Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: bistro (Page 68 of 105)

Fifty years later. That remembering thing.

If you haven’t been already, you’ll soon be buried in media reports regarding the anniversary of the Kennedy Assassination. I remember when the half-century retrospective reports had to do with WWII. Fifty years is one of those markers that everyone assumes merits a look back. We won’t have to direct our attention that way because the remembrance of the loss of the president will be found in every direction.

Half a century removed, we won’t be able to escape the rehashing of all the theories regarding the shooting in Dallas. I’d give you my own opinion, but I’ve already professed on this website the degree with which I assume the best – even in worst-case scenarios.

There are some factors involved – the presence of Dulles on the Warren Commission doing the official investigation, for example – but in the years since it seems hard to deny that the assassin, like the presidential killers before him, was under stress, suffering from emotional difficulties, and had a background that facilitated the possibility that such an event could transpire.

Like anything else, with enough wrangling it is possible to make a square peg fit into a round hole. The coordinates on any map can measure up to identify a lost treasure too – just ignore the signposts to make it work, then cuss when no one recognizes what you dig up as something valuable.

Of course, I’m no authority on the presidential assassination. I’m only expressing the opinion of someone who was camped in front of the television – pretty much from the moment we were dismissed from school until the body of John F. Kennedy was interred in Arlington National Cemetery. My dear mother told us to watch the news coverage. She said we’d later appreciate the fact that she made us pay attention.

My sisters and I pulled the cushions from the sofa and propped them up in a way that made the couch into a bus and our imaginations drove us up and down some imaginary streets. Even in our excursions we never escaped the eye of the television. That’s why we were there for the little salute, the caisson, the endless recapping, and the gunning down of Lee Oswald by Jack Ruby. Walter Cronkite in his element.

I lived it. Maybe that’s why I don’t really want to recount it.

It was controversial when Kennedy was elected, and I remember that too. There are just too many hard-wired recollections that seem to give me a jolt when they are brought back up. Not that I’d advocate just forgetting about the whole thing – I’m a history nut, for one thing. It’s just that I’m not certain what is gained by the rehash.

The thing is, I don’t even feel comfortable discussing my thoughts about the death of John Kennedy. I remember it vividly. I’ve seen so many discussions over the decades regarding this and that, who might have done this, who could have provoked that. It wears me out and makes me sad.

Those were different times, back then. Citizens respected the office of the president, even if they disagreed with his religion, upbringing, social standing, or age. Members of the opposing party were stricken by the death of their president, a sentiment that could never be aroused in this day and age, with limited exception.

I wonder if the theorists might be giving Lee Oswald too much credit when they propose he was a part of a bigger plan, an international conspiracy, a domestic plot, or a mob-based hit. The man had issues and unsure footing. He was unhinged and trained with weapons.

John Lennon died at the hands of a gunman as well. It is possible his murderer could have just have easily fixated on the president instead of a musical icon.

Perhaps in December of 2030, on the 50th anniversary of the notable death of that famous musician, the public will propose and the media will report the possible nefarious links that led to that tragic event.

You’ve got time. Write a book about it. We can feature it in the shop.

Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 South Main, Broken Arrow OK!

It’s a’ for the Hiney he’ll cherish the bee.

Of course, you recognize those memorable song lyrics, from My Tocher’s the Jewel, words from tha’ grreat Scotsman Rrrobbie Burrns, and sung to the tune of The Muckin’ o’ Geordie’s Byre. (Drawing a blank? Here are the first couple of lines, to refresh your memory: O meikle thinks my love o’ my beauty, And meikle thinks my love o’ my kin… (join in now) But little thinks my love I ken brawlie, My tocher’s the jewel has charms for him!

Whew. Brings a tear to my eye.

You know those songs that keep rolling around in your head – do you suppose they are ones that your grandkids might sing? Or… flip it around. Can you sing all the songs that might have popped into your grandfather’s head? Does music have a shelf-life? Or can a song expire?

Do some tunes wither up and disappear?

Part of the answer to that question is sitting on the desk in front of me. But just part. And, even that is limited, because none of my grandparents were living in Scotland when this book was published. Might have some Scots in the family tree somewhere back in history, hopping in their kilts and belting out “The Birks of Aberfeldie” at the top of their lungs.

That’s one of the jewels in “Lyric Gems of Scotland,” Price: Two Shillings & Sixpence Net, Arranged with Pianoforte Accompaniments, published by Bayley & Ferguson (pronounced Billy n’ Fairgissen), Glasgow.

There is no date in this old song book, but a British dealer who owns a copy estimates it was published about 115 years ago. And what ditties do you suppose the young larks were perpetrating back then?

How about: In a Wee Cot Hoose Far Across the Muir. (Could be: In a wee cottage house far across the moor. I’m just saying.)

Or, Keen Blaws the Wind o’er the Braes. Doun the Burn Davie Love. Fareweel, Fareweel my Native Hame. You’ll want to remember favorites like, I Gaed a Waefu Gate Yestreen and – Gae Bring to Me a Pint O’ Wine. And many, many more! (Scots version: and Minnie! Minnie Moore!)

Remember, these are all English words. Just delivered with a wee bit o’ that fain Scottish brogue.

Here’s the thing. There are actually a few titles that I do know, songs that have survived a century or more.

Auld Lang Syne, for one. You remember that one from New Year’s Eve. Some of you will remember Guy Lombardo and his orchestra. (Most of you won’t.) Their version of that song is still the first song played at the stroke of midnight in Times Square, to kick off the New Year. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and all that. Or as we sing it, Should OLD acquaintance be forgot…

How about – By Yon Bonnie Banks? (Although I always heard this song as being titled Loch Lomond): Sing along with me now… By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes. Where the sun shines bright on Loch Looooooo-mond. Okay. That’s enough singing.

Well, then. I suppose there might be another one somewhere that I could recall. I only WISH I knew the entry on page 104: My Heart is a-Breakin’ Dear Tittie. You know it has to be an innocent “sing around the hearth-fire with the children” kind of song. At least, it was when this book was published. These days, I don’t think it would make the cut for a Sesame Street performance.

I’m still wondering how many of these songs are still known in Scotland – whether these were “gems” that stood the test of time or if some became somewhat lagging in popularity outside the campfires of the sheep herders.

For my money (which it is, at this point – until someone else buys the book), the best thing to be found on the pages is the inscription from 1911. The recipient of the songbook knew who it was from, but unfortunately the giver did not sign his name. As you can see in the image, the book was given:

“Frae yer ‘Brither’ in Auld Reekie. August 17, 1911.”

That just makes me want to sing.

Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 South Main Street, Broken Arrow, OK!

Those Small-Town-Remembering Blues

I lost my virginity when I arrived in Tulsa. I was mid-twenties and naïve. Oh. Wait a minute. I don’t mean that “birds and bees” stuff. More like the “virgin snow” reference, as in – undisturbed new territory.

The U-Haul was barely unpacked before I became a big-city crime victim.

Like I said, I was naïve. Didn’t know you had to protect your stuff because, if you didn’t, others might take advantage. It never really occurred to me that people would do things like secretly take stuff that belonged to others. I was a classic knucklehead.

Oh, sure. I knew what burglary was. On my first job at Allen’s IGA in McAlester, I was a fifteen-year-old flatfoot, following boss’s orders as I stalked a woman around the aisles watching as she stuffed a pot roast into her cavernous purse. Apparently, all I learned from that was – if you steal, you’ll get caught at the checkout counter. (She even had a jar of asparagus stalks in that handbag. Fine dining on the carryout program, I suppose.) My boss Marshall was a pro. She paid extra cash for nearly $50 worth of purse-carried items.

Growing up in a small town can contribute to a sense of personal security. Under a certain size, the newspapers call them “communities.” That’s the truth, in my opinion. Small towns are simply communities of common-minded people and that’s the reason I still have a fondness for those places.

My favorite example – one I’ve repeated often enough: We had just purchased a house. I mean JUST purchased. Moved in, unpacked enough to set the alarm clock to make it to work on time the next morning. Bzzzz. Shower. Shave. Drive to work. I had barely arrived at the office when I got a phone call from the realtor who had worked the sale.

Mrs. Realtor, on the telephone: Larry? I hate to bother you at work but I just drove by the house, and your front door is wide open.

Me, still trying to figure out who this caller is (it’s early, the day after moving in…): Open?

Mrs. Realtor: Yessir. The door is open. Wide open. I would have stopped and closed it for you, but I was running behind this morning and just now got to the office myself.

Me: Oh. Well, that’s okay.

Mrs. Realtor: I was thinking you might want to run by and close it. A dog or a squirrel might run right in and then you might have a mess on your hands.

A mess. Catch that? She was worried about a mess. Nothing more. I thanked her and hopped in my car, whizzed over to the house and drew the door tight. I didn’t lock it. Wasn’t my habit. Dogs and squirrels can’t open securely closed doors. Dogs don’t have thumbs, and squirrels are too short to reach the doorknob.

Did you notice? Mrs. Realtor made no mention – whatsoever – of thieving humans. That’s the thing about small towns. Oh, sure. There are some incidents. They just don’t happen frequently, and when it happens, everyone in town knows who did it. Later, those folks are arrested again, chastised again, and then again, everyone gets their stuff back. It’s inconvenient, but nothing permanent.

The point of the story?

My move to Tulsa and the loss of my victim-virginity wasn’t the end of it. In no time, I became a victim-floozy. Park the car at the shopping center: return to a break-in and loss of cheap in-dash radio. Leave the garage open: return to the loss of toolboxes and still-to-be identified items. (Never know what you’ve lost until you need it and go to the garage to get it.)

I finally got it.

Tulsa is not a small town. Tulsa is different from small towns. People steal in Tulsa.

Here is the deductive reasoning. Broken Arrow is no longer a small town; hence, people steal in Broken Arrow.

So here I am, working a 12+ hour day, removing all the antique and collectible books from the shelves, stacking them in the office. The decorative bric-a-brac that contributes to the feel of the shop, those odd-ball things I’ve collected over the years? Those are on-shelf temptations. Not to book-people. Not to readers.

But the Main Street Tee-Off event crowd isn’t composed of readers.

So, I have to shake off my small-town upbringing and my general belief in the goodness of my fellow humans. I’ve got to work extra late this week and then extra hours next week, restoring the items to the shelves, just because I’ve learned (finally) that some people cannot be trusted. (Several of my neighbors were victimized last year, and I probably was as well. Too naïve to realize it, I suppose.) I’d leave the front door open if it was just dogs and squirrels. I’ve come to trust their judgment.

None of this is your fault, I know. I only mention it here in case you drop by and wonder what has happened to the shop. You’ll notice, and here is my explanation.

Folks casually visiting the shop for the first time Thursday evening won’t see any of the nice First Editions or the leather bound volumes dating to the 1700s.

But, I’ll have cookies.

Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 South Main St. Broken Arrow OK!

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