Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: bookstores (Page 17 of 107)

Blues Burger. The Moody kind.

Before I even recognized the song carrying through the book shop, I instantly flashed to my high school days, and lunch hour in particular. Funny how memories can be triggered by our senses. It was a Moody Blues song.

The technology was a bit different back then. Eight-track tapes were on their way out and cassettes were the latest thing. The latest from the Moody Blues was called Every Good Boy Deserves Favour and several members of our lunchtime group were fans.

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Maybe it’s different now, but McAlester High School had an open campus and students had the option of eating in the cafeteria or finding a nearby restaurant. The catch was – the lunch hour was only thirty minutes or so. Fast food is faster these days. Back then, a hamburger patty didn’t hit the grill until it was ordered, which had us spending more time waiting than eating.

It’s been enough years that I can probably mention our first destination (since I’m sure no one remembers it…) was called the Copper Kettle. Probably was spelled Kopper Kettle because that’s how things were done back then. It was on the north side of Choctaw Avenue and they made such a fine diner burger that we actually had to towel-dry the grease-spattered top of the bun before we could pick it up. Big fries.

Hard to find those kind of burgers these days. (Hard to upload pictures of them too. Had to settle for a pic of Grandpa Ray at his lunch counter…)

We hatched up a plan that would allow us more time for eating instead of time waiting for those burger buns to get grease-ified. If the cook could just start frying ahead of our arrival, we could cruise in and chow down, pay up, and head out.

The Kopper Kettle chef didn’t go for that plan.

When we decided to try the drive-in on Carl Albert Parkway, the time element was more apparent. It took even longer to get from the school’s parking lot to theirs. As I remember it, we were settling the lunch bill and one of us asked if we could go ahead and order for the next day. The woman at the register wondered what they would do with all that food if we didn’t show up.

If one of us couldn’t make it, we promised, we would find a replacement eater. And if we couldn’t find someone to come eat the pre-ordered lunch, the rest of us would chip in and pay for it.

We Promised.

She bought the idea and we bought the lunches. To my knowledge, we honored our commitment and never left the proprietor hanging for a tab. And every day on the way from McAlester High School to that little drive-in restaurant we listened to loud music on the car stereo.

It never was my music since I was riding a motorcycle for part of the year and later driving a British two-seater (after the motorcycle wreck) – so, I got to hear songs I might not have otherwise.

Mostly, I remember David steering-wheel-guitar-playing to his Woodstock soundtrack, so maybe it was Joe, or Phil, or Paul – aw heck, I can’t remember just who it was that had the new Moody Blues tape. But we got enough of it on that relatively short drive to learn the words to the song choruses while digesting our steak-finger baskets, burger baskets, and foot-long cheese coneys.

Today, I was thinking about our four-man lunch sorties and the Moody Blues with their fuzz-guitar, dah-dah-dah-daaaaah, dah-dah-dah-daaaah, and the verse leading up to the chorus….

Listen to the tide slowly turning
Wash all our heartaches away
We’re part of the fire that is burning
And from the ashes we can build another day

And listening to that song, it suddenly didn’t seem like so very long ago.

We don’t have a greasy burger on our menu but we’ll get you in and out on your lunch hour with something tasty, so…

Come visit!

McHuston

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

Baby, you can drive my car.

I know I’m not the only one that sometimes looks for reminders of the past. I’ve had folks come in looking for books they owned as children. Some memories are long-ago enough that the details are a little fuzzy…

It had a red cover, a lady told me once, trying to find a book from her childhood library. I didn’t have the heart to tell her a lot of books had red covers. Knowing the title is a lot more helpful finding old favorites.

A fellow brought some books by the shop today and I went outside to carry in the box. It was in the trunk of a beautiful Ford Mustang.

Shelby.

(Muscle car lovers will know about Shelby.)

After we got the book boxes inside and the Mustang-owning-customer was ready to go, I followed him out the door. Just wanted to hear the car start up, I told him. He smiled and said the sound of the engine was what had convinced him to buy it. He had a Mustang back in his high school days, he said, and he got to a point in his life where he wanted to own one again.

That’s a familiar feeling.

There is a search feature on eBay that will send a notification when an item of interest has been listed. My item of interest?

The 1964 MG that I drove in high school.

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My father co-signed the bank loan, and let me do the talking with the loan officer. The asking price was more than the book value, the banker said. I know, I told him. But it’s worth it.

The man who wanted to sell it told me he changed the oil regularly, and that had to count for something.

You’re wanting that car pretty bad, aren’t you? the banker was grinning by now, and I admitted as much and signed the papers, promising to pay back the money. Dad mentioned how it didn’t seem like a very practical kind of car, but it seemed to be the kind that young people wanted.

Still loved the car when I traded it off for a Chevy van. We needed something to haul our music equipment around in, and the MG just wasn’t very practical. The trade was straight-up even, and I figure it must have been a wee bit traumatic, since I still remember the names of the young couple who drove off in my car.

They later painted it bright yellow – even though I thought the original black still looked good.

The van outlasted the band, and I eventually sold it, taking up a ten-speed bicycle while I saved up for another British sports car. But that ’64 MG was always in the back of my mind, and when I hit that first mid-life crisis I tried to track it down. My detective work turned up that the car had been sold to a collector and put in a warehouse, but when I called the fellow’s office, his secretary (who must have managed his inventory) told me her boss had parted with it years earlier.

The MG popped up on eBay yesterday and my heart jumped – just looking at the picture and remembering.

Then, I remembered it had been painted yellow and the car in the image was black. And had mirrors on the fenders. Mine didn’t. And – what about those hubcaps? I remember having a little hammer in the toolkit that was used to pound the knock-off cap loose that held on the wire wheels. Those weren’t wire wheels…

So, it wasn’t my car at all.

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Just as well. I don’t have a place to store it, or work on it. (And they always require work, those British cars…)

For fun, I Googled the ’64 and after scrolling a page or two of various colored MG’s I found the car of my high school days – at least the memories, if not the actual automobile. The second picture is the spittin’ image of the one I tooled around in, down to the wire-wheel spinners.

You know, I enjoyed most of my time going to high school back then, partly because it gave me a reason to drive that little car. Meanwhile, the search is half the fun and the hunt continues…

We’ve got car books (and can find most of those red-cover books!) so,

Come visit!

McHuston

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

Baseball and the Battered Box.

Maybe it’s in the blood. Sports fan DNA or something. Some of us jump up and yell and some of us wonder – What’s the Big Deal?

Confession here: I’m a jumper.

I’m blaming it on the blood. I remember sitting with my Grandpa John in his big easy chair – talking baseball – when I was young enough to fit in the chair beside him. Kansas City was close enough to his house in Parsons that their team worked just fine as the one to cheer for. Probably are some folks in Parsons pulling for KC to win the World Series, but these days they’re rooting for the Royals.

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Back in Grandpa’s easy chair days, they were the Kansas City Athletics and he was tolerant of my NY Yankee sentiments. Before the A’s, Kansas City had one of the Yank’s minor league teams and they had been doing about as well as their Major League brothers. Grandpa John probably could have recited the league standings on any given day.

There in the big chair, I squirmed around the newspaper he was reading – sports page, of course.

Next to the chair, on the little table, was a radio tuned to a baseball game. The sound was down on that big wood-cabinet television across the room, but grass-lined diamond on the screen clearly indicated baseball, even if the picture was in black and white.

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Here’s the deal though. My memories of Grandpa John are of a man not much given to shouts and whoops at the crack of bat. Maybe others have different recollections of him, but in my memory he always seemed to be a laid-back, quiet sort of Grandpa. (He was said to have some harsh discussions with other drivers while he was on the road and behind the wheel, something else I may have inherited.)

I don’t remember him giving an approving shout at a line drive through the gap with men on base, score tied, bottom of the ninth – but he was a fan all the same.

And he was certainly patient.

Grandpa John’s television pulled in those ball games through an antenna mounted on the roof of the house. And that thing had to be aimed at the TV station to get a decent picture. Toward that end, he had a box on top of the television with a big plastic knob that controlled the motor that turned the antenna.

It made a great ratcheting sound, that box. Turn the knob and ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk, the arrow moved around to indicate the direction of the antenna. I turned that thing often enough that the neighbors must have imagined the Huston house was helicopter-powered and ready to take flight.

Probably I didn’t know about anything skyward being turned by my fiddling with the rotor box. There was some kind of explanation once, kid-level-science details that whipped right through my ears and back out.

The box looked a lot like the one in the picture, to the best of my recollection. Thinking back on it, there is a vague memory of the TV growing all-fuzzy and then clearing up again. But the ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk was the thing.

You just don’t get that with digital, kids.

The KC cousins and I are pulling for the Royals. Pick a team and do your own jumping, or just watch us and wonder: What’s the deal?

We’ve got sports books on the shelf and Dustin and I will be stepping up to the plate at lunchtime, so…

Come visit!

McHuston

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

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