Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: bookstores (Page 93 of 107)

We know Oscar Meyer. Oscar Wilde? Not so much.

Dad and son came in to look around.

“Hmmm,” said Dad. “A bookstore.” He didn’t sound optimistic, but came in anyway.

His son might have been nine or ten years old. Certainly old enough to read and tall enough to see over the edge of the counter, where a doll-sized figure was displayed in a clear plastic card-backed package.

“Dad,” he called out. “Who is Oscar, Wild…Will-dee?”

“Uh-oh,” I thought. “This could be an awkward moment.”

I was remembering the scandals associated with Oscar Wilde (his name has an E at the end, which is – I suppose – why the young man read it as will-dee).

Even as the dad was considering his answer, I recalled putting a similar question to my mother.

“Mom,” I called out. “Who is Bridget Bardot?” Her name must have been mentioned on the television, that big clunky piece of furniture in our living room that displayed only black and white pictures. Maybe I saw a black and white version of Bridget Bardot that piqued my interest.

My mother didn’t hesitate in her reply.

“A movie star,” she said. “She likes to run around wearing nothing but a bath towel.”

I guess the answer worked well enough. I got the idea.

With the young man’s question posed in the book shop, I waited to hear the father’s answer. Finally, he sighed and admitted, “I have noooo idea.”

“He was an 1800s English writer,” I offered, trying to help out the dad. The kid was quick.

“Then why does that say ‘Action Figure?”

“It’s kind of a joke,” I responded. “He wasn’t known for X-Men kind of action.”

When Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde died in 1900, he was destitute and living in Paris. A victim of a scandal of his own creation.

He objected to something that was alleged to have been said about him by John Douglas, the Marquess of Queensbury. It was whisperings (some not so quiet) about Wilde and the son of the Marquess, Lord Alfred Douglas. Wilde sued for slander. In the course of the trial, enough mud was dragged into court concerning Wilde’s antics that he dropped the slander suit. It was too late, though. Wilde was charged with “gross indecencies,” convicted, and sentenced to two years of hard labor. He spent time in jail, although he spelled it gaol. He might have had better fortune in our current society, but in 1890s London there were some things best kept out of conversation.

In his day, Oscar Wilde was one of the most famous personalities around. He was born into a wealthy intellectual family, was well educated, known for his quick wit, and in 1890 authored a popular story called The Picture of Dorian Gray. It didn’t help the author during his lifetime, but when moving pictures were invented it was one of the early books adapted to film. It has been redone several times since that first Hungarian version in 1918.

Wilde had the intellect and wit of Dick Cavett, the social circles of Oprah Winfrey, the theatrical following of Neil Simon, and a wife as influential in her day as Hillary Clinton (well, maybe that last one is a stretch…).

Dapper-looking as he is, I thought Oscar the action figure would be gone by now, landing under some lucky literary Christmas tree. His action figure comrade Charles Dickens found himself a home over the holidays.

But then again – he was more will-dee than Wilde.

Here comes the sun…

Maybe no one noticed.

The headline on Tulsa World writer Jason Ashley Wright’s column this morning noted the particularly rainy day we experienced here in Broken Arrow, while many areas to the east suffered through severe weather. The photo (if you look close enough) says “Tulsa World file.”

Wright was taking a little tour of the Rose District, which amounted to popping in a few stores in the block south of the book shop. As many folks do, he started at the Main Street Tavern.

The bookstore is in the photo that accompanies the story, although from across the street where the photographer snapped the shot, the lettering is a little hard to read on the awning. That’s okay. Any publicity is fine with me, even if it doesn’t include the store name, a mention, or a recognizable store front.

What I really like is the way the rain falls invisibly in Broken Arrow.

No splashy streets. No gusty winds. No dripping umbrellas and store awnings. Brilliant sunshine all round.

That’s the way I feel about the relocation of the store to the Rose District of downtown Broken Arrow.

It’s all sunshine, on a rainy day.

Notes and notables.

You’d be surprised at what might be found in books turned in to the shop. Wedding pictures. Postcards. Bookstore receipts (lots of those, mostly from high-priced sellers). A valid US passport, which – fortunately – belonged to a woman still shopping when it was discovered. Bookmarks from long-shuttered bookstores.

Post-it note place keepers. Candy wrappers. A hastily-written last will and testament. That one gave me pause, I have to say.

Still – not a single piece of currency. Not even a single one-dollar bill.

Yesterday, I came across an angrily-written, unsigned, and undated letter to Etta. My detective skills tell me that the name Etta took a dive in popularity in the 1930s, after being a top-ten candidate back in the 1880s.

The letter appears to have been written with a ballpoint pen, which first went on sale in the US in 1945.

My guess is, the letter-writer was perhaps a grandmother or aunt to Barbara, the subject of the terse writing. Apparently, Barbara had gone back to her boyfriend after discovering she was “expecting a baby,” and in the writer’s opinion the beau was “not fit to be a father because of being a grasshopper… no steady job.”

She still cared enough about the young woman to forward a $25 check to the letter’s recipient, to “take Barbara to town to buy her a new pair of shoes and a nice dress for her birthday.”

That’s about as close to finding money as I’ve come – finding a letter about a check.

More commonly found are penned inscriptions, written inside the front cover or on the first free endpaper. Sometimes, they seem to tell their own stories in the few words included or the manner in which they are written.

I was particularly impressed with Rodney’s elaborate penmanship in his inscription inside a leather-bound volume which was a Christmas gift to Miss Minnie Wilcox. You can click on any image to see it more closely. If you click the lower-right image, you can see that Rodney penned the inscription in 1849… one-hundred-sixty-four years ago.

Someone told me recently that penmanship is no longer taught in school. From the example in the image, it is clear we don’t have sufficient time to devote to such beautiful and elaborate causes as book-signing. There was once a day in which there was time enough.

I was exposed to the art of cursive for all the good it has done me. I can produce a tidy example of script given enough time, but when I’m in a hurry – my scribbling winds up as printed letters.

Go figure.

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