Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: Broken Arrow (Page 50 of 141)

Kiss the Stone.

As the story goes, if you pucker up and kiss the proper spot at Ireland’s Blarney Castle, you’ll magically receive the “Gift of Gab,” which allows you to deliver a load of blarney with eloquence. A fellow named John O’Connor described it well, pointing out that “Blarney is something more than mere flattery. It is flattery sweetened by humour and flavoured by wit. Those who mix with Irish folk have many examples of it in their everyday experience.”

During colonial times, there were enough Irish immigrants in America that many of the words they used were incorporated into our version of English. Except, when they said Blarney, it came to be repeated in a different way. You’ve may have heard someone express their skepticism with: He’s full of boloney! Here in the US the term Blarney became boloney and came to be synonymous with “full of bull.” A little less flattering than the original version implies.

In the image, the Blarney Stone is at the upper left of the tall square tower, incorporated into a battlement by Cormac Laidir MacCarthy, who built the place. According to the version related to me, Mr MacCarthy was involved in a legal dispute and sought the aid of Clíodhna, the Queen of the Irish hill faeries. (Back in Mr MacCarthy’s time, it was common to appeal to the benevolent figures in Irish mythology.)

Clíodhna told Mr Mac that if he would kiss the first stone he came across, he would be blessed with an eloquence that would aid in his courtroom presentation. He won his legal case, and later decided to add the magical stone to the uppermost area of the castle he was constructing.

There it remains.

Visitors to his castle are invited to lie down and give the stone a kiss to receive the gift of blarney. Of course, when I touched lip to rock, it simply recharged the thing. I was already full o’ gab, I suppose.

The point of the story?

Don’t really have one. It’s just an explanation as to the image that is currently at the top of the website. (Those of you who occasionally visit the pages may have noticed the hiatus in new posts, an interruption of several weeks caused by technical difficulties.) I’m still trying to restore the site, but there are still glitches. Blarney Castle serves to replace the mountain range that was the object of the last post, an image that is retired for the time being.

The shot is from a vantage point that most tourists will overlook. The car park (as they call it) is to the right edge and a lengthy path leads to the castle, between it and the tall round towers. You’d be needing your waders to take a similar photo.

Of course, you need hip-waders when you’re in the company of those of us spouting the blarney.

Ceci est un Blog, not Literature.

“Do you have Jane Eyre?” she asked, and I was about to answer when she finished her question. “In an older copy? Hardback?”

I was still sizing that up when she concluded: “In French?”

Getting past the surprise, I was flattered that she expected it possible to find a copy of that English literature title in French (or a French literature title in English). It’s a sure indication that our Broken Arrow, Oklahoma clientele is a discerning sort.

Regrettably, I let her down.

Had she been a little less specific, I could have offered Lettres et Poésies d’amour de Charlotte Brontë, a 1953 collection of Ms. Brontë’s love letters published in Belgium. There’s a copy of Moulin Rouge on the shelf as well (Paris, 1953). Wouldn’t do though.

C’est la façon dont le ballon rebondit. (That’s the way the ball bounces.)

Of course, the discriminating nature of this morning’s question is offset by the one posed by a gentleman the other day. He opened the door, stepped inside, put his hands on his hips, and gazed around from floor to ceiling.

“What is it you do in here, exactly?” he asked.

I was stumped by that one, I’ll admit. Had the answer until he tacked on the “exactly,” which had me mentally fishing for some concise description of what goes on – exactly – in a bookstore with bistro tables, where the proprietor rebinds books, edits manuscripts, and pursues research projects in between the cooking and the cleaning.

Should have just handed him a copy of Gabrielle Zevin’s homage to the independent bookstore, “The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry,” currently entrenched on the New York Times bestsellers list. Ms. Zevin obviously has a place in her heart for off-beat shops and a story that will appeal to readers – whether they own a bookstore or not.

In truth, I’m a little reluctant to recommend it. Could be I liked it because a lot of what happens at A. J. Fikry’s Island Bookstore is curiously familiar. Maybe not in exact events, but in the sorts of things that happen in the book shop. Then, there are the book-reader inside jokes and behind-the-counter details that are indigenous to the endangered species – bookseller.

Mr. Fikry is a curmudgeonly proprietor (and you may keep your comparisons to yourself), who finds life-redemption in the form of an abandoned child left in his book store. Although none of the reviews I encountered mentioned it, I can’t be the only one who was reminded of George Eliot’s “Silas Marner.” Granted, Silas is the weaver of Raveloe instead of the village bookseller, but his stolen hoard of money is eventually forgotten when a child is left at his doorstep. Mr. Fikry finds public acceptance through the advice and counsel of the many neighbors who share their childrearing experiences, just as did Silas Marner. Despite the similarities, Ms. Zevin massages the plot into an original story that will endear itself to most readers.

You’ll find a first edition copy (with a custom plastic dustjacket protector) at below-publisher price, but it occurred to me as I set it out that A. J. Fikry encountered trouble in his offering of bestsellers in Ms. Zevin’s story.

“Seems like a lot,” says his customer, looking over the latest Alex Cross hardback. “You know I can get it cheaper online, right?” Mr. Fikry answers in a manner that you won’t hear in this shop.

I may be curmudgeonly, but politeness drills are staged each morning – part of what we do in here, Exactly.

Come visit!

McHuston

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

Do they still – Slug Bug?

Dig those Beatle-boots! The total-denim mechanic’s outfit, complete with flared-jeans – what any self-respecting VW whiz was wearing. What?

1976?

Apparently, Volkswagon was a little late to the Tune-In-Drop-Out-Flower-Power 1960s. Or maybe they were simply hanging on to the Herbie the Love Bug thing.

The Peterson’s Complete Book of VW was a little large for the Beetle’s glove box, but carried such indispensable tips as “At-Home Lubes,” “Disk Brakes for Early Beetles,” and “Transaxle Swaps.” (The latter is now a reality show featuring significant-others on the History Channel.)

The issue came in with a batch of books and brought back a couple of memories. Who remembers the Thing? That strange-looking VW was introduced in 1969, as a reworked version of the wartime Kubelwagon – sort of like a version of the US military’s Jeep. Readers got to look back on the history in a four-page article.

Some models even I barely remember (not being a VW owner, perhaps). There is an article about Adding Dash to your Dasher. The only Dasher I recall had reindeer-power instead of horsepower.

My buddy Craig had a Bug as his first car, back in the Big Mac High School Daze, but we won’t be recalling our adventures in that thing. (Some things are best as lost to history.) Folks from McAlester – where there were plenty of unpaved county roads on which to drive Volkswagons for fun – will surely remember Mr. Isbell and his collection of VWs. I believe he was retired by the time I met him, but he might have worked harder trying to stay ahead of the mechanic work that came his way. The smiling pic of the VW ace is courtesy of Steve DeFrange.

Mr Isbell was quite patient with me, back when I was trying to repair my British sports car, and my admiration for his mechanic’s knowledge has never wavered. He put up with my interruptions in the garage at his home, where he always had a stack of newspapers to use as hand-towels.

When the engine was – at last – returned to the car (deftly lowered into place with the Stizza family’s truck and crane), the darn thing would not start. I cranked it until the battery died. We pushed it up and down the street. Nothing. I was so sure I had done it right, I couldn’t believe the engine wouldn’t fire up. Finally, I called Ken Isbell. Again with the patience, and without hesitation, he told me to remove the timing gear, flip it around, and try again.

Less than five minutes later – Vroom vroom.

Man. You gotta admire anyone who knows their stuff like that. Looking at the guy on the magazine cover, I don’t get that same feeling.

Never did see Mr. Isbell in a pair of Beatle-boots.

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