McHuston Booksellers

Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: booksellers (Page 51 of 92)

Snow news is good news. (Not.)

February 3, 2014 /

It isn’t any clearer now than before watching the forecast on the TV news. I’ve already scoured the internet looking for tips on what to expect in the morning. Talk about confusing.

As I read the thing, there is a 40% chance of sleet after 1am and a 90% chance of sleet before 7am. Really? What does that mean, exactly? The chances for sleet increase, I guess. But then, there’s this other snow part that talks about the percentage-possibility of snow during that same time frame.

Sounds a lot like hedging bets to me.

Maybe they aren’t too sure how it’s going to work itself out. And that is exactly what I need to know.

If it is a less than 50-50 chance of snow and sleet, maybe I better be bedding down instead of sitting in front of the tube trying to understand the forecast, so I can get back to the shop early to peel potatoes and carrots and get the lunch service ready – in case there is no snow. Isn’t that what a 50-50 chance means? Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t.

Snow.

Maybe the 50-50 means no. Nah. No snow. Or just a dusting. In which case, I need to be prepared.

On the other hand, if it is as dire as they seem to imply – what is the point of cooking up Irish stew and potato soup and hand-mashed potatoes when only those with monster-trucks, snowboards, and tennis-rackets strapped to their feet will be able to make it through?

And those folks likely won’t be looking for Irish Bistro carry-out. Probably a Reasor’s-run for Coors Light.

I can jump in behind the wheel, head to the bed, and find myself buried in tomorrow morning. Or I could make a pallet on the floor here at the shop and be ready, however it works out. (Not a comfortable sleep, I’ll admit.)

It reminds me of an afternoon I was working the microphone and had just delivered a weather forecast. Wrapped it up and took off the headphones. The phone rang.

Person on the phone: You just said there was a chance of rain on Saturday.

Me: Uh-huh.

Person, nervously: Well, I’m having an outdoor wedding on Saturday and I need to know if it is going to rain or not. And if it is, I need to know what time it is going to start and how long it is going to last.

Me: Uh. I think you’ve dialed the wrong number. The person in charge of the rain starting and stopping isn’t here.

So there it is. I’m supposedly older and wiser, and here I am hoping for the same sort of exact information that my caller demanded for her wedding all those years ago. She seemed silly to me at the time. And now, here I am looking for the same precise weather-tips. But, hey! Hasn’t technology advanced just a little since those old days?

Isn’t there a radar that can clue us in this techno-age?

Nah.

It’s just sit and wait. Watch and listen. Look out the back door. Look up at the sky. Wait a while. If it does start snowing, imagine if it is the kind that will keep on and on and will fill the streets and intersections beyond recognition. Sniff the air. Might it end after six or seven minutes?

It is beyond the mere mortals.

I can only try to imagine who will be out tomorrow in what might be a cold and snowy midday, wanting Irish stew on a Tuesday lunchtime in February.

Hmmmm. Come to think of it, the stew IS tasty stuff. Could bring a crowd.

Maybe I’d better break out the peeler and chef knife. Chop Chop!

Come visit! (If the meteorologists give the A-OK… like that would ever happen. WHEN the meteorologists give the A-OK, then…)

McHuston

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

Tell her that I’m well…

February 1, 2014 /

It’s almost a shame to hear them apologize for being clean-cut, fun-loving musicians who enjoyed their time in front of an audience.

There are so many acts that are angry and that’s their stage presence.

I always wonder why they couldn’t have a little fun while everyone else was doing the same.

Just watched a program with Herman’s Hermits. (Even if you Google them, you won’t get it, because Google can’t take you back in time. You have to have been as old as me, and remember what it was like waaaaaay back then.)

The whole thing was still new and fun – music. Well, not exactly. Music has been around since humans pounded on a hollow tree (or a hollow head). But, music in the late 1960s was still in a state of evolution. Some would call it Revolution.

Peter Noone was the singer for Herman’s Hermits, an English band that crossed the Atlantic and found success – and had fun. You could tell watching them (and recalling through the old PBS video clips) that performing in front of an audience was as entertaining for the band as it was for those they faced.

In later years, particularly in the years my son discovered music, I noticed how angry the performers were. They seemed to be on a mission to deliver a serious MESSAGE. You know, like JEREMY SPOKE IN CLASS TODAY. The still-musical MTV pushed the video in 1993 and made a hit of it.

Granted.

Jeremy is worlds apart from Mrs Brown You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter. But many bands released a variety of songs. Some of which were eligible for entertainment. Like – as in, Fun. A fun song, a fun video.

Mr Vedder once said (I recall it pretty well although through brief research, I can’t produce an exact quote) that he didn’t want anyone over thirty years old to listen to his music. Well. Mr Vedder will be 50 this year. Fifty. Things were a lot more fun the year Mr Vedder was born.

Singers smiled. Even the background vocalists. They enjoyed what they were doing. (Oh. Okay. There are those opera people. Those serious If-I-had-a-Hammer folk singers who seriously wanted to Hammer in the Morning all Over this Land. Man. Give it a folk-rest.)

Cause I’m Leaving on a Jet Plane while singing Do-Wa-Diddy-Diddy-Dum-Diddy-dee. (Can you frown during that one?)

It was just surprising, how many songs by Herman’s Hermits I could sing along with. Without hesitation. I never once bought a record album (primitive MP3 or streaming audio) by the group. Their songs were simply – popular.

Not like in a Justin Beiber sense. These fellows were clean-cut, foreign-born, fun-loving, clean-living, singers and guitar players. (And drummer.) When music went south, like Beiber in Florida, these fellows found another way to entertain themselves. (And others.)

Watching the PBS special (which in and of itself reveals my relative age), I was thrown back to a simpler era and a more naïve time. That’s probably the intent of PBS, to loosen up the spending for the whole fund-raising process. There was no talk of crack-cocaine, or meth-labs, serial killers, school shooters, political party wars, or wars in Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, or – back then – Vietnam.

I don’t want a time machine to head back to that simpler time.

It would be nice, though, if some of those simpler and honest values could push forward to this day and age.

Oh. Wait a minute.

I have history books here in the shop. I’ll just read up on how things used to be.

Come visit!

McHuston

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

How will you answer the call?

February 1, 2014 /

When you hear the voice from above, will you be ready with a quick reply? I’ll admit right here that – for someone rarely at a loss for words – I was rendered speechless.

I mean, the voice was so clear to me, I was startled. But then, the nature of the question caught me off-guard. Unprepared.

The voice from on-high was crystal clear. Almost ethereal in the way it carried in the darkness behind the bookstore.

Have you had your dinner? the voice wondered.

I hadn’t. But then, I didn’t want to blurt out that answer without thinking it over for a half-second. If the Angel of Death or the Grim Reaper has some kind of challenge-test at first contact, my answer might make a difference.

No, I could say without hesitation. Then hedge it a little with a followup: But I’m on my way there now. Can you check back with me later? (Mortal trickery. I’m working on it.)

Truth to tell, there just wasn’t a precedent in my experience to know what sort of a reply to offer. Standing behind the shop with my car keys in hand, fumbling around for an answer. How long could I cheat death standing in the dark gabbing? Who really knows for certain about this stuff? That question. Strange. I would have expected something along the lines of “Are your affairs in order, Mr Bookman? Are you ready for the final chapter?”

And what if the reply is something that is repeated at the Pearly Gates? Maybe an afterlife crowd gathers there to hear the off-the-cuff answers to the Great Question, sort of like Funniest Heavenly Videos with a spirited spirit audience.

The other thing was – the voice didn’t sound the way I would have expected. (Not that I have EVER expected to hear voices, you understand.) If it was Death calling by any other name, I could imagine a voice more businesslike. Maybe a little threatening. You don’t expect to wrestle for your mortal soul with someone bearing a pleasant tone.

If it was to be my final testament, my last spoken words, I decided it would be best to stick to the truth. As a point of fact, I was getting into my car to grab a drive-through burger so I could get back to the shop and wrap up the evening’s work.

Well, I replied rather quietly. I was going to run to McDonalds…

As that part slipped out my mouth, I smelled the heavenly scent of a grilled steak – obviously seasoned to perfection. (You’d expect no less under the circumstances, though. Would you?)

But, steaks in the hereafter?

I tipped my head back to better sniff the drifting aroma, and spotted the stainless steel grill gleaming brightly in the cast of the streetlight. The lid was tipped back and I could see a thin cloud of smells-great-clear-down here smoke wafting skyward.

My neighbor. On the second-story deck in back of the loft. Obviously cooking up something a little more culinary than my plans. I could imagine the red glow of the coals under those steaks. I could imagine the red glow of my embarrassed face shining up from the parking spot down below. That was no scythe in her hand. Long-handled spatula.

I was going to run to McDonalds – that much I had already spoken aloud. Time for a quick-conversational U-turn.

…nothing compared to whatever you’re cooking up there, I finished. Smells great!

Lame, sure. Best I could do when my words began as a reply to the Reaper. In fact, I take no shame in it. Much better to answer the way I did, standing in the dark hearing a disembodied voice. I mean, it was better than screaming out like a little girl. Or throwing myself to the ground and blubbering about how all those sins over the years were accidents and Lord have mercy on me now Lord have mercy on me now.

Close call, that. Pride-wise.

I’ve decided to take a lesson from the indignity of it and come up with some fitting last words, something equally literate and moving. Something that might give ol’ St. Peter cause for thought as he reads down my life ledger. Words that cut to the drama of the moment but maintain an optimism toward this worldly existence.

Aww – who am I kidding? Think I’d remember my little speech at the moment of truth?

Not a ghost of a chance.

Come visit! (but announce yourself clearly when entering…)

McHuston

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

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2025 McHuston Booksellers

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑