Thoughts

Wednesday - I am contemplating a few odd stray thoughts. Like, for instance, did you ever pass an old, neglected house and see numerous windows missing their glass? These houses seem like caves, dark and somehow foreboding inside. There's that indefinable feeling that blends the "something's not right" uneasy feeling with the "how did this happen" what's inside there feeling. Sometimes, when I see an old building I just feel sadness or regret. So, why do certain ones creep me out? Certainly, driving along a single lane dirt road in the hollers of WV adds to the creep factor. But in the middle of town on a sunlit day, there is a certain house that screams "DON"T ENTER HERE! MURDERERS, RAPISTS, PIG SQUEALING PERVERTS ARE LURKING." It is right next to a quaint, and respectable house with a little pink bicycle on the porch and Yellow flowered curtains in the window.

And, why do certain old books make me want to hold them like priceless treasures, while others just need to be thrown out. Their weight is part of it, I think. A heavy, ornate book with rag paper pages, printed on letterpress and illustrated lavishly with beautiful, crisp wood engravings and bearing gilt designs on the cover is much preferred over a light weight, dried out brown, wood pulp paged volume that threatens to disintegrate if you actually turn a page. It's true that the one I prefer to hold is the Chemistry textbook from 1890 and the well bound but brittle book contains Thackeray's Vanity Fair.

And speaking of books, over and over I find books that are lost gems. I look at them and think, someone, somewhere would love this book. I mean really cherish it and read it and appreciate it. But will they ever even know it exists? I have this delightful Travelogue by Burton Holmes. He was a guy that simply traveled and took photos and movies - and then returned to the States with his beautiful works and went on tour. He performed six shows a week, sometimes in six different cities, in which he just talked about the people and places he had seen. In this particular volume from 1910, he was talking about Korea and Japan. The images are stunning and his stories so interesting. The book itself has beautifully designed pages. Somewhere out there, is a person who would appreciate his photography, stories and his subject. So many orphaned books!

Today

Sitting amongst the books is like spending an afternoon with your best friend. Here one takes you off to a distant land and entertains your child within and there you have sage advice given without prejudice or sarcasm. Laugh, cry, scream, nothing phases the books. There are particular volumes that are just plain irresistible to hold, their warm leather smooth in my hands and the pages of fine linen with crisp images are compelling. There’s a specific thump a nice heavy tomb makes when you snap it shut. Never underestimate the tactile experience of running your fingers lightly across a page of text printed on letterpress. Gilt edges on the pages and marbled end pages add to the visual orgy.

But that's not today.

Today I was at D's shop. Nobody. Nobody. Cheryl calls. Mindless talk and gnashing of teeth. Nobody. Nobody. More nobody. Karl shows up bearing the vileness that is McDonald’s. Nobody. I browse a lewd book called “Pissing in the Snow” by Vance Randolph. Then two women come in. One is young and blonde. She has glasses and a hasty ponytail. The other is older, maybe her mother. She has red hair and a purple thing on with a brown vest. She also has glasses and spends a great deal of time looking at the dishes. The young one looks at the books. First she looks at the vintage children’s books and then moves onto the religious books and the cookbooks. They convene in front of the religious books where they confer on the ridiculous titles. Like – ‘My Shining Jesus’ and ‘ Life without a guiding light’. Much whispering happens over by the classics along with a few yawns and head scratching. Finally the young woman buys a small bible and one of the classics, “Tale of Two Cities.” About this time I notice how dark it is getting outside. It is snowing steadily with alternating brief gusts of blizzard and tiny peeps of sun. Traffic is also fairly steady. Punctuating the gusts with slushy swishes and rumbling from the plow. It is 2:30 p.m. I am to be here until 5 p.m. but I really want to just go home. The radio is playing “She’s a lady”. Tom Jones can get on one’s nerves, Ya know? I’m sorry, I misspoke, ‘Uptown girl’ is much worse. Well, now the man with the big white dog has stopped to sit on the bench outside the window. This man never smiles and never acknowledges a nod of wave or salutation. Maybe he’s a deaf mute with limited vision. Maybe that’s really just an unruly seeing eye dog. Yes, and on top of that he’s spy. The whole thing is just a façade. In real life he’s a friendly kind of guy. Not on the job though. (Never on the job.) Big white malmute kind of dog is now barking viciously and pulling the man off the bench. With his arm barely in the socket he follows the beast, as he must. Of course, it’s all in the plan. The woman with the little ball of fur on the end of her leash is actually a terrorist, which the hell beast is trained to sniff out. (Residues of stuff left behind from making bombs) They have all gone now. There’s nobody. Oh, there he’s goes again. The beast is dragging him back the way they came. The phone is ringing – oh thank god.

Back at home. So what city is this. Which capitol dome is the back referring to? AND What is KL's great grandpa doing with that axe?

Miss Horse

I have been mindlessly entering data on the computer and sorting mountains of photos. I decide to take a break and look through my books so I can put them up on Alibris. I randomly picked , Since You Went Away by Margaret Buell Wilder. Part of listing a book is to leaf through it and check its condition, read a bit so I can describe it and . . . that's when I read this passage:

I . . . got on Miss Horse. She felt limber and hot under the saddle, not the way she feels on cold winter mornings with a hump in her back, but pliable, bending this way and that with your knees. The soft little wind suddenly became taut against my face and the sun brighter. It was like sailing, settling down in the saddle, letting her out in great bounds across the flat polo field. Then we found some jumps behind the club and she went at them, snatching at the bit a little and not changing her stride, but just pouring over, as if she'd been tipped out of a jug. It was so smooth and light I didn't even feel when she took off or when she landed; it was lovelier rhythm than even flying could be . . .

It is a novel of a woman's letters to her husband during WWII. Its rough going and finances are hard but she decides she can't give up her horse, her sanity and her daughters dream. Well, now I'm going to have to read it before I sell it.