our family, our street, our school. We bend ourselves this way and that, trying out different shapes and textures. We laugh, cry, worry, tremble with fear, jump through every emotional hoop a favorite author rolls our way. The stories that most resonate with our deepest selves attach themselves to our bones and sinew and become our own. The rest fly away on Shel Silverstein's "peppermint wind" leaving behind small gifts -- a flash of humor, a quirky character, an unforgettable image.

I believe that children's books are treasures that will never, ever translate successfully to the electronic screen. We need to hold them, prop them on our knees, dogear their pages if we don't have a bookmark, hug them, maybe even drip orange pospicles on them. The connection between child and book is visceral, MUST be visceral if it's to matter for a lifetime. And it does matter. It intensely, emotionally, psychically matters, which is why adults buy children's books for themselves. We want to go back, maybe need to go back to the banister and hold again the precious books that introduced us to ourselves.

Sales Tax, Bibliotherapy, and Me

No blogging for me yesterday. It was the dreaded Ohio sales tax day, which used to be a piece of cake, or at least a piece of Form UST-1. But then came 2009 -- brave new worlds – when the state tax gurus declared mandatory electronic filing. Once you find it online, filling out the $%%#$ form isn’t all that hard, but I had somehow forgotten my user ID and couldn’t retrieve it. Your password they will send you, but lose that User ID and your account’s locked up tighter than a cat’s mouth in the presence of a pill. Long story short – what should have taken twenty minutes took the whole morning.

On the bright side though, yesterday also marked my first BONANZLE sale – four books to the same buyer, a fellow shop owner. I left a post on the forum announcing the great news – people do that there when they get their first sale– and immediately congratulatory messages poured in like jelly beans into a candy dish. Brightly colored fonts, animated dancing girls -- all I was lacking was a bottle of Martini & Rossi. Those ebay pangs I was feeling the other day? Forget about ‘em!

Then this morning I had to run uptown to the nicest jewelry store on the square (Medina’s town square is so quaintly cute that a model of its gazebo is going to grace a float in the next Rose Bowl parade) to drop off a couple books purchased by its lovely owner. The sun shone fetchingly and I was still feeling chipper from the bonanzle score, so I decided to walk the mile and a half since it wasn’t too hot. It's been years since I’ve walked anywhere in the middle of a work day, but there I was strolling around like I hadn’t a blessed thing to do. In fact, I enjoyed it so much that after I dropped off the books I decided I deserved a little bibliotherapy of my own and popped into the library too.

Medina has a big fancy new library which I wrote about last year, or whenever it was they opened, but useage is so insanely high that many times, especially during the summer, the new book section looks like the last day of the church rummage sale. Sure enough, the pickings were slimmer than a cross section of a blade of grass, but I came away with two titles: The Secret Life Of Emily Dickinson by Jerome Charyn (which I actually thought was a new nonfiction about Dickinson I’ve been wanting to read, but is not); and The Red Thread by Ann Hood which is a novel about, in part, international adoption. Since both of our daughters and both little grandsons are all Korean adoptees, mention the A word on a dustjacket and I’m all yours. It remains to be seen how good either of these are, but I have promised myself that I am going to work until four today and then repair to the porch with Hood’s book and read for an hour before I make dinner.

Wow -- imagine it! A Bonanzle sale, a walk in the sun, a visit to the library, and an hour of uninterrupted bibliotherapy. Sales tax? What sales tax?

Razzle-dazzle Bonanzle!

Back in June I wrote a post about my break-up with ebay due to their ever-escalating fees, burgeoning play-book of rules, and disingenuous treatment of sellers. As I mentioned then, they had informed me that for 30 days I would retain my preferred seller badge and power seller icon just in case I changed my mind about leaving. So yesterday along comes an email informing me that my power seller status is “in jeopardy.” Ya think? I haven’t listed so much as a postcard in six weeks!

I wish I could report that I laughed all of this off, but the fact is I sort of did and sort of didn’t. I couldn’t help but remember the euphoric day I got the email telling me I’d become a power seller. It wasn’t all that long after I began with them, maybe four months or so. The following week the mailman delivered an ebay tee-shirt the size of a house (which I wore as a nightgown) and a somewhat cheesy, but fun and festive, certificate which reminds me of those great TV commercials they used to have where everybody bursts into song --"You can buy it on eeeee-bay!" I thought then that maybe the day would come when I would keep it simple and sell on ebay exclusively. Back then they offered sellers so many perks, including consultants who would analyze your ebay store and seller practices and show you how to best maximize your potential. Today you need the Hubble telescope just to find their phone number! Anyway, the email filled me with a sad nostalgia.

But that was then and this is now, so there’s no point moping about it. In the previous post about ebay I’d hinted that I was flirting with a new site. I've been batting my eyelashes at it for six weeks now and am finally ready to dish. The site itself is fabulous – attractive, interactive, and populated by the world’s nicest sellers, most of whom, like me, had been kicked to the curb by ebay. It’s called Bonanazle (I called it Bojangles for the first couple weeks) and to me its ebay on steroids – graphically superior, filled with collectibles and handmade things like ebay used to have before they fell in love with mass merchandisers, and so affordable for sellers that it’s possible to lower prices for the consumer. There’s one little problem though. Bonanzle has just shy of 300,000 users to ebay’s millions, which means of course that sales, except for the more established sellers, are not popping like champagne corks on New Year’s Eve. I have yet to score my first one.

So, why bother, you’re probably asking. I admit I have asked myself that question too, but here’s the thing – Bonanzle shimmers with an energy that fills me with enormous hope. All the warm fuzzies people used to have for ebay have been unleashed and quadrupled there. The sellers affectionately refer to the owners as “the boys” and will leap over burning buildings to help “the boys” succeed. Not only that – they help each OTHER succeed. When I first started setting up my store surprise messages danced across the dialogue box welcoming me. A seller from California helped me with a technical issue, another provided me with tons of google information, and the other day a guy made the banner with my store name on it (see above) and GAVE it to me. “The boys” made Bonanazle a fun place to be and the sellers grabbed that dynamic and ran with it.

I have to believe that this much positive energy can only be a force for growth and success. If I fail there, and I could, I don't think it will be because of bonanzle, but because of the winds of change blowing through both the publishing world and the book world right now. No one knows for sure where the future of books and bookselling is headed, but I do know this -- I, too, will work hard to help “the boys”, I will reinvent myself if need be, I will even go back to square one. If the books come tumbling down count me among the last booksellers standing.

To Market, To Market, To Not Buy a Pig

Last week was a record breaker, albeit not much of a one. I actually posted here four days in a row. But then the weekend came and, for once, I succumbed to life’s summer pleasures. That isn’t to say that there weren’t books involved – there’s almost always books involved – but I was barely in my office for two whole days.

Saturday morning found my friend Nancy and me strolling in the sunshine around Medina’s picturesque town square (which Nancy calls Star’s Hollow with a nod to the Gilmore Girls), reusable shopping bags slung over our shoulders, perusing the organic produce at the town’s weekly Farmer’s Market. Ever since I read Barbara Kingsolver’s book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle last summer my awareness of food chemicals and the carbon footprint left by the importation of produce has strengthened my resolve to buy local and organic as much as possible. Blue potatoes, purple peppers, heirloom tomatoes (a rhapsody in red),tiny strawberries that explode with flavor, thornless blackberries the size of your thumb, fresh baked breads and pies, homemade jams….. What to choose? What to choose? I ended up with a loaf of whole wheat bread, two heads of Bibb lettuce, a mixed lot of heirloom tomatoes, green and purple peppers and a paper bag brimming with green beans, all of which inspired more than sustenance cooking two nights in a row – another record! Suffice it to say that Eric very much likes it when the bookseller cooks.

Maybe that’s why he was up and ready to roll to the Medina flea market at seven a.m. Sunday morning.(See? I told you there were books involved!) I love this flea market, but sadly, it’s become the Incredible Shrinking Flea Market. The winds of change -- oh, how I hate the winds of change -- have blown in favor of a monster flea market in Litchfield that I wouldn’t go to even if it meant never going to a flea market again. Call me a flea market snob (Eric does), but I do not care to walk over rocks to peruse cut-rate canned goods and dilapidated garage junk in hopes of ferreting out hidden treasures. Anyway, there was a day when the Medina flea market was so amazing that in 2003 I bought Vinton’s Anatomical Model of the Mare for the bargain price of $50. I’ll tell you – the angels sang THAT morning. And not just a couple angels either. We’re talking whole choirs. Seraphim AND cherubim.

Well, there’s nothing like that these days, but every once in awhile I find a nice vintage catalog or a decent book or two. This time I immediately bought a good railroad book and a very good railroad book from the same guy. I’d had the latter once before, so I knew that a mint signed first edition was a good buy. After that though it sl-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-wed to a crawl, so much so, that I left Eric sorting through old tools while I went ahead in hopes of a finding a big box of paper items to entertain me. Alas, I did not. I was about to find him and suggest we head to Hinckley and walk around the lake at the Metro Park when he caught up with me and immediately pointed out a box of books under a table.

“Did you look through those?” he asked.

“Yes, but there wasn’t……" And then I saw it. "OH! Tell me that's what I think it is!”

I’d looked at the low-end needlework books maybe five minutes before, but since then they’d sold a few and the dealer had added a couple new ones. There, second from the top, I spied the queen of knitting books,the goddess of knitting books, the BIBLE of knitting books! And in first edition, near fine with a very good dustjacket. For the ridiculous sum of two dollars I bought it and we departed for Hinckley.

No angels visited us Sunday morning, but the lake sparkled in the sun and choruses of birds warbled sweetly. I couldn't swear to it, but I'm pretty sure their morning hymn was Beethoven's Ode To Joy.

The Possibilities of Pigs

As you may have guessed, song lyrics have bombarded me this week. Today it’s a line from that old Blood Sweat and Tears tune Spinning Wheel – “What goes up, must come down.” I’m referring of course to my recent bout of euphoria. No, no, I’m not in the mood to yell at the cat again. I’m not even blue. I’m just back to earth after having been in orbit, which may actually be a good thing. It’s a hot, sticky, dark day, so I might as well get serious, hunker down, and list the half dozen books I bought last night.

I got these books because we went to one of the nicer library sales we still attend. I say “still” because I’ve developed an aversion to most library sales thanks to the crowds, the various less-than-charming behaviors, and the fact that most are scavenged before the doors even open. This sale is a twice a year event out in the middle of nowhere, or as Shel Silverstein would say, “where the sidewalk ends.” The reason I like it is because the workers are friendly, the guy who runs it is good at it, they disallow scanning and have a nice little sign by the door announcing it. Somebody actually tried firing up a scanner last night and was quickly disabused of the notion.

This is not a sale where you’re guaranteed anything though. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s wretched. One memorable time I actually found a complete set of Rising Up, Rising Down published by McSweeney there, which is about as likely as finding a Honda in a Ford showroom. The time before this one I got an antiquarian book about missions in Sierra Leone (much more likely to find that) and a history of the college of optometry at Ohio State. I know, I know –these don’t sound like winners. But they were — both sold at good prices -- and I liked them both very much, the first for the amazing photographs and the second for its book feel. I’m telling you, that oversized green book was a tactile experience.

Last night, however, was nothing to break out the sparklers for unless you were the lucky dealer who found a first edition F. Scott Fitzgerald WITH its original dustjacket. I’m not kidding – he showed it to me. Normally, this guy’s so negative he could turn Christmas into a day of mourning, but after making the big find he tore down the black crepe and didn’t rehang it for at least a whole second. Sadly, there were no Fitzgeralds for me though. Just pigs. Well, not JUST pigs – I did get two reasonably okay cookbooks and another copy of an art book I’ve had before and totally love. But the pigs were, and are, the biggest contenders.

As you can see, I’ve photographed both of them with a totally cool vintage pig die-cut. The latter did not come from last night’s sale, however. It’s an advertising card for Rex meats which actually opens and is printed with the same design on the back. I can’t remember where I got it, but it’s pretty darn cute and now I’ve finally had a chance to showcase it with the fairly decent pig books.

So, old adage to the contrary, my soujourn to the country turned out pretty well after all. I cast my pearls before swine and ended up with a photo op.

Down On the Corner, Party In the Street!

If I weren't already mellowed out yesterday, last evening would have polished off my rough edges 'til I gleamed like a tumbled rock. Eric came in from work at six and announced that the neighborhood was abloom with yard sales.

"That can't be right," I protested."Yard sale day is Thursday in Medina."

"Well, yard sale day may be Thursday everywhere else, but here it's Wednesday night. They just opened and there are so many cars I couldn't get down the street."

Still skeptical, I opened the door, went out on the screened porch and – WHOA BABY! Banners of cars, pinwheels of whirling kids, streamers of strollers, and bouquets of people decorated the neighborhood like the party room at the church social. Even “Medina’s finest” were out there on a loud speaker warning revelers that cars cannot block fire hydrants. Normally, I'm not much of a yard sale-goer but THIS was a festival! I grabbed some cash from the money tin, collected Eric on the way out and we were off. Not two doors from our house we spotted a WWII collector we've been seeing at book sales for years, and one door past that I made my first score of the night -- two enormous baskets.

Of course I have books on the brain to the point where I don't even see anything that's not a book, or related to books, so jewelry, home decor, clothing, garden stuff etc. are invisible to me. If anything other than book-related stuff gets bought Eric's the buyer. So what's up with the baskets then? I guess I've never mentioned this before, but along with those bandboxes I showed you a few posts back, I’m a maker of themed gift baskets which center around books. I'll pick a book, or books, pile in lots of related goodies and dress the basket up ‘til its limo-ready for the gala -- cellophane, ribbon, flowers, the works. Mostly I make these for local charities as fundraisers -- St. VM (former high school of LeBron James), the battered womens’ shelter, Project Learn, stuff like that. Once though, I actually had a paid gig making a bunch of them for an insurance company as Christmas gifts for their best clients.

But never mind that -- the important thing is this unexpected party. There's something about the light at that time of night in the summer that casts its own brand of enchantment, so toss in the carnival atmosphere and the great deals, and it's no wonder we were giddy. Predictably, the books were not good by bookseller standards, but by reader standards I loved the children’s books, including an Eleanor Estes reprint of Ginger Pye, some battered 40’s book club editions of the Anne of Green Gables series, and Konigsburg’s Newbery-winning The View From Saturday. I didn’t buy them, but just having them as backdrop to the party made me want to throw confetti.

By the time we’d wended our way through 31 sales and got back home I’d bought the two big baskets, two shoe boxes overflowing with brand new rolls of ribbon, including FIVE wide ones (think gift baskets again), AND – drumroll here! – a vintage souvenir booklet from the Panama Canal. The grand total spent -- $15.25.

The best thing of course is the Panama Canal book. Isn't it gorgeous? Look at those colors! And I paid a quarter. Maybe, to parphrase P.T. Barnum, "there's a yard sale-goer born every day."

Peace, Harmony and Focus: Or Not Arguing With the Cat on Wednesday

Remember that old song with the line “Oh, what a difference a day makes”? Can’t think of what it’s called, but it’s my theme song today. The sun is shining, two nice Advanced Book Exchange orders came in overnight, yesterday’s mood quietly departed on sweet little cat feet, and once again all is well in my small corner of the book world. Part of this has to do with the fact that some wonderful books turned up last night out of the blue. I paid a lot for them, but oh, what lovely books they are. Another part has to do with something that arrived in the mail.

But first the books. One is a memorial of the 60th anniversary of the founding of the township of Wadsworth, Ohio. The second is an oversized tome called “Album De La Guerre” assembled by members of U.S. Base Hospital No. 4 serving with the British forces on the Somme front and the U.S. Mobile Hospital No. 5 serving in the Meuse-Argon sector as the first organization of American Expeditionary Troops to enter active service abroad in WWI. It’s a limited edition of 1000 copies with 500 photographs and 70 drawings.

But the one that most struck my fancy is the one pictured above. I have a great fondness for regimental histories and this one about the 10th Regiment Ohio Volunteer Army of the Spanish American War is terrific. I wish the condition were better, but it’s not terrible and the book has both an attractive cover and great information and pictures. But more than that, it brings along hidden in its pages a bit of book magic – a personal story all its own. I love when a book pulls away from the crowd like that – not just because it’s value may increase, but because it then becomes a voice, a presence, an affirmation that commands notice and respect in a way that no electronic book ever will.

In this case the book was owned by Lt. John P. Colwell who not only signed his name, but wrote his initials in beautiful script on the front free endpaper. Inside it gets even better though, as he clearly was part of the regiment and made penciled notes indicating same as per photo above on which he wrote the following, ”Not in this photo. It was made after I was transferred to 1st Div. HQ as Asistant. Eng. Officer.”

So yes,I’m madly in love with the books today. But I’m also amazed and touched by the thing that came in the mail. I’ve had many, many email thanks-yous over the years from customers, but only a few ever arrived via snail mail. Yet there amongst yesterday’s bills, Netflix movies, and circulars was a small, hand written flowered card. It says in part, “Dear Tess, Thank you for wrapping the very special book “Longing For Darkness’ Kamante’s Tales From Out of Africa” with great TLC and blue ribbon. Opening the package created excitement with a knowing that there would be no disappointments …” It closes with “Blessings of Peace, Love and Laughter to you.”

How did Whomever is responsible for such stuff know I needed all of the above at just that moment? I haven't a clue, but I very much appreciate it. And so today I am reminded of why bookselling matters in the 21st century and why I am blessed beyond measure to be able to do it. But there’s a lesson here too and it has not escaped my notice. Even on the bad days I need to take the focus off outcome and dwell happily in process.

In other words, do the work, stop whining, and be nice to the cat.

Arguing with the Cat on Tuesday, Or the Bookseller Blues

The summer doldrums have definitely set in, dragging behind them a gunny sack of slow sales, hot humid weather, gathering clouds, and a recalcitrant cat. Today is one of those days where you ask yourself if perhaps you might be happier painting the toenails of poodles. Or stuffing envelopes for fun and profit. Or – I know! – selling magazines door to door. Now that I think about it I might actually SELL some magazines which would be a very novel concept.

But of course, in fact, there is only one thing to do on a day such as this. To quote Gerald Murphy, who partied on the beaches of Cap d’Antibes with Hemingway and the Fitzgeralds, “listing well is the best revenge.” Well, actually he recommended LIVING well, but when you’re a full-time bookseller living and listing are pretty much the same thing. And so listing is what I set out to do at 7:30 a.m. armed with a giant mug of coffee and my digital camera.

First the light was wrong. Then by the time it was right Mickey,the cat, had declared the red cloth I put on the window seat in the living room to photograph books Motel 6. I asked him politely to leave. He ignored me. I gave him a gentle push. He laid firm. Finally, I picked him up and bodily removed him whereupon he paid me back by leaving three-quarters of himself hehind. Without a word, I cleaned the cat hair off the red fuzzy cloth, took my pictures, and went away. But when I came back so had he. Only this time I actually YELLED at him and now he is under an antique cupboard sulking, or worse, planning revenge. Either way, he hates me and I don't even blame him because I'm a big grouch today.

As any bookseller will tell you, listing books is not always fun, especially when there are few sales and lots of cat hair. So it definitely helps to love the books you're listing. I did love, and do love four of them, but the rest have been here so long that any affection I ever had for them has departed. That’s because human nature, or the nature of booksellers, is this – you go to a sale, buy a bunch of stuff, turn cartwheels over some, at least mildly like the majority, and regard the rest as rodents who’d diabolically jumped into your bags when you weren’t looking. So what happens is you cherry pick. First the best go online, then the next best, and so on until all that’s left are the dregs. Then you get some new stuff and the same thing happens again, only now the dregs are multiplying like bunnies. So why did you even BUY the dregs, you might ask? Because in the heat of the moment they didn’t seem like dregs. I’m sure if you think about it you'll hit on a more vivid example of the same situation.

Anyway, I have no idea why I’m telling you all this stuff, so I'll stop now and go see if the cat still hates me.

He does. Just look at the picture on the top.

The Chinese Autograph Book Mystery -- SOLVED!

The Fourth of July is my second favorite holiday. Love it all -- kids running in and out the back door, hot dogs and hamburgers sizzling on the grill, a chilled glass of Clean Slate, and fireworks by the lake in the backyard. Our celebration never varies much, but that's okay. We've got it patented and we're sticking with the original. This year did bring a couple surprises though. The first came during the fireworks finale which, though not exactly a D.C. extravaganza, was pretty good for the city of Medina, Ohio in the midst of a recession. As psychedelic palm trees exploded in the sky a strange, eerie sight provided contrast on the ground. At first it looked like moving patches of dark fog, but as our eyes adjusted we discerned the shape of at least a hundred geese running toward the water single-file in a long line -- an unbroken silhouette.

The second surprise came as I was back in the house serving dessert.

“Hey, mom, did you get my email?” my oldest daughter asked as I sliced the chocolate cherry cake.

“No. What email?”

“The one where I told you I solved the Chinese autograph mystery.”

After Mom finished screaming (Mom is rather excitable), Mo shared an incredible story which you can read in its entirety by clicking over to my original post "Mystery of the Chinese Autograph Book" (June) and scrolling down to her comment which includes two excellent links. It turns out that my previous suppositions were dead wrong. The Chinese kids who signed their names and shared their photographs in the book were not here for shipbuilding, missionary zeal, OR the transcontinental railway. They were here as part of a little known alliance between the United States and the Chinese government called the Burlingame Treaty, signed in 1868 to provide an American education for Chinese students.

Imagine when the first twenty kids, aged ten to sixteen, got off the boat in 1872 sporting long Chinese queues and traditional Eastern dress. Scared,excited,confused, dazed by the myriad sights and sounds, they were ushered into private Connecticut homes to live with strangers. It had to have been mind-blowing on both sides! And yet it not only happened, but it went on for five years until the Chinese built a school with dormitories at 352 Collins Street in Hartford. By then the students were teenagers who immediately dubbed it Hell House. Like many immigrant children, the boys in the book had embraced American ways (and also American girls who liked them immensely). Gone were the queues and the traditional dress. Gone, too, the ancient Confucian religion, supplanted by the Christianity of their hosts.

Needless to say, the Chinese government harbored deep concerns about this loss of culture and religion. So when a wave of anti-Chinese sentiment rolled across the country following the influx of cheap labor from China to build the Transcontinental Railway the die was cast. In 1881 the Chinese boys went home, thus ending in its ninth year a program that was supposed to last twenty.

Now that I know its story, the autograph book feels different to me, like an artifact the History Detectives on PBS might have searched he globe to verify. I gaze at the handsome young faces framed by American hairstyles to match their American suits and wonder what became of each boy. I decided to photograph the book with the American flag not because Mo solved the mystery on the Fourth, but because the book’s story is such a uniquely American one. Today, more than a century later, the children of immigrants continue to assimilate. Their parents continue to wring their hands in despair and struggle to hold on to the old ways. Native born Americans continue to vent their frustrations on the immigrants. And the long, unbroken line of silohuettes runs on.

Queen City Book Sale -- The Return To Gentility

In thirteen years of bookselling we've never wandered too far afield to a book sale. But June 20th was our (insert improbably high number and add "th" to the end) wedding anniversary, so we decided to celebrate in Cincinnati, a city about four hours south. The idea was to visit the art museum, see a play, have one spectacular dinner, hike in one of the parks by the river, and visit the Rookwood pottery. But then on a whim I decided just for fun to see if there were any book sales in the Queen City during our stay.

All it took was a few clicks to find it -- a huge sale at a middle school on the east side of the city. Goodbye Mariott Hotel. Goodbye art museum. Goodbye play, goodbye entire day. Goodbye wind in our hair, goodbye tourists everywhere…

Eric protested mildly, but soon saw the advantage of a working holiday -- part of the trip was now tax deductible. That’s a good thing, but the really good thing was the sale. We stayed at the Hampton Inn about three miles away and were in line by 7:30 the following morning. Start time was 10:00 a.m., but these days it’s nothing to stand for three hours at a book sale so there were already five or six people waiting when we pulled into the parking lot. Immediately I spotted a familiar purple car and laughed out loud. One of my favorite sellers from home had made the trek too! Sure enough, his bags were at the front and he was around the corner of the building reading, a noble occupation for any true bookseller/bibliophile. I indulge in it myself sometimes at sales, but the sun was shining and I was so excited I felt like I’d swallowed Mexican jumping beans.

The very first item I chose was the best – a turn-of-the-century Japanese book fashioned from lovely paper tied with purple silk. Inside, full-page color photos of life in Japan made my heart skip a beat. This one deserves its own post, so we’ll talk about it later. I mention it now only because it launched one of the most enjoyable sales we’ve ever attended. The volunteers at the Anderson Township Library system of Cincinnati, Ohio’s annual book sale are uncommonly friendly with nary a Book Nazi in the bunch. They also constitute a cast of thousands, all of whom know how to run a first class sale. You would think most sale givers would eventually figure this out, but it’s been our experience that they do NOT. Most either allow the sale to be picked over in advance, and/or -- mostly and-- deem common books special and price them through the roof, overprice damaged books equally outlandishly, and have no system for safe book storage.

By securing the large space at the middle school the Anderson Township volunteers avoided stress by insuring that the large crowd would disperse among the many tables. Everything was also CLEAN, nicely sorted, and visibly priced and – oh happy day! – they even had a system for making sure you left with the books you chose. At most sales I stagger under the weight of my selections, get trapped in corners, desperately try to stake out a place for our stash, and then have to constantly watch it to make sure no one takes it. But at this sale as soon as they saw you carrying a couple books they relieved you of the burden, put your name on the pile, and held them for you in the center of their several islands of tables.

Book procurement in the 21st century is not for the faint of heart. It’s more like a land grab than a scholarly pursuit, so to find an oasis of gentility was worth the loss of both the art museum and the pottery. It restorethed my soul. And the one spectacular dinner didn’t hurt either.

The Art of Ephemera -- Right or Wrong?

Many posts ago a local librarian asked me why I had the word cat in my blog title when I never mentioned the cat. Of course it didn't take much to remedy THAT sin of omission, but now it's been brought to my attention that I never mention art and art is in the title too. I love art and even play at something my husband generously refers to as art, but Mary Cassatt I am not. However, now that I've been nudged, I've decided to write about my, shall we say "creative outlet", not only to fulfill the art thing, but because it ties into my love of ephemera and a problem ephemera can pose for book and paper sellers.

Vintage magazines, catalogs, diaries, letters, postcards, brochures, pamphlets, luggage labels, etc. can be purchased by the piece, in collections, and in lots at auction. The problem with the latter is that not all items sold in box lots are of equal value or interest. For example, I may bid to get a stunning catalog featuring atriums from the 1920's and a brochure showing the configuration of various Pullman berths in railroad cars. But along with the goodies I end up with a boatload of torn magazine pages, damaged postcards, stained invitations, and parts of dance cards. None are saleable and yet to throw them away seems like tossing history in the wastebasket. What then to do?

For ten years my answer had been to mindlessly save it all until suddenly I found myself with two huge plastic Rubbermaid tubs overflowing with the stuff. An idea for something had been rattling around in my head, but it seemed sort of sacriligious. Ever since we went to Vermont and I saw at the Shelbourne Museum the charming Hannah Davis bandboxes which Hannah covered with wallpaper and sold to the mill girls in New England, I'd wanted to put a new/old spin on bandboxes. My idea was to skip the wallpaper and use vintage paper, new paper, mixed media, and even "hardware" to create bandboxes with texture, hopefully beauty, and a sense of fun. But to do this meant tearing up the "pieces parts" I'd been saving. Finally, after much sorting and resorting of items it occurred to me that many dealers would have tossed the lot at the start. Could it be that if a portion is saved by transformation, that's a good thing? Yes. Maybe. And so the new/old bandboxes were born.

Above I have posted photos of one made previously and given as a gift to my friend Jessica, who is the quintessential beach girl. What you see is comprised of layers of tissue paper, napkins, sandpaper, ribbed corrugated, paint, part of a letter, advertising, newspaper, a Victorian die-cut and a section from an old greeting card. Though I don't have a picture of it to show you, an earlier box incorporated advertising for a shoe-shine apparatus called a Dandi-Shiner which went to my friend and writer's group compatriot, Dandi Mackall.

In the end, I think it's okay to use old paper to make altered books, boxes, and any other forms of artwork as long as nothing of historical value is defaced. The flotsam and jetsom of our lives tell the story of our culture. To save it, even in scraps, is a gift to future generations.

How To Read A Ledger; Or How the Bookseller Conquered Numbers

As things have a way of doing, the Chinese autograph book reminded me of another cool thing I want to show you. This one's an old ledger from Sandusky, Ohio dating from the late 1880's. I wish I could take credit for it, but it's Eric who bought it and he who taught me how to read it. Being a bit number phobic despite the efforts of my dear friend Sunday Morning Joe, who is still here after all these years, I tend to run screaming into the night at the sight of column upon column of numerals, marching along page after endless page.

"Why is this so interesting? Tell me!" I pleaded, as Eric hunched over the small leather book the second we got home from the flea market. He looked like Sherlock Holmes poring over clues.

Turns out, he WAS like Sherlock Holmes poring over clues. Who'd have thought it -- the dreaded numbers can actually tell a story! The trick is to watch the dates, look for repetitive purchases, and pick out the unusual ones. Think about holidays and see how, or if, they alter spending patterns. Ask yourself, "What do these purchases tell me about the lifestyle of the ledger keeper? What do they tell me about his values, his economic situation, and his pleasures?" Bearing all this in mind, I took my turn with the small leather book and met young William Stein and his family.

As it happened, Mr. Stein bought the book on Oct. 8, 1883 and paid the Hamilton & Schumacher Company fifty cents for it, but never used it until 1885. Right away it's evident by the amount of butter, sausage, lard, eggs, biscuits and beer purchased that his wife Anna served hearty meals. They ate by the season though so summer brought "straw berries", " water melon", tomatoes, grapes and once ten "pine apples" for a dollar, which seems a bit exotic given the area, though they may not have been the Hawaiian kind. At the story's start William and Anna had one child, Lillie, for whom they bought a bedstead for $4.75, several dolls, a Humpty Dumpty, a pair of shoes and a book.

They didn't own their own home, but they did have a house on Tiffin Avenue and paid $4 a month in rent, $18.00 for 30 tons of coal to heat it, and $1.25 for ice to keep the food from spoiling. They also had no private land transportation, so they took the streetcar and sometimes rented a buggy when needed. Being close to Lake Erie though they did have a boat and William paid $1.00 to keep it on someone's lot over the winter. Life was good with tickets to Cedar Point, an amusement park which still packs in the crowds in Sandusky to this day, to music halls to hear German bands, and once to see a Spanish troubadour. There were firecrackers, flags, and torpedoes for the Fourth of July, and a turkey for Thanskgiving with wine and even French brandy. Christmas brought a live tree for 65 cents, lots of candles, and walnuts and spices (citron, allspice, cardamom, and cinnamon) for baking.

Along about that first Christmas though several visits to the doctor and repeated unexplained expenditures for medicine popped up and continued into the New Year of 1886, only trickling down to nothing after July when a new baby, a boy named Eddie, arrived. For the delivery William paid the midwife, Mrs. Schneider, $6.00 and also forked over seventy cents for a laundress while his wife recovered. After that there was lots of "soothing syrup" purchased, but the question of who needed to be soothed is up for grabs. Was it a colicky baby? An exhausted Anna? A jealous little sister no longer the star of the show, or Papa William kept awake by noisy nocturnal feedings? Whatever the case, by the time the holidays rolled around "soothing syrup" was off the list and William seemed content as he logged in $7.83 for "Christmas presents for my wife and children."

The Stein family rang in the New Year of 1887 with beer, candy, sausage and yams, blissfully unaware of the changes awaiting them. But in March hand-drawn crosses bracket the notation that Grandmother died on the 17th at the age of 81. William
and his family paid $2.00 towards the flowers on the 18th and then buried her on the
20th at a cost of $2.75. The next month he noted that Mr. C. W. Byington had moved into the family's rented home and would be paying a dollar a month for his room. Maybe the new baby had strained the budget, or perhaps he was only helping out a friend. But either way, William still played his harmonica, enjoyed his beer, and bought the occasional book.

The story abruptly ends in 1888 (no more pages) with the arrival of a third child, a boy, born at 4:55 a.m. October 25th. The brown calf boards close, protecting a fragment of an ordinary German-American midwestern family's life in the late 19th century.

It's alway been magical to me the way stories lurk everywhere we go and in everything we touch. But it took my husband's eye and William Stein's careful records to show me that sometimes they can hide even in the scariest places!

Mystery of the Chinese Autograph Book

In my last post I mentioned an autograph book from Chester, Connecticut we acquired as part of a collection. Ever since, I've found myself thinking about it until nothing would do but I find it again, buried in a pile of books yet to be listed. It's a dark, dreary day and the battered old black book beckoned like a ship filled with exotic spices and rare silks. Who had owned it and why are there so many photos of young Chinese men mixed in with those of Yankees from both Chester and Hoadley, Massachusetts?

The year it began was 1878 and most entries are from that time, but a few date from 1881-82 and one from 1901. A few pages also appear to be missing, so if there was ever an ownership page it has long since fluttered away, leaving in its wake a mystery now more than a century old. Beneath a photo of a young Chinese man is written "Portrait of Uncle Y.C. Wong", oddly dated 1901, but not located on the last page as one would expect since it's the most recent entry and the only one not signed by the person in the picture. A few pages later I found another photo, undated, which reads "Your cousin, Lew Yuk Lin, Xaing Shan, China." So then. The owner of the book was Chinese, most likely male.

Because the entries by Chinese men are scattered among those of New Englanders it took a second reading to notice something else. While many of the Chinese entries state both Chinese and American locations, all of the ones dated 1881 are signed with only a Chinese address and almost all make reference to Christmas Eve.

"Such is life, F.W. Loo, Sinn Wai, China, Christmas Eve 1881".

"Remember your first Christmas in Tientsin, Che Sun Chu, Canton, China December 24, 1881."

I had been vaguely wondering whether Chester's river location and shipbuilding history played a role in the presence of these young Chinese men in New England, but the reference to Christmas suddenly seemed like a game changer. Quickly I googled "American missionary activity China 19th century" and sure enough up popped an article explaining an evangelical fervor to convert the Chinese to Christianity. It sprang from the work of Hudson Taylor who had arrived in China in 1854 at the age of twenty-one under the auspices of the Chinese Evangelization Society. Six years later he was back in England in poor health, but with no slackening of religious zeal. Article after article flowed from his pen inspiring legions of missionaries from both England and the United States to head for Asia. Could it be that the book owner's family back in China had been converted and then sent their son to America to train as a missionary himself?

The answer of course is elusive, forever lost to time. But the fact that the last photo was added thirty years after the first ones made me think that whether he was part of the Protestant missionary movement, or not, he did not return to China to live. Then again, maybe he did and the last photo was added by someone else and the book's original owner was none other than Uncle Y.C. Wong!

Of course my first guess might also have been right and the owner had descended from a Chinese sailor who had signed on to an American whaler or come to work in Chester’s shipyards. Since immigration from China was not prohibited until 1882, this was legally possible even though Chinese sailors were not as plentiful as those from Portugal and Cape Verde and I could find no reference to Chinese shipbuilders in Chester. Or maybe, as so many Chinese immigrants did, this family had arrived on American shores hoping to find work constructing the transcontinental railroad.

Reluctantly, I closed the book resigned to not knowing. There’s a peculiar sadness in that of course, but the little black book imparts an important lesson. We can't rely on technology to serve as a bridge to the distant future. Blogs, emails and digital photos can all be lost in a heartbeat. If we are to meet the next century and insure that it meets us we have to leave a hard copy. Though I never learned the name or the fate of my book owner, I met him nonethless in the admiration of his many friends. I, for one, would very much like to be met like that. Wouldn't you?

Post-Its -- Notes From A Book Collection

There's nothing like buying a large collection of books to rev up the internal engine. For weeks after we've boxed and trucked it home I'm up before the crack of dawn to get the orders wrapped so I can poke around in the boxes and play with the books. Collections tend to contain a motley mix of the good, the VERY good, the bad, and the downright ugly, largely because we make it a rule not to cherry pick and leave the previous owner with a bunch of duds that can't be sold. We offer one price for the lot and deal with it as it comes. Sure, it's a lot of work -- imagine the summer we had 35,000 volumes! -- but it's good work, fun work, work that's not really work at all, though I'm sure if he were looking over my shoulder Eric would have something to say about THAT. The division of labor around here goes something like this -- I'm The Decider and he's the Book Mover.

Anyway, our current collection was bought in April after the antiquarian show in Akron where we, along with all the other dealers, were approached by a man needing to sell his mother's books. He'd moved them from Connecticut, but was now himself moving out of state and having nightmares at the thought of hauling them a second time. It's a relatively small collection of 2000 volumes, give or take, mostly focused on early American history, New England history, and genealogy. What keeps it interesting is the occasional surprise -- an old blacksmith's ledger from the
1850's, an autograph album with tinted photos of teenagers from Chester, Connecticut in the 1870's, made all the more fascinating by the addition of pictures and signatures of young Chinese men living in China!

Like all collections, this one is not without its quirks. I actually found it sort of charming that two whole boxes contained nothing but commmon books by Kenneth Roberts, six or seven of each title, a testament to the collector's admiration for her favorite author. Fortunately, there was one rare title in the mix -- but of course there was only one copy of it -- which we already sold to an antiquarian dealer in Germany. We also have lots of customers at the store who can't get enough of Roberts, so it's easy to be magnanimous about the excess.

What I am NOT finding charming, however, is the quirk pictured in the photo to the left. Don't for a minute think it's photo-op I set up, or a nuisance confined to a few books. I swear on a stack of Harvard Classics that absolutely every single one of the 2000 books is stuffed with slips of paper and post-it notes. Every. Single. One.

Don't get me wrong -- I am very grateful to have this collection, but I'm struggling to find an upside to the post-it notes. The best I can do is this. By buying these wonderful books I learned something very important which I will pass along. Post-it notes are not always compatible with certain kinds of paper. The only salvation is the hair dryer to slowly loosen them without damaging the pages. Very soon I'll be at Target shopping for a new hair dryer though. Our old Conair burned out this morning.

Bookselling In Real Life

Ever since kindergarten when it became apparent that there are gradations of perfection in coloring and pasting I've been a Type A obsessive workaholic, so the fact that these traits have followed me into my fifth decade (okay, almost sixth, but let's not talk about it) is probably no big surprise. I do bookselling like I do everything else -- by total immersion. So to take a weekend off to go to Michigan to see our oldest daughter and her family, whom I love beyond words, is a classic push-pull situation if ever there was one.


We hit the road early last Saturday, Eric looking ahead to the festivities and me fretting over not shipping orders. But, as always, as soon as he popped an audiobook into the CD player at the Ohio Turnpike I was transported to Michigan mode. The problem with Michigan mode is that I'm fine as long as there's nonstop activity, but give me some downtime and I'm on Moira's laptop checking to see what's happening in the book world. This time I did pretty well though. No sneak peaks until after Tyler's soccer game, we'd swung on the swings at the park, visited with Mary, Moira's mother-in-law, and Dylan at age one had been hugged, kissed and played with until he fell asleep face down on the family room floor from sheer granny exhaustion. Only then did I log into my web server to check my email. Four orders from ABE, one from alibris ....

"Don't do that, Gran! We're ordering pizza and I want you to watch Karate Kid with me."

One look at Tyler's six year old face puckered with consternation and I closed the laptop without even confirming the orders and put in my own order for a veggie with everything. By the time the pizza arrived and the movie was ready to roll, even Baby was ready to party. I never thought of the books again until I was ensconced in the guest room several hours later without a book to read. In the throes of my early morning angst over not shipping I'd forgotten to pack my book. I could borrow one, but I knew from past experience that the offerings on Warwick Drive were confined to the definitive works of Anne McCaffrey and Nora Roberts. Given THAT, what could a bookseller do but contemplate the precarious future of bookselling until she fell asleep?

The next thing I knew Moira was at the bedroom door informing us that the tornado sirens had sounded and we needed to hit the basement -- NOW. So off we flew, two sleeping little boys in tow, to sit on the old leather couches in our jammies and watch omnious red splotches on the TV screen. By the time we got an all-clear forty-five minutes later I was quietly freaking out. A year ago we'd had a mini-flood and lost some of our inventory. What was happening in Ohio? Torrential rain? Tornadoes? A plague of locusts? HELP! I NEED TO GO HOME NOW!

Back in the guest room I inwardly had two nervous breakdowns and one general meltdown while Eric snored beside me. "Do you think everything's okay at home?" I whispered when I couldn't stand another second of solitary hysteria.

The fact that he answered immediately was less than comforting. "I don't know. It crossed my mind that we could have trouble."

I thought about the flood, books floating, the roto-thingy guys stopping work to argue over who was going to kill a #$%@% spider .... Oh God. We need to go HOME! But then I thought of Dylan's birthday party the next day. My sweet baby turning one. How often will THAT happen? If the books were going to get wet they were probably already wet, so going home wouldn't change a thing. Yes, but the mess and the not knowing was too awful... Back and forth it went until around two a.m. when a baby who smiles like Charlie Brown trumped the books, wet or dry.

In the end I decided to pull a Scarlett O'Hara and not think about it until after the party. And for once that's exactly what I did which is how I came to have these cute pictures. As for what went on in northeastern Ohio while I was fretting about biblical weather -- nothing.

Breaking Up With Ebay

My love affair with ebay has been over since the big 2008 restructuring, yet I have hung on tenaciously, perpetually hoping that this change, or that one, would restore balance to our relationship. Then in March 2010 they announced that all sellers, whether they offered Buy It Now listings, maintained a store, or conducted auctions would get equal visibility. Right on cue the sultry voice of Etta James crooned "At Last" in my ear as I waltzed around my office intoxicated with joy. So much joy, in fact, that I sprang for a premium store.

Never mind that previously I had been promised the moon for having a Top Rated Seller Badge only to wind up with not even a crumb of green cheese. But really, I asked myself, what did a tiny betrayal like that matter in the larger framework of love? Nothing! Just a little blip. Ebay had erred and was now ready to attone. Besides, ebay and I had a HISTORY. We'd connected immediately the first day I opened my store and within no time were a power couple. I even had the little icon to prove it.

But enough of the past. Launch day was in April, so early that morning I fired up the computer. Voila! Three nice sales rained down like a fountain of champagne. "We're back!" I shouted over the phone in my husband's ear. "WE'RE BACK!" Yes, we were back all right -- for about three days and then we really fell back -- to nothing. I downgraded to a basic store and waited out the rest of the month. Had it not been for a three volume history of Martha's Vineyard and a collection of WWI pamphlets it would have been the worst month in my history with ebay. As it turned out, it was the second worst month.

At first I was shell-shocked. Then I sprang into action, typing in my own book titles only to be informed that there were zero copies. A little message flashed to alert me of a close match, then disappeared, sending me down, down, down past the list of ads where I discovered that it was actually an EXACT match and -- are you surprised?-- it was MINE. And so, just like that, ebay and I broke up.

My feedback and my Top Rated seller ribbon are still there because ebay gives you 30 days to reconsider. But truly there's nothing to reconsider. The fact is I'm tired of the endless changes and rules, the stress, the rising rates billed as the lowest ever, the betrayals both large and small, and the paternalistic attitude that sapped the lifeblood out of what had once been fun.

Besides, I'm already seeing somebody new. It's not serious yet, but I am reasonably committed and hopeful, if for no other reason than the fact that this one at least has a sense of humor!

Our First Book Fair

Eric and I have been online booksellers for thirteen years, but the 2010 NOBS (Northern Ohio Bibliophilic Society) book fair in Akron marked the first time we packed up the treasures and put them on exhibit. Each year we were asked whether we would set up a booth, but always I demurred, mumbling something about it being “too hard on the books.” The truth was much blunter -- I flat-out wasn’t ready.

I had devoured enough books about bookselling in the grand old tradition to know that even being a voracious reader does not bestow qualification. The bookseller’s path is long and arduous with few markers along the way to measure enlightenment. Even now I haven’t a clue whether or not I know enough, primarily because I still can’t define “enough.” All I know is that this year when the application arrived I felt like maybe it was okay to show up and hang a shingle.

Whenever I try to describe the show itself it’s easy to veer toward the histrionic, so I’m going to make a big effort to contain myself here. Let’s just say that, for me, the fair was a giant coming of age party. From the moment I stood back and admired our books all shined up and ready for perusal I was zapped with an endorphin jolt that lasted the entire two days. Think Christmas when you’re six, falling in love, the arrival of your children, skyrockets on the Fourth of July -- and then put a party hat on the whole shebang and pop a champagne cork. Better yet, just imagine yourself in orbit!

From the first sale of the show, School Architecture; Or Contributions to the Improvement of Schoolhouses in the United States, to the last, a first edition Mark Twain, we engaged in conversations that ranged from my crush on Elbert Hubbard to the Lost Generation with a leisurely segue into Salvador Dali’s cookbook and the beauty of machining catalogs from the 1920’s. What exquisite pleasure it was to turn off the internet for awhile and connect in person with readers, among whom I discovered two online customers, one from Georgia, and the other from right next door in Wadsworth.

In several ways the fair reminds me of that famous line attributed to Goethe, “Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.” In today’s electronic world it is supremely bold to offer three-dimensional books for sale in their time-honored state, yet powerful too, as we quietly assert the need to hold the wisdom of the human continuum in the palms of our hands. As for magic, the books themselves are magical to those who love them. Books inform, entertain, comfort, embolden and inspire us. But I must admit that I did notice one other sneaky little magical aspect that is a bit less lofty. Books that are packed up to go to the fair, no matter how long they’ve hung around, are imbued with immense desirability for online customers once inside a packing crate. Ditto on the return of the unsold ones. But transfer those same books from the packing crates to their former shelves and –poof! – no more fairy dust until next year.

Almost Two Years Later -- I'm Here

I knew I would not be winning any perfect attendance awards, but I was shocked when a.) I could not remember how to access my own blog and b.) I finally got on it only to find that the last time I wrote was September, 2008. Oh, the water under the dam since then! Or is it over the dam? I never can remember that damn phrase, but no matter -- I'm here now resolving to be more constant than in the past.

Perhaps the best thing to do is to catch up (like anyone remembers what needs catching up on). I am still a bookseller -- thirteen years now -- a writer finally dabbling with a novel, and Gran to a new baby boy named Dylan who just flew in from Korea on angel wings in April to join his big brother Tyler who somehow got to be six despite my fervent wish for him to stay small. Since I last wrote we also bought several large book collections, most of which are gone now, and I was asked to be a board member for NOBS, acronym for the Northern Ohio Bibliophilic Society. The latter is so very pleasing to me, a sort of rite of passage which makes me feel less of a wannabe and more of a player in the world of serious bookselling.

Of course the world of books has turned on its ear since I last wrote, but then the whole WORLD has turned on its ear, so why shouldn't the book world keep it company? Sometimes I am as afraid as I was in September 2008 when I wrote the last blog about cooking for the kids running the Obama campaign here in Medina. But mostly I try to be hopeful about the world, the babies, the books and the future. That's all we can do I guess -- have hope, share both the bounty and the necessities, and enjoy life's pleasures even though there are e-books and free books, electronic readers and all sorts of new gadgetry that may put me out of business. I will comment on them later, but suffice it to say that for now I am happy to still be a bookseller of the "old school" with a little help from technology and my younger daughter's marketing degree -- which, I might add -- was paid for by the BOOKS.

So, anyway, I'm back and hoping to stay a little longer this time. There's always an endless pot of coffee -- black and hot the way God intended -- and endless things to talk about. So if anyone wants to join me please do. I'll even provide sugar and cream if needed.

Cooking In the Storm

Two packages chicken breasts
Two heads Bibb lettuce
1/2 pound fresh mushrooms

It’s a dark, damp morning, the day after the first presidential debate, and I am writing my grocery list in my head. The house is still, the silence all-encompassing, a microcosm of the silence of a nation holding its breath. My fears today are many – some justified, some no doubt extrapolation – but I seem unable to delineate one from another. And so I do the one thing I know how to do in both good times and bad. I cook.

1 bottle dry cooking sherry
1 large bunch red grapes

My little grandson, who came to us four years ago by way of south Korea, is four and half now. He’s in kindergarten where he’s learning to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. The big words are tricky and the concepts mud puddles. But he stamps his feet in them and splashes until he’s drenched with their majesty -- the rest will come later. For now it’s enough to put his hand over his baby heart and cut to the chase, “Flag of the United States of America! Liberty and justice for all!”

2 cucumbers
1 container Parmesan cheese

Early this morning I saw two deer. In the space of time before the sun has fully risen deer blend so seamlessly with the backdrop of trees they are nearly invisible. If you want to see them – really see the grace and shape of who they are-- you have to look hard. If you focus on their color you’ll miss them every time.

1 loaf artisan bread
2 large tomatoes

Words tumble over words in my head, but I can’t bring them to my mouth, can barely force them out through my fingertips. I should be out canvassing the neighborhood, signing up voters, working the phone banks. I’m a world class talker – ask anyone who knows me. I could talk the legs off a donkey and sell the pope a double bed, but right now all I can do is cook. So I will do that then. And when I have chicken, and rice pilaf with mushrooms, salad, and bread, I will pack them all up and take them to the Democratic party headquarters to feed the young volunteers who are here from Chicago, Rhode Island and California. They crash on family room floors, eat whatever presents itself, work until the wee hours and then repeat it all over again day after day. They breathe life into the words my grandson shouts and the ones I can’t articulate.

1 bag celery
2 green peppers

I am silent today. My voice is stilled by anger, but mostly by grief. I am sick over what’s happening to our country, sick that Barrack Obama must contend with the circus his opponent is trying to make of the election during a time when our country is literally cracking open like an overripe pomegranate. We are bleeding, we are gushing blood like a geyser, and his opponent and the woman he is using for his own selfish means, are apparently insulated from the spatter. But we are not insulated. We are black, and white, Asian and Hispanic, sick and well, Christian and not Christian, straight and gay, poor and middle class, employed and unemployed, young and old. If we don’t succeed in making a difference this November we will continue to have no buffer from the raging storm of greed and lies they so neatly couch in words like faith and Christian. The last safe haven may be this kitchen. And so I will go there today and cook for Barrack Obama.

Ike's Last Breath

The last breath of Hurricane Ike blew over the Midwest rather spectacularly on Sunday. Nancy and I usually walk five miles on Sunday morning, but decided to delay until afternoon to get a few things done at home. Nancy showed up around five and almost immediately the many trees in my backyard started rockin’ and rollin.’

“I think we’re cooked,” I said. “Might as well sit down and talk.”

CRASH! The outer door of the screened porch flapped in the wind like Sarah Palin under the scrutiny of Charlie Gibson. Porch trees and plants fell like dominoes and one of several small decorative windows at the top of the screens imploded, leaving the brick floor littered with blue glass and smashed wood. I grabbed the door while Nancy saved a decorative stained glass panel and together we moved all the furniture as far back against the wall of the house as we could. At this point Nancy decided maybe she’d better make sure her own hatches were battened down and made a dash for the car. I stood at the door in amazement and growing apprehension. Our trees are not saplings. If they fell … My next thought was my husband who was in Indiana doing an outdoor show for his business. According to the Weather Channel, Cincinnati was hardest hit and he was but one hour away from Cincy.

By the time Ike gave up the ghost power was out in much of the area and the yard looked like a war zone. Eric had managed to get through on his cell phone earlier and all was well in Indiana, though the connection was so full of cracks all I heard was “me … okay now … okay?” By ten p.m. I had the glass cleaned up on the porch and Mickey the cat ensconced once again to take in the night air. The real work began yesterday.

By eight I was outside with a stack of leaf bags and a rake. A huge branch I’d heard glance off the office window was now impaled in the fence. I may be a hundred pound weakling, I but sang that old Helen Reddy song in my head “I am woman, hear me roar …“ and wrestled it out and around the house to the curb. Meanwhile next door, a crew showed up at the neighbor’s house to perform the same ablutions. I chatted with the workers awhile and then we all got down to business – they with their rip-roaring machines and me with my rake and leaf bags. The day was dank and overcast, but a sudden flash of joy filled me from the top of my head to my sandaled feet. We made it! We survived! The wet leaves and debris smelled fresh and earthy and I breathed in their scent glad to the core of my being that I was out there doing what I was doing.

Not long after this, the owner of the house with the crew strolled outside with his coffee for a chat. I know he thinks I’m a tree-hugger and he’d be right about that, especially since it was my trees that had left their body parts all over his bare, green expanse of lawn, but I think he sort of likes me anyway. We talked about the damage and I said, “There’s sure a lot to be done out here, but then that’s the price of paradise, right?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say THAT,” he replied.

I guess paradise is wherever you find it. For me it's right here on this street in this town in Ohio.

Death, Stories And Fresh Eggs

My mother used to say that death always comes in threes. This year two local booksellers died, one whom I didn’t know, and Doug Gunn whom I did. I miss the latter at book sales and will no doubt feel it keenly next week when we go to the Wooster AAUW sale. Last year I picked up a book there and heard a voice behind me cry, “Stop! Don’t do it!” I turned around and there was Doug laughing at my near mistake. He’d almost bought the same dud-in-disguise himself the very same morning. The last time I saw Doug was last fall at the Ashland sale when we both crowed with delight when they announced a ban on scanners. Doug was the first “old school” bookseller who made me feel like we were classmates, something I appreciate as much now as I did all those years ago.

I guess my mother was right about death pulling a trifecta though because on Monday Rob Levandoski, writer and bookseller (Two Bird Books of Akron), died suddenly of a brain aneurysm. Rob’s third novel “Fresh Eggs” was a 2004 Pulitzer prize nominee. The New York Times called him “a distinctive literary voice deserving to be more widely known.” I agree, which is why I think nature, God, the Universe, whatever, Whoever, got it wrong this time. But of course I don’t get a vote.

Last evening my friend Nancy, who is another local writer, and I went to calling hours at the funeral home. It had been a dark, rainy, glum day straight out of one of those Victorian English movies where they shoot from above, panning a sea of black umbrellas at the graveyard. For two days all Nancy and I could do was email each other endlessly. And yet for all that outpouring of emotion we were still shocked, sad, and so sorry for Carol, his wife of only five years. As we knew it would be, it was a rough go, and there were tears involved (mostly mine as I can cry on a dime), but we thought of a funny story about Rob and laughed our heads off too.

A few years back, Rob, Nancy, and another local writer, Betty Wetzel (who has also since died), were asked to be part of a panel discussion at the library about the writing life. Before it began, the moderator, who would never be accused of having a sense of humor, asked the trio if their publicists burdened them with too many events.

“Are you kidding? I had to sleep with mine just to get this gig,” Nancy deadpanned.

Picking it right up, Rob asked Nancy, “Do you think maybe you could sleep with mine too?”

Betty, a sly wit with a great Olympic laugh, cracked up and pretty soon everybody but the moderator was on a roll. Poor guy -- he looked like he was trapped with three live grenades and no access to the SWAT team, which I guess in a way he was.

I love that. Not only is it quintessential Rob, but it’s also the Ghunga Din of stories. We told it, and for one normal second laughed in the face of death. The best stories are like that though. They embolden us, make us strong, brave, and hopeful that there really is life not only after death, but in the face of it. Somebody famous (I forget who it was and I am not in the mood for research) said, “Boldness has genius, magic, and power in it.” I don’t know about genius, but I’ll certainly attest to magic and, most definitely, power. Without the stories, without all the pictures Carol had placed around the room, without the books and newspaper articles, Rob's first press pass, and his old antique typewriter -- all stories in their own right -- how would we ever have dealt with that much sorrow? Stories not only embolden us -- they save us too.

P.S. I just opened Rob's book "Fresh Eggs" and read the inscription dated four years ago. It says, "To Tess, Stop getting rich with the business and start writing again. Rob." I never got to tell him that after a six year dry spell, I finally did.