Good for Its Age

Okay, I’m on a rant today, no question about it. But I absolutely have to go on record as saying that if one more person tells me that a book is “good for its age” I’m going to do a Sylvia Plath and stick my head in the oven! Age has no bearing on how the book looks! What impacts a book’s condition is how it has been handled and stored by its previous owners. A book from the 1600’s can be pristine and one from last week can look like it got run over by the mail truck. What got me so worked up about this is that last night Eric went to see the collection I mentioned in my last post. He’d talked to the owner on the phone previously and had been assured that everything was “good for its age” – a sure tip-off that what you find is not going to leave you reaching for your checkbook. Considering the fiasco of a few months ago when the “old” books turned out to be common novels from the 1980’s, I would have shut the whole thing down then and there. But Eric, God bless him, is the eternal optimist. He'd forgotten all about it.

As I write this, Frank Sinatra merrily sings High Hopes in my head because that’s what Eric had until one sweeping glance at the broken bindings, foxing, insect holes, and silverfishing sent his “high apple pie in the sky hopes” crashing to the ground with a mighty splat. The piece de resistance though was a cloudy plastic bag containing a lone volume. Evidently the owner thought this one must be even better than the rest seeing as how someone had taken the trouble to segregate it. All I can say is he should be eternally grateful that Eric didn’t open it or Stanley Steamer would have making a house call as we speak. The book was in rigor mortis – dead from a fatal case of red rot. I’m sure you’ve seen this – it’s a deterioration of leather bindings that produces a reddish brown powdery substance that stains your hands and anything you touch. You can’t reverse it, though I remember seeing a product in the Brodart catalog that contains and seals it. But for the book-in-a-bag a surface application would be about as useful as painting the ceiling to keep the rain out. Needless to say, seller and would-be buyer held two vastly different estimations of the collection’s value.

What’s interesting about this is that there actually WAS something Eric would have bought. The seller also had around forty-five Franklin Library volumes. I call them Easton Press wannabes, but my husband loves them -- LOVES them. Ask Andrea Klein from Bookseller in Akron. Every time we go to a NOBS meeting at her store he buys one and exalts its many charms all the way home. Turns out, the seller had invited a large Cleveland dealer, who will remain nameless, to have first dibs on the entire collection. But alas, said dealer took one look at the pretty decorated spines of the Franklins and declared them “worthless” which resulted in his forced exit from the premises. So now here’s the one person in all of northeastern Ohio who adores these books and is willing to make a fair offer for them -- and what happens? The seller wants an additional hundred dollars. I’m amazed.

I’m even more amazed that the one person in all of northeastern Ohio who's crazy about them walked! But I'm sure glad he did.

P.S. If you saw this before I changed it, the green book was actually a Signed First Editions Club. The brown book above is a Franklin Library.

An Ode to Easton

The Magical Makeover is back on track. And not only that, but yesterday twenty-four Easton Press titles, all of which look hot off the press, blew in on the morning wind. Oh such rapture! Such elation! Such bliss! The sight of them is enough to make you want to grab the stub of a pencil and compose an ode on the spot. The sad part is that I want to SEE them. I want to walk past them lined up like fetching little girls in formation behind the nun in the flying wimple in the Madeline books. I want them safely snuggled on the built-in shelves in the living room where we can sit before dinner, sip our evening wine, and feast our eyes on their leather loveliness. So put them there, you say. But if only I could! The reality is that there is not enough room for even one more book on those enormous shelves, much less two dozen. I know I could move some others to clear space, but the Eastons would be better off out of the sun anyway. One of the reasons they’re so blindingly beautiful is that they have resided in a cabinet , untouched, behind glass, for more than two decades. Besides, their seclusion in the closet in Moira's childhood room will no doubt soften the blow when they sell.

Oh, yes, I know all about how their prices have plummeted thanks to sellers who know nothing about quality books and care even less. But I don’t care about those sellers. The first thing I said when Eric brought them in the house was, “I am NOT casting these pearls before swine!” which of course is a biblical way of saying that the book sites aren’t getting their clutches on these babies! I refuse to pay the commission and the extra postage on the large ones. But even more than that, I refuse to play bookseller limbo. How low they go will be determined by me, not by the last seller in the line-up. I will price them fairly, but also with a degree of respect for the books themselves. So that being said, I’m left with only two sales avenues – my secret site and the antiques mall. For now I’m going with the former, but later, I might take a few to the mall for the holidays

Of course all of that will have to wait because we are deep in the throes of the Magical Makeover. Sunday night it started looking like the whole shebang had slipped off track and hit a brick wall. We opened the can of Cashmere paint from Sherwin Williams (which, I might add, came with a cashmere price tag), rolled on a test patch, and nearly had a conniption when the wall took on the color of old underwear. Well, one of us nearly had a conniption. I’ll leave it to you to figure out who. The important thing is that when we woke up yesterday morning it had dried to the perfect shade of grey I had so painstakingly chosen. And I do mean painstakingly because by the time I was done musing over the various hues we had enough little paint chip cards to play gin rummy.

Eric applied the first coat on half the room this morning, which means that all we have to do now is pull out the built-in desk, finish the first coat on everything , slap on the second one, paint the trim, paint and install the new closet door, install the hardware, paint the ceiling, paint the cabinets black, change the overhead light, roll out the new rug, put together the new desk and move everything back in – without going offline if possible. Piece of cake, right?

Well, maybe not. Even though I deep-sixed my annual Fourth of July bash this year, the Michiganders will still be here for the weekend. And – get this -- tonight Eric is off to see yet another collection.

Shooting for A Whineless Summer!

We have been crazy-busy since I last wrote -- beginning work on my office, buying books, listing books, and once even taking time out for fun. Last night we went to Playhouse Square in Cleveland to see Jersey Boys with our friends Tom and Jessica. We had orchestra seats with a large aisle behind us, so if the spirit moved us we could have danced to, and with, the oldies. But all it took was a quick look around to realize that the oldies were US! However, as I pointed out to Jessica, she and I are young oldies due to the fact that we were not yet in high school when The Four Seasons had their first big hit with Sherry. The year was 1962 and I was eleven to Jessica’s twelve. Unlike our husbands, we didn’t come of age until the British invasion and the protest songs of Dylan, Baez, and Collins. Not only were the clothes way cuter by then (loved that Mary Quant look), but the music had vastly improved too. So, while I enjoyed the singing suits and their stylized dancing, give me Bob, Joan and Judy any day.

But this post isn’t about music. It’s about books, so I have a question for you. What do checkers, Bobby Jones and Chinese erotica have in common? Give? They are all subjects of the new books I bought yesterday and today. The Bobby Jones booklet pleases me most because of that STUPID mistake I’ve told you about at least twice when I grossly underpriced a rare piece of Jones ephemera. I will not belabor that dead horse except to say that while this piece doesn’t hit such stratospheric heights it’s still pretty darn good and gives me a deep sense of partial vindication. As for the checkers books, they aren’t overly valuable – around $25-35 each, but I’ve sold a couple before and now have a half dozen more. The best one I ever had, hands-down (not monetarily), was a book about the seventh American Checker Tournament held at the Morrison Hotel in Chicago in 1929. Samuel Gonotsky of Brooklyn won and I sold the book to his grandson. I could have had another copy yesterday, but I passed on it -- how can you top selling the book to a Gontosky descendent? I’m telling you, I get so excited when I sell some obscure item tied to the buyer’s family I am practically in orbit.

The Chinese erotica on the other hand is – um – virgin terrority for me. I can’t tell you too much about it, as it’s written in French, but I do know that Fleur en Fiole d’Or somehow translates into Jin Ping Mei cihua which was written at the end of the Ming Dynasty and was the first novel to present sex graphically – as opposed to metaphorically, I guess. It’s a two volume set in pristine condition, slipcase and all, printed in the mid-1980’s. I had actually heard of Jin Ping Mei cihua, but couldn't remember how or why. I didn't even deliberate over it -- just  took a gamble and it turned out fine.

I also bought three other little French books, each in a golden slipcase, one signed art book, and a leather Civil War history set complete in four volumes. The latter is a little rough on the outside, but pristine inside and will not be sold online anyway. This is definitely a store item. It would also work well in the mall, but I don’t have a locked case and experience has shown that the first commandment of mall selling is “Thou shalt not leave small, expensive items in the wild” and the second is “thou shalt not leave antiquarian books in the wild because mall shoppers do not know how to handle them.” So off to the store it goes, or maybe to one of Eric’s shows in the fall. There’s no rush – we’re happy to have it hang around for awhile.

If you recall, last summer all I did was whine about my lack of books.”It’s the summer of my discontent,” I wailed, as week after week passed with little coming in.

For the present at least the acquisition blues have passed us by this summer, but of course that’s subject to change at any time. The good news is tomorrow is the Medina flea market which nets almost zero books, but sometimes very nice ephemera. (And sometimes not a blessed thing.) Then on Monday Eric is going to see a collection in Medina. I have given up asking questions of would-be sellers because they always tell you what you want to hear whether it's right or not. But the guy lives close by so we agreed to wing it. As you know though, I hate telling people their books aren’t good, so in case these are not, I'm sending my front man!

Besides, I have serious listing to do

Playing Charing Cross

Well, so far the Magical Makeover is not going as expected. Eric has a cold, so will not be wielding any paintbrushes for the duration. As for me, I spent all day yesterday futilely trying to make my idea for the art project conform to a flat surface. By the time I threw in the scissors and admitted defeat the basement floor and my wrapping bench looked like the streets of New York after a ticker-tape parade. I was so disappointed, but it’s clear that I just can’t do it, thanks to both the size and the one-dimensional quality of canvas. As soon as I picked up a box and laid-out part of the design (without glue) -- presto! – everything came together just as I’d imagined it. So, I guess I will make a box for the top of my bookcase instead. But I still feel like a failure.

On top of that I’m mad at myself for not taking a picture at the antiques mall yesterday. Cheryl, I did it all for you, girl – got the long-requested CHAIR at Sunday’s estate sale and a very nice one too. It’s a Windsor, maybe a little bigger than it needs to be, but I love both the way it looks in the booth and the fact that it will give people a place to sit and more easily look at the lower shelves. I do have it priced, but I’m ambivalent about it. If it sells it sells; if it doesn’t it doesn’t. We also took over the last of those three bookcases we bought at the estate sale this winter to fill the space where the barrister case I sold this weekend had been. This one’s not for sale, but it practically looks like it is because it’s as empty as the library during the summer reading program. Right now I’m at an awkward spot where the existing shelves are getting crowded, but I don’t have enough mall books to fill the new ones. The new case did, however, give me a chance to display a lot of stuff face-out which might, in the end, be a good thing. As you may have guessed, Sunday's estate sale did not offer up many tomes. I did get a few nice, previously overpriced books at half off, but only about five and they’re already over there.

Actually, I’d planned to work on the new box today, but now I don’t know. Sales popped again yesterday, primarily on alibris and affiliates, though I did have a couple nice ABE orders too, including  one for the sequel to Emil and the Detectives, which I got at the very first estate sale of 2011. I featured it here back in January -- it’s written in German, so it’s not surprising that the buyer came from abe.de. An uptick in sales always tends to motivate me to work, but getting this office done motivates me too, so I think I’m going to pack up the contents of the bookcase and play it by ear. I am also going to get the books I haven’t listed from the last two auctions and the Case sale off the floor and stashed in the office closet. Besides, I need a can of silver paint for the inside of the box and I probably don’t have one.

Well, a few hours have passed and it would appear that my lack of paint is no problem, as I seemed to be too dithery today to focus. Every once in awhile this strikes me, usually when plans go awry. I start one thing, then wander away and start something else. I might even start a third thing. Since writing that last paragraph I began shelving books from the floor, switched to sorting and packing the contents of the bookcase, and now I'm back talking to you again. But the good news is I’m all done dithering. Literally, ten minutes ago, the phone rang and on the other end flowed the slow, easy voice of my friend and long-time customer Curtis from Philadelphia. Curtis had a stroke the day after Christmas. Sometime in February he called to tell me the bad news, but the stroke had taken such a toll that I had to struggle to understand him.

Here’s the interesting part though. I always send Curtis his books as soon as he orders them and he pays me when they come. It’s like playing 84 Charing Cross Road, only reversed -- he’s Helene Hanff and I’m Frank Doel. This time though the books turned up on his doorstep the exact same day that he had the stroke, which means that he never had a chance to open them until February. Initially when no check showed up I was surprised, though not overly worried. But when one still didn’t come after his call in February I knew with certainty that things had taken a sharp turn for the worse. In fact, I thought maybe the worst had happened which is why I never sent a follow-up invoice. What I didn’t know until just now is that he’d had a second stroke not long after we spoke and had spiraled down deep into the mine shaft of  depression. He called today to tell me that he’s much better and to let me know that he can take care of his bill now.

“I wouldn't leave you hanging for a penny, Miss Tess, and certainly not for $140.”

Well, of course he wouldn't -- any more than Helen would have left Frank hanging.

I knew that.

Countdown to the Magical Makeover

This week officially begins the Magical Makeover of my office. I’m pretty jazzed, not only to finally get it done, but because the timing seems good. Sales remain slower than last month, so if we need to shut down for a couple days the world won’t fall off its axis. Actually, this may have to happen because the desk I currently have is built-in, so there’s a bit of demo involved which will take place around the computer and its various appendages. Today I need to buy a pad for the new big rug I bought on ebay weeks ago and have yet to unfurl, as well as a new closet door. Most of the upstairs closet doors have been switched to raised-panel, but the one in my office retains its 1960’s louveredness. I know -- louveredness is not really a word, but it should be -- you hear it and – wham! – your mind sketches a 3D image. And it’s not pretty either.

But before we do all that stuff we are off to an estate sale. I had planned to go yesterday, but it never happened and, besides, I’m more motivated today due to the fact that I sold a three-stack barrister bookcase at the antiques mall yesterday. This is my second piece of furniture to sell – the first was that drop-dead gorgeous French table awhile back. – so I’m thinking it may be a good idea to try to find something to replace it. The sale did advertise books, but in a rather desultory fashion, so I don’t expect to be dazzled by the tomes. I’m hoping instead for some big-ticket item. As with online sales , books fell from grace a bit at the mall as soon as June 1st rolled around. While they’re still paying the freight, they’re not flipping off the shelves like acrobats.

The truth is, it feels a little weird to me to be buying stuff other than books – not that I have all that much, but I don’t want to morph into an antiques dealer either. I really doubt I will though because I don’t have a passion for it. Once in a while something jumps out and says hello – like the French table – but overall I can take it or leave it. So I think it’s safe to take a little foray into uncharted territory every once in awhile, especially in the middle of the summer doldrums. The other safety control is the fact that I’m a bit inhibited by my lack of space at the mall. The booth is small and I don’t yet have enough books to rent a second space. I think I would do it if I did, but it warrants caution. Without a steady flow of merchandise a combined $600 a month rent could blow the whole gig.

As I write this Eric is at the dreaded Litchfield flea market. I HATE this thing – the English language does not come close to having enough adjectives to describe its loathsomeness. But last Sunday he came home like a little kid whose pockets sag under the weight of two cookies, a quarter, four Matchbox cars and a live toad. Even I had to reluctantly agree that he scored big-time with the purchase of two muzzleloading rifles, both of which he originally sold years ago (they retained the store’s price tag with his handwriting). Already he doubled the total price for the two at the Indiana show last week with the sale of one. So the guy’s on a roll with optimism running like sap in the spring.

We had planned this afternoon to celebrate our 41st wedding anniversary (it’s tomorrow) with a trip to the Cleveland Botanical Gardens and lunch in Little Italy, but it being Father’s Day, we quickly scratched that idea and will pick a day during the week instead. It’s not that we’ll be celebrating anything with our kids today -- Caitie’s in Maryland and Moira and Brian will be here with the little people for the Fourth of July -- it’s the crowded restaurants that put a pall on it.

I’m happy with the plan we have though and am now off to get ready to rock and roll as soon as Eric gets back from the dreaded Litchfield flea market. The vintage clothing people will fly into the estate sale in a vee formation if only for the 100 pairs of Italian shoes advertised, so we need to get to Akron no later than eleven.

So on that note, I’m outta here. Happy Father’s Day everyone!

Blessing the Booksellers

Woke up this morning and the very first thought I had was what it would be like if there were no bookstores anywhere. I know exactly what triggered it – just before I went to bed last night I pulled out some old copies of Biblio magazine from 1997, the year we began Garrison House Books, and took one of them upstairs with me. For some reason they emitted a gravitational pull back to the days when internet selling seemed radical and the Kindle wasn’t yet a glimmer in Jeff Bezos’ eye. Back then I thought – no, I KNEW -- I would do this glorious thing for the rest of my life. I had an internet friend from Florida who was 82 years old and had launched her business about a month before I launched mine. She went to the sales with a little fold-up cart, listed her books, and had more fun than probably should be legal.

“Sign me up for that and I’d die happy,” I told Eric. It never occurred to me that not twenty years later books, my solace and faithful companions since childhood, would spin like a top around the eye of a tornado.

I thought of that last night when I stumbled on an article about Baldwin’s Book Barn located in the Brandywine Valley of Pennsylvania. I remember seeing their listings from my earliest days on Advanced Book Exchange and I frequently see them still. I’m sure I read the article 14 years ago, but probably not as avidly and emotionally as I did this time. Rarely am I without words, but as I write this they come slowly, so slowly, as though they, too, are in danger of extinction. Baldwin’s started in 1934 in the basement of a real estate office with a small collection of history titles, a pile of postage stamps, and a gravitational pull all its own. Gradually it grew until 1948 when the present stone barn opened its doors to book lovers seeking treasure, a good read, pleasant hours, literary conversation, and balm for the soul. Today ownership has transferred to the second generation.

“…. And for all the booksellers of the world.”

A stray line – something about God, blessings, and booksellers sprang to mind as tears sprang to my eyes. It teased and bedeviled me, that line, but the harder I tried to retrieve it the more obstinately it refused to name itself. It seemed important that I remember it though, so I climbed out of bed, went to my office and took from the shelf a tired old copy of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations that I got as some sort of reward from the Book of the Month Club the year I was married. Fortunately, there was only one listing with the key word booksellers.

“For I bless God in the libraries of the learned and for all the booksellers in the world.” Christopher Smart (1722-1771) Jubilate Agno.

I have no idea where I ever heard those words in the first place, though they ring with similarity to the Jubilate of The Book of Common Prayer,  but I know one thing for sure. I needed them in the dark. And I need them still in the light, if only to assauge the fear I press hard between the pages -- out of sight and out of mind. Until …

P.S. I just saw on the internet that Baldwin's Book Barn is for sale.

Playing with Paper

It’s a beautiful day, one of the few we’ve had since spring sprung, and I am about to do something radical -- I am not going to work today. See? I told you it was radical. But I worked feverishly both Friday and Saturday and uploaded a lot of new stuff this morning – for all the good any of it did. May’s robust sales have been replaced by June’s doldrums. The way this weather’s been if you don’t enjoy it when it’s good it might be a long and stormy while before you get another chance. So for today -- this gorgeous, sunny, not too hot and not too cold day -- I quit.

My youngest daughter Caitie – the one’s who’s moving to D.C. – stayed overnight last night, then hit the road about noon for RockVILLE, Maryland (I keep calling it Rockwell) where she will be living. Her boyfriend had to be at work June 3rd, so he left last week, but she stayed behind to tidy things up in Sylvania, which meant I got an extra chance to see her. Eric’s in Indiana so it was strictly a girls’ night in. I made chicken caccitorre with spaghetti and spinach salad and we talked, watched a movie, and hung out with Max the boxer and Leo the Himalyan cat, both of whom you’ve met previously. This morning I got up at my usual five a.m., but let her sleep until the animals hauled her out at eleven. Once I wrapped my few orders the tubs of collage stuff starting calling me like Jeanette MacDonald calling the Mounties. So I went upstairs, made a pot of coffee, toasted a bagel, and sat down on the basement floor and didn’t get up again until I’d touched every piece of paper in all three Rubbermaid tubs. Yeah, I’m feeling kind of arty today.

As you know, I have the famous purple office chair, a new rug, and the glorious black desk Eric got me for my birthday all waiting in the wings to transform my office into a model of efficiency and beauty and me into a neater and more elegant bookseller. A week ago yesterday we bought black paint to paint the cabinets and light gray paint for the walls and when Eric gets home (Thursday) we are going to begin the great transformation. I already bought a new wall clock to go with the new décor, but it looks like none of the current art is going to work. So I have decided to take a giant leap and make something to fill the biggest space. In the past I have always worked on boxes where everything is three-dimensional. The only flat thing I ever did was the card I made for the gift basket that served as a door prize at the Akron antiquarian book fair in April and that was SMALL. I’m talking big here, as in maybe 20”x20” give or take a few inches. Nothing like going for broke, huh?

But I’m excited because I actually have a concept in mind and had a glorious time picking out scraps and sorting them into four color piles – black, white, grey, and purple. Trouble is, I don’t think I have anywhere close to enough scraps which means I need to look again. When I’m making a box I sort of sense when the paper supply hits the right amount, but I haven’t a clue about this so I think I’d better get back down there this evening after Antiques Roadshow and give it another go.

But meanwhile there’s most of an afternoon to kill and since I have leftovers from last night I can do anything I want until I go to bed! So first, I’m going to go out on the porch and finish the last chapter of Reading My Father, Alexandra Styron’s memoir of her brilliant but seriously disturbed father, William Styron, who is perhaps best known for the unforgettable novel Sophie’s Choice. Then I think I will sashay up to the square on foot, get some new books at the library, and visit with my librarian buddy, Liz Nelson. Do I know how to have a good time, or what? In a nerdy, booky-girl sort of way I’m  practically a party animal!

Anyway, I just wanted to check in and let you know that that’s the plan. Meanwhile you can look at my piles of paper and try to imagine what they might turn into.

Getting Tully

“It was a dark and stormy morning …” which meant the light was terrible for taking photos of books. Yes, I could have listed other books and, yes, I could have tweaked the article for the upcoming NOBS (Northern Ohio Bibliophilic Society) newsletter which I owe the editor as we speak, but neither task called my name. Instead I took to Eric’s birthday Recliner-That-Doesn’t-Look-Like-A-Recliner and finished the biography of author Jim Tully I started last month. Between auctions, sales, that cold and larynigitis thing I had going on, and the fact that the book is too beautiful for my slipshod reading habits, I had to tackle it in dribs and drabs. A few pages over coffee at breakfast (carefully), some more at night sitting bolt upright so I wouldn’t doze off and drop it, and then today – finally! – a sustained push to the surprising and even shocking ending.

I promised myself I was not going to write a blog about this because I didn’t want it to be a shameless advertisement for my friend and fellow bookseller, Paul Bauer’s, biography, written with Mark Dawidziak who used to write for the Akron Beacon Journal and is now at the Cleveland Plain Dealer. I intended to stick to that too – that is, until today when the grey matter in my brain suddenly lit up like Vegas and I GOT it. For almost twenty years Bauer and Dawidziak researched an unschooled Irish-American writer from St. Mary’s, Ohio who had more lives than a cat. They even trekked out to California where they pored over the Tully papers at UCLA and sought out anyone who still remembered him even though he died in 1947.

If Jim Tully is not a household name to you, join the crowd. But the thing is, back in the day he was a popular wordsmith, penning any number of novels based on his life experiences – Shanty Irish, Circus Parade, Beggars of Life, Ladies in the Parlor, and The Bruiser, to name a few. Tully wrote in a dark gritty style that shocked his readers who had not as yet been exposed so rudely to life's underbelly. But all that happened only after he got his first break -- a job writing for Charlie Chaplin in California. The journey to literary fame and fortune began way before Chaplin when as a teenager he jumped off a train in Kent, Ohio and did his time making chain in a factory, reporting for the local newspaper, and even working as a tree surgeon for Davey Tree while he scribbled stories and dreamed of cobbling together a literary career.

Jim Tully grew up dirt poor, wound up in a hell-hole of a Catholic orphanage in Cincinnati when his  mother died and a few years later got hired out to a farmer and spent a winter lining his clothes with newspaper because he had no coat to work outdoors in such terrible cold. It's little wonder that he jumped the rails and took up the hobo life. The circus and the boxing ring came next, but I’m not going to get into all the details of his life because the book reads like a novel and I don’t want to spoil the plot. Tully was short in stature (shorter than me by half an inch at 5’1”) with a mop of curly red hair and a tough guy attitude. But the man could write and his sister knew it well before he did. Maybe it's my own Irish dysfunction or some  residual Catholic conflict seeking resolution in Tully's story, but this morning I  truly understood why Bauer and Dawidziak did this incredible thing –devoting nineteen years to a guy few people know, a guy who held  them firmly by the collar even as he moldered at Forest Lawn. Once you meet Jim Tully though I promise you will not forget him.

The authors compare him to Hemingway with one important difference – Hemingway wrote tough guy stories in an idealized way about how men should be in the world, whereas Tully wrote tough guy stories about the way men actually ARE in the world, which, the authors posit, is why one writer met immortality and the other seeks resurrection. Paul mentioned to me that in all his years as a bookseller he had never met a woman interested in Hemingway. I told him I’m not interested in Hemingway’s writing either, but I am most definitely interested in Hemingway himself, both as a person and a writer. I bet I have twenty books in my personal library about him and many more about those who surrounded him – Scott and Zelda, the Murphys, Sylvia Beach, Dos Possos, Ezra Pound, Martha Gelhorn, Gertrude Stein, Alice B.Toklas, Maxwell Perkins etc. While I have found glimmers of vulnerability and even softeness in Hemingway, to me Tully remained always the freckle-faced little boy packed off to the orphanage at the tender age of six, too innocent to realize he’d been sold down the river by the parish priest and his ne’er-do-well father. Imagine doing such a vile injustice to a little boy whose heart was broken over the loss of his mother, Biddy. I'll bet if it were in her power to do it Biddy would have flown out of the grave like a wild woman and knocked their two heads together like a pair of cymbals.

Anyway, it’s a great story even though I doubt I’ll read any of Tully’s books which have been reprinted by Kent State University Press in tandem with the biography which they also published. It’s not that the authors weren’t selling the product. They were, and with great conviction too, because it’s through the books that they made Tully’s acquaintance in the first place. But, as with Hemingway, my interest lies in the complexities of  Jim Tully both as a person and a writer. Imagine the leap of faith it took to entertain the notion that you could write when you have no real education to speak of and have to scrabble like a chicken in the dirt every single day for your very existence.

It’s far more faith than I ever had.  And I certainly do admire it.

Deep, Deep Pockets

I hate to tell you another auction story so soon, but the auction I spent six hours at yesterday is worth the ink. Rarely do you find one of such high caliber around here, but be forewarned -- treasure canters in on the back of a horse named Harsh Reality. Bottom line -- the average book dealer cannot play with the big boys. And, yes, they were once again all men. Well to be fair, you CAN play, but you will not be bearing off the stuff that takes your breath away. What you will do is spend an obscene amount of money on second-tier items, have heart palpitations while you’re waiting to check out and then carry to your car one fairly heavy box, made so only by the outsized (beautiful condition) set pictured above. Oh, and you will also pay a ten per cent buyers’ premium on the total.

The auction consisted of one single collection so large and fine it brought dealers and collectors from Michigan, Connecticut, and who-knows-where. While I was palpitating in the check-out line the guy in front of me dashed off a check for $13,000 and he wasn’t even the biggest player. Just to show you what I’m talking about two of the auctioneers wield the gavel at Wes Cowen’s (Antiques Roadshow) auction house in Cincinnati. Another guy, also connected to Cowen’s, explained the items and why they merited serious consideration. When such a person even exists, and especially, when he is wearing a sports jacket to do the honors, be afraid. Be very afraid.

Here are a few examples of items and their realized prices:

Signed typewritten letter by Humphrey Bogart -- $800

Photograph of a dirigible by Margaret Bourke White in the original frame fashioned from metal salvaged from the dirigible -- $2600

Document on vellum signed by Andrew Jackson -- $900

Two handbills, one advertising a play starring John Wilkes Booth and the other a play featuring his brother who was also an actor -- $900 for the pair

I could go on, but I think you get the picture. For much of the auction I jotted down notes in a state of stupefaction, but did enter the foray three times. I lost once on a box stuffed with stereopticon views each featuring President McKinley, including his funeral following the assassination. The other two times I won, including the two volume set above which I got only because the crowd fixated on the political stuff and didn’t care much for the Civil War or for esoteric books, which is also why Eric got a huge drop-dead gorgeous old print of General McClelland in full regalia on horseback in its original and very handsome frame for the store. And also why I won Observations Topographical, Moral and Physiological Made in a Journey Through Part of the Low-Countries, Germany, Italy, and France; With A Catalogue of the Plants not Native of England, Found Spontaneously Growing in Those Parts, and Their Virtues by John Ray, Fellow of the Royal Society,  published in 1673. (Photos below). All I can say is it’s not the most I ever spent for a single book, but close enough to curl my hair.

After that I shut up and watched until the very end when the promised bargains finally hit the table. In many cases the gavel came down on true deals, but we’d already dropped a bundle, so I set my sites on one box only. This should have been a piece of cake, but wasn’t because they paired it with a box of very common McKinley books. The auction was in Canton, home of McKinley, and down there they’re nuts about all things McKinley, so it drove the price into three-figure land and I didn’t even WANT the damn McKinleys! But the main box held a truly rare Ohio volume and a lot of other good Ohio stuff, as well as a nice book on the Lincoln Memorial from 1927, so I forged on against my better judgment. It could have been a bit squeaky for comfort -- yes, there was buyer's remorse all the way home -- but in the end it actually turned out okay, due to the fact that the book gods felt sorry for us peons and granted  a Hail Mary in the form of a surprisingly good Ohio mining book that I hadn't seen hidden in the bottom of the last box.

The auction resumes today and there are still more books that had been held back. Books I would love to have. And a signed Medina County Jacquard coverlet Eric would love to have. But are we going?

No, we are not.

Choose WHAAAAAAAT?

Late again! I know it, but after being off for the holiday work demanded my attention yesterday. Finally all weekend orders have shipped, new books have been uploaded, and I am feeling sane and righteous once more. The holiday turned out to be busy to the max – never really sat down ‘til I went to bed any of the days. Sadly, while the weather cooperated for the mural, the driveway remained the color of concrete. First of all, the house somehow acquired a revolving door with people coming and going and some even coming back again. Secondly, little Curly Head, my almost-two year-old grandson, has become a force of nature. His house is totally baby-proofed to the point where he can safely travel anywhere on the first floor. But our house lacks the modern open floor plan his does, so each room is a cornucopia spilling out goodies like a bountiful harvest. He loved them all, but the best was his latest discovery – the outlets for the central vacuum system which come equipped with little doors that snap shut with a sound so satisfying it would practically be criminal not to give them a go -- at least forty or fifty times. I think you can see why art, much as I love it, didn't even make the short list.

Anyway, an interesting thing happened Monday. I got a call from a rep at Choosebooks responding to the non-answer to an email question I had previously received from another rep. As many of you know, Choosebooks, a primarily European site, has been snapped up by ABEbooks. One would think that since ABE designed the ideal system for dealing with bookseller requests for additional shipping this system would migrate over to the Choosebooks site. Well, one would be wrong. The new system there allows you to set a shipping charge for both first class and priority. What it does not do is take into account heavy books and sets, thereby creating a classic Catch 22. If you set the price too high to accommodate the high end your sales will resemble the Dow Jones in free fall. But if you don’t do this your postal losses will start rivaling the national debt. Oh, you can ask for extra postage, but here’s the kicker – it can’t exceed five per cent of the stated cost. Yeah, like that helps.

So this very nice rep calls blissfully unaware of the American holiday and I’m so glad to talk to her I wouldn’t care it were Christmas. Just an hour before I had reluctantly (with much mumbling and more than a little swearing) accepted a heavy, oversized order to Germany for a $175 book for which I received $16.00 to ship in the required priority box which, as you know, costs over $40.00. I considered rejecting it, but didn’t because the buyer was a repeat customer. I tell this tale of woe to the rep and – lo and behold -- it turns out she’s actually from ABE and immediately sees the inanity of it. But, she informs me, ABE did not design this system – ZVAB did. And who is ZVAB? The short answer is it’s the German  counterpart to Choosebooks. She then tells me that in the future I may ask for the additional postage and privately invoice it through paypal, provided that the customer has a paypal account. Ideal? No. But I could live with it if only I could remember whether the customer’s email address was visible before I agreed to ship. Anyway, I tell you all this in hopes it will be of help. Soaring postal rates, falling prices and the increased cost of acquisition demand that we keep an eagle eye on the bottom line.

Well, well, as I was writing this yet another missive arrived from Choosebooks. Their new rates are as follows:

A further change concerns the price model of Choosebooks.com. With the return to our core competence we will change the fees for all second-hand booksellers with price model "S". To align our price models across all countries, the following price model will go into effect from 1 July, 2011:


Basic fee: $25 USD


Listing fee: $5 USD per 1000 titles or part thereof


Sales commission: 9%


An example calculationwith 9,500 listed titles, you would pay in July:


$25 USD + ($5 * $9 USD) + 9% depending upon sales volume. The minimum commission of $0.40 USD and maximum commission of $30 USD remains.

All of which makes my above comments moot points. I am SO not choosing Choosebooks.

But enough of that. I wasted too much time on it as it is. Here's something with much more razzle-dazzle. I found it on twitter this morning and it's so cool I wish I could snap my fingers, say “Beam me up, Scotty,” and suddenly be in Iowa City. Check this out – it will make your day. All the king’s Kindles and all the queen’s Nooks could never come close to approximating it.

http://blog.seattlepi.com/bookpatrol/2011/05/26/book-art-on-parade-in-iowa-city/

View From the Kitchen Sink

Don’t expect a whole lot here today – just rambles about this and that. It’s dark and rainy and the view from the kitchen sink (it's glare -- don't get too excited) would make you want to crawl back into bed and forget the whole thing. But this IS Memorial Day weekend so we’re partying over here even though it’s unlikely that my very fun idea is going to take place. (More on that later). The important thing is that even though I’m serving dinner and breakfast to eight people and another dinner to ten people, need desperately to grocery shop, and my house looks like a gale force wind blew in, I’m listing books and talking to you. Not to worry though – I’m a whirlwind under pressure.

But here’s the thing – this party is bittersweet and the rain is not helping matters. My youngest daughter Caitie and her boyfriend are moving to Maryland in less than a week. He works for the government and landed the Big Job in D.C., the one you can’t turn down if you want to climb the aluminum ladder to – whatever. I know it’s selfish, petty, and unbecoming, but I don’t want them to go. These two are  like a portable party. Usher them in and let the games begin. I know, I know -- we can go there to visit and we will, though I am not a traveler of the first order, or the second or third order either for that matter. But let’s not get into THAT. Things are bad enough.

Actually, I’m trying to be hopeful and upbeat over here, so I’m going to stop at Target when I’m out getting groceries on the quarter-chance that the precipitation ends and the sun comes out and I can spring my great fun idea after all. I saw an ad on TV for sidewalk chalk that glows in the dark. So I thought I’d get a bunch of it and take it out of the package so our seven year old grandson who could out-read Marian the Librarian doesn’t know this secret feature. Then we will ALL – big kids, little kids, and old kids – divide up the driveway and make a huge mural. Then when it gets dark we’ll take the kids outside and – voila! I know you think the adults won’t like this, but they will. If something pleases those two little boys every single one of us would have a blast doing it. Really.

In the meantime I’m busy listing books because for some crazy reason sales are popping like kernels of corn on ABE. I mentioned it to a bookseller friend who only sells on amazon (better known here as the Evil Empire) and she says the same thing is happening there. What’s quirky about it is that Auctionbytes just reported that amazon sold more e-books in April than hard cover and soft cover combined. But as the old saying goes, you’re better off not trying to figure it out and just make hay while the sun shines, or sell books in the rain – whichever works best. So here’s a sampling of what I added. The reason I’m showing you a page of Ohio Lands and Their Subdivisions from 1918 instead of the cover is because it’s a plain Jane and I want you to be a little dazzled.

Anyway, I told you this wasn’t going to be much, but I didn’t want to take another four-day hiatus from the blog. So have a happy holiday – go to the parade, grill hot dogs, and take a couple days off bookselling to enjoy your family and friends. I’m going to  -- with or without the mural.

P.S. In answer to the two questions already asked, I don't know why all the icons of my followers have disappeared, but I miss them very much and wish blogger would get over what ails it and the black thing on the windowsill is actually two of the felt pads that go on the bottom of the chair legs so as not to scratch the hardwood floor in the dining room. You guys are a riot!

Hiking the Acquisition Trail

If I were a cartoon character I’d be drawn with so many curved lines around me I’d whirl right off the page. It’s amazing to me that four whole days have gone by in what seems like a blur of perpetual motion. It all began Friday with an auction devoted solely to paper and books with the emphasis heavily on paper. It was rather far from home, but was such a rarity that I would have dug out my hiking boots and walked if needed. To say there was a lot of stuff would be like saying the United States has a lot of people. Boxes, flats, tubs, piles, mounds, and heaps of vintage magazines, brochures, maps, books and prints kept the small, but rabid, crowd bidding for seven hours straight! We got home at eleven p.m. with the Cruiser’s back bumper nearly scraping the road from the weight of the goodies.

At first the prices were scary – think big hairy wood spider scary -- but as the day wore on and the crowd thinned the buying kept getting better. By the time I bought the last big box of books it was so good I didn’t even care that my shoes were twice their size in mud. I got the box for $22 and have already sold a rare Ohio volume, Tales From Yellow Creek, on Advanced Book Exchange for enough to get a nice chunk of money back. The guys – and it was ALL guys because paper seems to be a man’s game – didn’t groove on books too much. They saved their energy and a LOT of their cash for magazines. One guy spent almost $300 on a flat of smallish old magazines called Life. I’d never seen them before, but I know for a fact that they are not an earlier incarnation of the big Life magazine. Maybe he knew something I don’t, but I’m still glad I didn’t jump in on that one. Instead I waited for the Delineator, early McCalls from 1914, Godey's Lady Book from 1879 and stuff I can’t even remember.

The fact that I don’t know what else I got tells you how crazy it’s been since I last talked to you. Usually I’m rooting around in the boxes like a kid who can’t wait for Christmas. But we had to be at the Case Western Reserve University sale Saturday morning no later than seven a.m., so we grabbed a quick something that approximated dinner and went straight to bed. The Case sale used to be my favorite, but anymore it’s smaller, pricier, and lacking in the high-end treasure that gave it a singular rarified cachet. Nonetheless we sallied forth hopefully and got there at seven for a ten a.m opening. But here’s the shocker – people used to spend the night camping in the parking lot. People came from distant states. The line used to wend its way down the side of the building and double back on itself even with the price of admission at $20 a person just to walk in the door. Not this year it didn’t! We were fifteenth in line and it never got appreciably bigger.

In the past scanners were minimal because of the fee. But this year very few of the old-timers showed up making scanners the majority. I didn’t even mind though because there weren’t enough of them to invade the delightful atmosphere of peace, leisure and fun.Though I was greatly disappointed in the antiquarian section, I did buy a few lesser books for old time’s sake just because I liked them and my favorite volunteers (who know me by name because I haunt their section) love the same stuff I do. We all get so excited you’d think we were a pack of 49’ers headed to the Klondike gold fields. I only bought one middling priced book there at $40 though and one other book in the art department for $50. Everything else was in the $10-30 range for a total of only $300, less by two thirds from the good old days.

But after Case there was no more putting life on hold for books -- time to switch gears. Did you hear that eardrum- popping screech emanating from Medina around noon? If not, you must have been in the shower because we’re talking an abrupt one-eighty here. I hosted a wedding shower for a friend’s daughter last night and didn’t start doing any of the preparations until Saturday afternoon. No menu, no groceries, no favors, no games, no centerpiece, no sharpened pencils, no anything. So Saturday and Sunday the pedal met the metal big-time. Don’t ask how it came together. I don’t want to think about it except to say that it did and 25 people had dinner and dessert, the bride glowed in bridely bliss, high hilarity ensued, and a good time was had by all. Picture below of the centerpiece.

So then -- back to the books. Case had a half price sale on Monday which I had pretty much decided to skip until I looked over what I got Saturday night and realized that I had done better than I thought. So off we sped to Cleveland again late Monday morning hoping to snatch up some bargains. We did, but the tables looked like Pompeii after the quake which could be why only two people waited in “line” when we showed up five minutes before starting time. The best buys were in science and technology, but I did scavenge a humdinger in art and a good set in music, so I was happy. Went home, put the finishing touches on the wedding shower, changed into my party clothes, and was good to go.

And that, folks, is what I did on my four-day “vacation” from the blog.

A Cold Wind Blows

I woke late this morning – the day already broken and the standard-issue sky still hanging gray and desolate above. Fog rose from the lake in a murky blur and even the ducks sat in a posture of misery in their puddles of water scattered about the low spots in the greenspace behind the house. The landscape out the back door mirrored my interior scape with uncanny perfection. No blooming azaleas today, no lilacs in bud, no iris waving in lavender glory. Yesterday, a day which began with such optimism and joy, was changed dramatically by a single email from a bookseller friend.

As soon as I recovered from the shock of it (I have yet to recover from the sadness) the first thing I thought of was my last blog post. The final line was a quote from that old Bob Dylan song The Times They Are A-Changin' which I had used to convey a sense of hopefulness in a time of massive change and uncertainty in the book industry. This morning I googled the lyrics, some of which I had forgotten, and was struck by the fact that my choice of song turned out to be more prophetic, or at least cautionary, than I’d ever meant it to be.

The news I got yesterday is not unique and that of course is the tragedy of it. My friend is a long time bookseller who has been in the used, rare, and antiquarian game for decades. He’s smart, knowledgeable, experienced, and savvy, but none of that was enough to keep him in business full-time. He’s looking for a day job, he told me, not because he prefers it, but because he must. Acquisition has become an almost insurmountable hurdle, the number of booksellers has grown exponentially, postal rates soar sharply cutting into international sales, and spiking gas prices compromise travel to distant sites. He hopes to remain a part-time seller, which at least is heartening, but not nearly enough. The book world lost something important yesterday and I am not only sad, but mad as hell about it.

Of course I can blame technology for this travesty, but I don’t cast nearly as much blame on technology as I do on the hordes of wannabe booksellers, most of whom don’t read and don’t care a whit about books. But even them I blame less than I do Amazon, the leading force in encouraging anyone with a cell phone to take up bookselling. The wannabe booksellers just answered the call – I doubt most of them have a clue that they are part of a larger problem -- as am I.

I’ve been a player only fourteen years, entering bookselling just a year or so after Advanced Book Exchange provided an online showcase. Amazon as it is today was just a gleam in Bezos’ eye back then. There was no Marketplace, not even z-shops yet, which meant an employee (the dulcet-toned Tiffany) phoned every day at noon to place orders with us. Back then Amazon paid full price for the books, including actual shipping charges, and shifted the cost to the customer without so much as a whimper. But now….. well, we all know about now and Amazon’s role in how things turned out. I don’t want to talk about amazon though – not as a bookseller and not as a writer. My regard, or lack thereof, for them on both fronts warrants not another peep.

What haunts me today is the realization that I inadvertently led to my friend’s problem. By internet standards I’ve been at this an eon, but by bookselling standards I remain a wannabe myself. Yes, I’ve evolved , and thank God for it, because the truth is I entered this business only slightly less opportunistic than those I rail against. Back then I was a full-time writer who decided to sell what I love as a source of additional income. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to fall in love with it to the point where my identity as a writer would take a back seat to my identity as a bookseller. I did have a vague sense of trespassing though. I remember very well standing in line at book sales behind my friend, whom I didn’t know yet, wondering whether he resented my presence. If he didn’t he probably should have because I was part of the first wave of techno-sellers who would end up changing the face of bookselling forever.

If there’s any redemption for me at all in this it can be found in the work and the study. These at least I have done. I paid my dues and will continue paying them for as long as the book gods allow. I’m just sorry that my  presence compromised a seller who should have been able to continue his profession until he was ready to quit. I won’t live long enough to put in the years he has, or acquire the expertise. I may very well be displaced myself by a vanishing market, or yet another wave of retailers.

But for now at least I stand -- cognizant of the cost.

Something In the Water

Okay, so who spiked the water? I know someone had to have done it because this was a weekend like no other in a very long time. In our absence buyers suddenly unleashed a pent-up desire not only for our books, but for our expensive books. We sold Salvador Dali’s gorgeous golden cookbook that I featured last month here, a pricey collector’s guide to baseball pinbacks, a signed deluxe limited edition book of nature paintings in a slipcase, signed copies of Mr. Bridge and Mrs.Bridge in a slipcase, a 1947 Esquire pin-up girl calendar with its original envelope, an antiquarian copy of the Poems of Cowper in leather, and a bunch of miscellaneous cheaper things. Even the antiques mall popped on Sunday, so clearly the water was enhanced with bookish molecules over there too. Now, if I can only remember this when I’m whining in mid-summer that no one will buy anything good ever again (and I WILL be whining – we all know this) life will be vastly improved for anyone who has to, or chooses to, listen to me.

But of course the big thing I want to talk about today is Bookstock ’11 in Livonia, Michigan where we spent most of yesterday morning. As you know from my latest whine, I was not looking forward to it based on the mania experienced last year. To be honest, this year didn’t get off to a rousing start even though it ended up so good we took the kids out to breakfast to celebrate. We got there an hour early and were pleasantly surprised to see only about 15 plastic-covered boxes in a row by the door. Rain pelted steadily so everyone stayed in their cars, but as soon as the foyer door of the mall opened a fairly big crowd dashed madly inside which of course changed the entire configuration of the boxes. But it’s a mall. It’s big. So who cares? Apparently no one. Had that happened in Cleveland the red phone in the White House would have been ringing off the hook. The only complaint I had, and it did annoy me greatly at the time, was the stampede thing. This you had to see to believe.

By the time the sale opened there were about 150 people in line, all of whom, except for me and Eric I think, sprinted down the mall like a herd of deer running from buckshot. Over the camera cords in use by the two news stations filming the event they leapt like ballerinas. Never mind age, imparity, and dignity. Adrenalin fueled them, passion inspired them, and  onward they sped like Chariots of Fire. I could have run right along with them – no problem there – I might have even left ‘em in the dust. But I’m here to tell you that this is one thing I absolutely, positively WILL NOT do. I walked rapidly, though I didn’t even power walk, and landed where I needed to be (a very far place) in decent time. This place consisted of maybe eight eight foot tables loaded with higher priced books. Could it be that less buyers fought over the spoils? Yes, it could! Not  only was it possible to easily get to the tables and move down them unencumbered, but there were no scanners. Zip. Zero. Zilch. I know for a fact that last year they abounded because the news people zeroed in on them in the mistaken assumption that they were the only dealers.

While I liked the situation much better this year, there was a  a downside to it too because the people we competed against were hard core, long-time, serious book people. I know it because of what they chose and because they talked amongst themselves about exhibiting at the upcoming Ann Arbor Book Fair. But that’s fine -- I more than feel up to the task of working in their company. That is, I feel up to it in regard to spotting the good stuff. I quickly learned, however, that I was NOT up to it when it came to aggression. Twice in rapid succession I lost books I wanted because I was too polite to either take them off the volunteers’ cart, or tap the spine of the desired title from the stack in his arms to get it before it hit the table. In both instances I waited for the books to be put down, despite the fact that somewhere deep in the recesses of this blog is a post about this this very problem of mine. Here’s the thing though. I can’t even moan about rudeness because they weren’t rude. In fact, in both instances the dealers were so understated that most people probably never even saw it happen. Eric suffers from the same terminal courtesy I do, so when I saw him trump the second dealer who got “my” book and claim Spurling and Lubbock’s fabulous three volume slipcased set, Sail, I was stunned speechless.

And THAT, dear readers, was the game changer. From that point forward we sailed up and down the tables, masts billowing with confidence. All told, we bought fifteen books and one set for a total of $300. As we retraced our many steps to the front entrance our major question could have been sung to the tune of Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

The answer? In the cheap books section. And not as many of them as you would think either. So what does it mean? I don't know and I'm not going to hazard a guess just yet, but it could be that "the times they are a'changin'."

A Little Cheese Please!

(NOTE: This post was added Thursday, but shortly disappeared due to technical difficulties with Blogger. Since it has not shown up again I am reposting in hopes that it will stick this time.)

Surprise! Here I am again, partly out of guilt for being so remiss and partly because I will be gone all weekend to Michigan where we will see our kids and our Infinitely More Adorable Than Normal little boys, as well as attend Bookstock ’11 in Livonia. The latter is a gigantic week long book sale held in a shopping mall that sounds like great fun, but is actually not. The preview begins early Sunday morning and from what I hear the campers arrive by four. It’s only about a half hour from our daughter’s house, but there is no way we are going to show up that early. As it is, we will have to creep out of the house like a pair of mice to keep the little guys from waking up. Tyler has built-in Grandar – the second I move a muscle he catapults out of bed faster than Jonathan Horton off the balance beam.

Last year this sale was held in April, but it was just a week after baby Dylan arrived from Korea, so we ended up bringing our daughter and both little people along. We got there about fifteen minutes after it started and the scanners were already blazing like six-guns. We really didn’t get much – the only thing I can remember being in love with was a gorgeous set of art prints on laid paper published by a NYC gallery. The only reason I got it is because it lacked an ISBN. There seemed to be very few older books and specialty items like that in Livonia, sad to say.

Anyway, today I’m rather cranky and forlorn. Last night I went to a NOBS meeting and the talk centered on the Cleveland book fair to be held in the fall. Oh, it sounds so wonderful – piano music, a buffet, a lovely setting, and lots more dealers than in Akron. AND WE CAN’T GO! Eric will be at a show in North Carolina that whole week. It may be for the best actually because unless I get some good stuff in here I could end up with less inventory than I have now, as I’ve been selling my best off the office floor since I got back from Akron. But it still left me feeling like the girl who doesn’t get to go the prom.

THEN, to add insult to injury, I have not attended a decent estate sale in so long I am begin to think I hallucinated all the ones from the past. And wouldn’t you know – it’s the perverse nature of things – this weekend there’s a Saturday sale that not only has old books, but even some antiquarian ones, as well as old magazines and ephemera in stacks and piles and heaps (I saw the pictures). But I won’t be here Saturday because we are leaving early for Michigan to go to Tyler’s soccer game at noon which I would not miss for all the paper in Ohio. Little boys are only little boys for a short while and as much as I want to go to this sale I won’t sell out my little guy who plays the game with all his heart and soul. Oh, and while I’m kvetching I might as well add that Sunday is the Medina flea market too, the source of much ephemera, including this catalog I got there last time. If you’re into furnaces, I’m telling you this one would have you in need of smelling salts.

But things are what they are, so I guess we will try to pull a rabbit out of the hat in Livonia. Every sale is different, so maybe getting there on time and knowing the lay-out will result in a better outcome this year. One can only hope. Meanwhile, I could use some cheese with this whine. A wheel of Montery jack with jalepenos oughtta do it.

Out of the Ball Park?

I have been so hit and miss lately with the blog, but this cold has knocked me for a loop. Monday I was supposed to go see a collection in a Cleveland suburb, but had to send Eric on his own, as I was actually dizzy – or should I say dizzier than usual? :-) The sinus pressure had shifted to my left ear and left me looking like the remnants of a frat party at four a.m.. But by yesterday the instability was gone, though the family room had acquired stacks of books that rivaled the ones that are STILL in Eric’s office. There was nothing to do but deal with them because the furniture store delivery people were due at noon with Eric’s birthday recliner-that-doesn’t- look -like-a-recliner. Most of the books are headed to the store with a fair portion to the antiques mall, but I did list maybe half a dozen online. The ones I didn’t get to are stashed in – yep, the office.

Actually, I wasn’t expecting too much out of this collection because I knew that a well-known dealer, who has since gone out of business, had looked at it some years ago and of course bought the best of it back then. Since most books aren’t exactly soaring like eagles these days there was no need to jump through flaming hoops to get there. So I settled in on the couch and read a novel, barely thinking about whether or not we’d end up with anything. I knew if the price were right Eric would buy them because that’s just the way he is, but quality is another matter altogether. So I was pleasantly surprised by the outcome.

As I’ve mentioned before, the antiques mall allows us to buy things we never would for our online venues. So it was fun to pull out goodies that would be sure-fire winners there. I just sold a small four volume leather set of Le Miserables at the mall Saturday and now have a handsome two volume set with highly decorated spines to replace it, as well as a gorgeous small leather set of  Kipling's The Jungle Book and The Second Jungle Book. There’s a lot of other stuff too, but you get the picture. So let’s skip to the good part, okay?

Late in the game, just as I was ready to drag the last of the unsorted boxes out of the room, I noticed something small nestled in at the side of one of them. Show me a small thing and I am compelled to look at it, so I wiggled it out from its resting place against the spines, took one look, and snapped to life faster than Lazarus. I had never seen it before, or even heard of it, but I knew with every fiber of my being that we had ourselves a good one. Quickly, I looked it up on bookfinder only to find two copies – one priced at $600 and one at $180. So which was right? No clue. I emailed a bookseller friend who specializes in baseball books and attached a couple photos. To my amazement he’d never seen it before, but thought I should price it at around $400. It seemed high to me though, so I googled it just to see if anything else came up and, sure enough, it did. An auction house had just reported selling it in March for $425.

Will it really sell for that online? Or is it pie in the sky? Who knows? I have a friend who bought an amazingly beautiful and scarce Haggadah at an estate sale last year and, despite lowering the price multiple times, still has it. I’m enough of a pragmatist to know that online prices are not always reflective of reality on either end of the spectrum. But past experience has also taught me that it’s better to err on the high side than the low when faced with an unknown. If you’ve dug back into my old posts you already know the story of the wildly rare and fabulous golf brochure that I mistakenly, stupidly sold for $25 a couple years ago.

Once you set a price you can always come down if someone makes an offer. But go up? Not so much.

The Mad Hatter's Book Party

I’m still pretty croaky, but at least I have a voice, so last night I decided to sally forth at the last minute to a book sale which goes on record as the strangest one to date. This was the preview, which of course means that the crowd should have been as thick as locusts, but was not. There were exactly three people there – me, Eric, and another guy who came in after we’d been perusing the offerings for at least  half an hour. The minute we walked in I felt like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole and landing smack in front of the Mad Hatter. He was very nice, this Mad Hatter, and probably is a genius, but his explanations of everything looped around and around the needle of comprehension like thread for a French knot. I apologize for the embroidery analogy, but every time he talked multi-colored strands of crewel embroidery wool went in and out, up and down, in my head. And every time he stopped I was left with a new psychedelic abstraction.

My favorite by far was the one about the membership. This one was shaped like a huge woolly pinwheel spinning dizzily in flashes of silver, orange, red and purple first clockwise, then without warning – zing! -- counterclockwise. Words cannot adequately describe it even though words created it. All I know is it had something to do with benefits, books nobody could see, an accordian book, a rare book of which he has three copies, 200 titles, validated parking, swarms of collectors, a neurosurgeon, Thor Heyerdahl, email notices, sellers making money, and eight thousand books. We bought said membership – that is, ERIC bought said membership – but God alone knows what it will actually provide. At least it should be interesting, if less than rewarding in any tangible way.

I know, I know – oh, she of little faith. But I’m telling you, you had to have been there. I'd swear on a stack of reference books that one of his colorful abstractions indicated that special volumes were priced so that dealers could make a profit -- or at least that’s what it seemed to be saying once I parted the complex curlicues and shed a beam of light on it. So imagine my shock when we trooped behind the Hatter into a small area where books were piled three-deep in low shelves and many-deep in boxes on top of the shelves. Very soon I found an antiquarian title about Venetian gardens that tempted me sorely, but at $200, I needed to find something I recognized in order to get a feel for his pricing structure. Everything in me screamed “Danger! Danger!” at deafening decibels, but I loved the book and wanted desperately for the price to be right.

It wasn’t long before I found several books to serve as benchmarks. WOWZA! Here was a very nice first edition Marguerite de Angeli’s Petite Suzanne from 1937 with its dustjacket. I’d sold one for $30 awhile back and figured, as I always do, that the price had dropped since then. And indeed it had – to $15 in like condition. His price? Forty dollars. And over there was a two volume annotated Sherlock Holmes in less than desirable condition ($75 his price, $25 internet price for a nicer set). And a copy of Johnny Gruelle, Creator of Raggedy Ann and Andy fine in first edition SIGNED by author, Patricia Hall ($40 his price, $30-35 internet price). When I say that the latter came as close to reality as I was able to find, believe it.

“Didn’t like any, huh?” he asked as we returned to the main room carrying nothing.

“Well, we liked some of them but …” How to put it delicately? I swallowed hard and squeaked, “Um, the thing is, there isn’t much room for profit there.” (Am I the queen of understatement, or what?)

“No, not back there!” he agreed cheerfully. In fact, this seemed to tickle him so much he actually chuckled. “The collectors come for those. They’re all over them!”

And where exactly would these collectors be tonight, I wondered. But all I said was, “I guess I was under the impression that there was a bit of a margin.”

Was he offended? Nope, not a whit. In fact, he was downright merry. The needle flashed, the yarn spun, and the colors swirled yet again. But this time he created a canvas upon which I  completely, totally, vividily understood one very important thing. Another dealer who belongs to NOBS and is respected in the bookselling community gives him grief about prices on an ongoing basis.

“Oh, she’s ruthless!” he said, grinning widely. “But I always tell her I can’t do it.”

Equal parts vindication and exhilaration bubbled up inside me at this news, but I said nothing, only nodded, which was fine by him, as he was happily slashing the prices of the two sleepers I’d found in the regular stacks and the eight Eric had found there for the store. While he was at it he tossed in the membership, validated the parking, and pronounced the final total $27. What a deal! And it didn’t even  count the free idea for this blog, or  the phantasmagoria -- which itself was pretty priceless.

The Silent Bookseller

Eric is back from Maryland, but together we’re not a whole person. The weekend was busy and social for me – much more so than usual. Five friends in four days and one of them twice! By late Saturday afternoon I had laryngitis – silent as a lamb -- though I still had dinner with my neighbor Linda Saturday night and walked five miles with Nancy in the drizzle on Sunday, whispering all the way. But Monday morning was crunch time. I got up convinced I would never be well again. Actually I’m still not and neither is Eric who has the same thing minus the laryngitis. We sound like a TB ward back in the 30’s over here.

There IS one thing that’s good about it all though – the forced silence. It wraps itself around me like a cocoon and I am strangely peaceful inside it. It’s like melting into a hot bath – complete surrender of body and soul. Most people would say that I am outgoing, talkative – VERY talkative – and I am, but only sometimes. Years ago an Episcopal priest friend asked me if I’d ever taken the Meyers-Brigg personality test. When I said I hadn’t he commented that even though he gave the test, in my case he didn’t need to do it in order know the outcome -- I’m an introvert masquerading as an extrovert. At the time I secretly thought he was crazy, but as the years go by I’ve come to the realization that he was dead-on right. I could easily wind up being one of those old ladies who hide in their houses and get dottier and dottier from lack of social interaction. I’d carry on fascinating conversations in my head, eat popcorn for dinner, read until my eyes crossed, and write endless novels that perhaps amuse only me. Maybe I’d even take up meditation, do a lot of messy art projects and not clean  up for maybe a week, and cook things from Julia Child’s cookbook just to see if it’s worth it.

The other weird thing about where I am at this moment is my complete lack of concern about my limitations as a bookseller. Right now I have orders that should have gone out yesterday, but didn’t. Normally that would be enough to launch me through the air like a torpedo and deposit me one short step from the men in the white coats. I also didn’t have a book that was ordered on ABE yesterday, but instead of emitting a cascade of anguished lamentations I clicked the previously sold button with less concern than I’d give a hangnail. Who IS this woman pretending to be me? She’s hanging out in my sweats and she looks like death warmed over, but other than that I think she’s a total fraud. If I had the energy I’d even look into it. But the thing is, I kinda like her. If Eric wasn't huddled in bed with a blanket over his head he’d like her too.

Maybe once she feels a little better I can ply her with pinot grigio and black licorice (probably not at the same time). Who knows? It might keep her around awhile.

More Musings on the Book Fair

Well, it looks like all that running around I did came with a price tag. Woke up Tuesday to a head cold, but by Thursday I was back to (sort of) normal. I wish I could tell you I accomplished a zillion things this week, but I’m afraid I did not. My activities since Monday are as follows: wrote the blog about the book fair; read Reading Jackie about Jackie Kennedy’s work as an editor; went to lunch with Cheryl; wrapped orders every day; cleaned my house, most especially the kitchen floor which after a weekend of rain and little people reappeared under layers of dirt, orange juice, and blackberry jelly; had my friend Mary Lynn from Dayton over for breakfast and a peak at the royal wedding this morning (did NOT love the dress, but the bride’s adorable); listed some books; read a backlog of newspapers; did all the New York Times crossword puzzles I missed; talked to Eric who is at a show in Maryland; and conducted a daily round or two of the Great Book Treasure Hunt.

The latter is a fun, if somewhat stressful, game that occurs when you fail to unpack in a prompt manner after a book fair. I believe I mentioned that books become exceedingly popular when they are in boxes. Well, the good/bad news is that they stay that way even after the sale is over if you don’t release them from captivity. This year we unboxed them because Eric needed the wooden boxes for the show he’s at now, but all we did was stack the books in a large block in his office. Last year I put them away immediately, but with the cold and the other stuff it never happened, hence all the frantic rummaging I've been doing all week.  \I did make a considerable dent in it this afternoon, so three quarters of the books are reshelved now, but some still await me as you can see from the above photo. On the bright side I did  sell a vintage Akron pottery catalog to someone from the book fair. He bought a catalog at the fair and I mentioned I had the pottery one and, sure enough, he inquired about it yesterday and we struck a deal this morning. How cool is THAT? Last year my after fair activity was confined to a large outlay of money when we bought a book collection from a fair-goer. This year only one person asked if we buy books and so far we haven't had a follow-up call from her.

The events of the week -- the cold especially --  gave me both time and perspective to think about the fair some more, so a few additional things occurred to me. Last year we benefited greatly from the ability to process credit cards. In several instances we made sales after the buyers had run out of cash and saw something they wanted. This year, however, we had exactly ONE credit card sale – the rest were cash and checks. I knew credit card usage was down, but Eric was the one checking people out so I had no idea that the number of cc transactions had fallen off that dramatically. Why this would be I don’t know – perhaps the economy and worries about incurring debt. The other thing that occurred to me is something Darwin told me a couple weeks ago about the Ann Arbor Antiques Show. He said that this year attendance soared, but the buyers were not really collectors. They knew nothing about antiques, asked astounding questions, paled at the prices, and ended up being more like museum goers. As mentioned previously, we saw that same phenomenon. Again, I’m not sure what this means in the big picture, but I hadn’t immediately made the correlation between antiques and books.

A third difference this year was dealer sales. Last year we sold only to consumers. This year we walked away from our booth before the sale started on the first day and returned to find a children’s book with a dealer’s business card in it on our check-out table. I also sold three journals to the guy set up next to us and a scientific ephemera item to a third dealer. There may have been more, but even if not, those three sales represented yet another surprising difference. What's interesting is that a long time dealer who was at the show, but not as an exhibitor,  remarked that he couldn't buy inventory at the fair anymore because there was no margin for profit. I agreed, as I used to try buying stock at this fair even before I was an exhibitor and succeeded only once in doing so. Clearly, my prices allowed dealers room for profit which struck me as interesting given how much price resistance we experienced this year.

But of course we’ve only exhibited twice, so it may be premature to make assumptions about any of it based on so little experience. Perhaps every year is its own year, each one arriving and departing with its own eccentricities. Perhaps the fact that I sold a lot of paper this year means no more or less than the fact that I sold a lot of paper this year. Maybe next year I will bring a bushel of it and haul a bushel home again. Last year my hot category was technical books. This year I didn’t sell a one.

Go figure.