McHuston Booksellers

Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: Catoosa (Page 83 of 101)

Dropping Paula Dean? What? Drop a book?

June 28, 2013 /

The question is: Are there retailers in the US that do not have an exclusive line of Paula Deen products?

Answer?

McHuston Booksellers.

Apparently, I’m the only store without something with her name attached. Presumably, I could have a book or two in stock with her name on it. I don’t though.

By gosh, if I had one I swear I’d snatch it off the shelf and run it straight to the dustbin.

I’m kidding, but not due to matters of principal. And – although I’m surprised at the extent of her business ties and my naiveté about the extent of her fame – I am a little sympathetic about her current situation. I’ve never been one to relish in someone’s demise, particularly business people. (I’d say she qualifies even if business wasn’t her original claim to fame.)

Okay. I sort-of enjoyed the demise of Coach Hayes of Ohio State fame, who was fired as Coach/Icon for punching out a collegiate student-athlete who let him down in some fashion. And there was Bobby Knight. I admit feeling bad for President Richard Nixon, the guy who couldn’t just say, “Woopsie! I guess I messed up there. Forgive me?” I think I could have. And he was the president that was going to have me slogging around in the rice paddies of Vietnam.

Someone I cared a lot about once remarked – at watching the University of Arkansas athletic director arriving in a car – “Here he is. Oh. I didn’t know Frank [Broyles] had a driver.” The “driver” was Coach Nolan Richardson. She assumed a black man behind the wheel had to be a hired chauffeur. Driving Mr Daisy. These days, most of us would not make that assumption. (I could still be naïve.) The person observing the arrival of Mr Broyles that day was the product of a different era.

Not a bad person.

I’m not defending Paula Deen here. My father set me to rights at an early age but Ms Deen did not share a father with me. I did not grow up in the deep South, as she did and has reminded us of – more than once. I think that’s the trouble.

Like Tricky Dicky, the president who had to abdicate the throne because he couldn’t say “I’m sorry for my mistakes,” Paula Deen persists in defending her style of upbringing as an excuse for her racist-sounding commentary. “I’m not a crook,” said Nixon. “I is what I is,” says Deen.

Personally, I used to poop my pants, but I learned to better myself.

So, it has to be “Sorry, Paula. You’re books are forever banned from the shelves of–”

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m selling pages and information. Books. Recipes. Paula Deen didn’t know me from Adam when she fell from grace and she doesn’t know me now. I’ve never prepared food based on her recipes.

But I won’t deny someone else that chance and – me, a sale.

It isn’t personal or principal here. Just business. (I’m not a serial killer either, but sell murder mysteries.) The chef is losing sponsors for her past comments, but not so much for her past comments as for her inability to say today: “Woopsie! I guess I messed up there. Forgive me?”

It would have worked for a disgraced US president way back then and for a Deep South deep-fryer in this day and age.

Pride goeth, they say, before a fall. Wow. What a fall. Fail, as they say these days. But don’t start remembering later those loose words said these days, or don’t speak today those words that may be later recalled.

Cookbooks? Got ‘em. Political spin-doctoring? Not so much. But, you aren’t looking for those, anyway. Come visit!

McHuston

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

New weak. Week, that is.

June 24, 2013 /

Bang! Bang! The front door was rattling on its hinges under a heavy fist. Bang! Bang! Bang! I hustled out of the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel as I headed to the front of the store. As I passed the register, I glanced at the clock display.

Nine-forty.

A tall man was peering through the front glass window, long fingers cupped around his eyes to shield the glare.

“Book emergency,” I said aloud, approaching the door. I was trying to imagine what sort of reading was required on a Monday morning that brought about door-pounding and through-the-window-searching.

Rare as they are, B-Es do happen. (B-E: what we call a Book Emergency in the trade. They are rare enough, like exorcisms in the Catholic Church.) Had one several months ago on a Sunday, when a mother had just gotten the last-minute news that her daughter’s weekend assignment required a particular book. Closed Sunday, but I was working, as usual. Cleaning the floors, as I recall.

I had answered the phone and explained about the hours, but I could immediately sense her desperation. It came buzzing right through the phone line.

“Suppose I could check the shelf,” I admitted. She exhaled, with a sort of relief sound. Turns out, there was a copy ready to go. When I told her I had it in stock, she made noises like you would expect from someone whose IRS audit had just been cancelled. Cancelled for good.

She’d be right down, she said.

And she was.

This morning, I was trying to spot that same facial expression, that look of relief that the current Book Emergency would soon be handled. He didn’t look that way, at all. More a look of frustration.

The folklore says most B-Es will be met with “Thank Goodness!” as the first uttered words on contact with a bookseller. It’s like black box recordings of cockpit conversations, last words before the plane goes down – those – most uttered words. The man didn’t say Thank Goodness. (To his credit, he also didn’t say those infamous black box words either.)

“Are you open?” he called, moving toward the door.

“No,” I said, before I could reel in my mouth. “That’s why the door is locked. I open at ten, when everything is ready.”

“Ten o’clock,” he repeated. “Seems like all the shops wait ‘til then.”

“It’s customary,” said I.

“Kind of sleepy area, I guess,” he shot back, and turned to walk away.

I let the door swing shut as I watched them. There is no hard fast rule here. If I had everything ready in the kitchen, if the gravy wasn’t just coming to a boil, if the potatoes had already been mashed – I would not have minded opening the door early. But there were only twenty minutes left to finish up all those things in the kitchen before unlocking the door.

It was barely enough time.

Sleepy, he had said.

Truth to tell, I had been at it since seven-thirty.

Sleepy? Hardly.

I re-opened the door and poked my head out.

“You know,” I called after them. “I don’t feel good about that Sleepy thing.”

Don’t say anything else, I tried to tell my mouth. But it sometimes has a mind of its own.

He probably didn’t care one whit, but I mentioned the fact that – although the wee shop was nae open, it did not mean I wasn’t hard at work. I pointed out that – working by myself – I have to get a lot of things done before I can open the front door, and after I lock up at the end of the day, the work isn’t necessarily over.

I wrestled my mouth to the ground at that point. No one hurt. Phew. I used it instead to work up a smile and offer up an apology. My gravy was no doubt boiling over in the pan and (I noted to myself) my steam was all boiled off.

Another week raring to go: Happy Monday! Come visit!

Got the time?

June 20, 2013 /

Man. One time-warp ought to be enough. Three in a week? That’s a bit over the top, in my book.

That big bank clock across the street caused the first one. Bam! I look up Saturday afternoon, and it’s three-thirty! Where did the day go? I had several projects needing attention, but – Hey! – there isn’t enough time left now. Close at 5pm on Saturday. Tackle the job on Monday.

What? I look down later (later, I tell you…) at the little time indicator at the corner of the computer screen. It says two-o’clock. Somethings wrong. Computer glitch. Melt-down. Dell laptop brain freeze.

The cash register has a time function. When I’m not ringing up a sale, it shows the time. Sort of. Probably, the correct time in Denver. I never re-set it for Daylight Savings Time. But I know that. Just add an hour.

What? It’s showing one o’clock. Computer: two o’clock. I glance over at the bank. Man. Banker’s hours. It’s showing 4pm. 4pm.

Time warp.

Bank error – not in my favor. No collecting nothing.

So, what was going to be a quick Saturday, my only workday to get off a little bit early, now is going to be a dragger-outer. Hey! Someone stole two hours from me. They ain’t coming back. Even this evening. Take a look at those late evening shadows on the clock and compare it to the time o’day showing. The shadow is the cattle-guard iron fence on the bookstore roof showing on the bank at sundown. Someone needs to wind that big Ben.

Time warp.

Today, I finally got to the project that I should have finished on Saturday. Dragged a book case down from the loft. It was a lawyer leftover, I guess. Already here when I moved in, but covered with construction dust so thick I swore I’d never need it badly enough to do the clean-up.

Clean-up this evening. Needed it badly enough.

I needed a spot behind the counter where I could stash spray bottles, paper towels, special order books – odds and ends, you know. The stuff that would go in the kitchen junk drawer, but they’re too big to fit. I don’t have kitchen cabinets out here.

Everything was pretty well caught up. A get-out-and-go-to-the-house-on-time night. Bam! Clean up the bookcase. Clear out the space for it behind the counter. Dust.

Dust?

Where did that come from? How can there already be a collection of dust in that space back in the corner by the edge of the counter? Oh. It’s been a year (or more) since we moved that big counter in through the skinny door. A year (or more).

Time warp.

It just doesn’t seem that long. I’m trying to get all these things done to get the shop up and running, and Bam! A year has gone by. Man.

Time warp.

So I grab the broom and the dust pan. I yank loose some paper towels and a super-spray cleaner. Squirt, spray, wipe. Cough. Sweep, bend, bang into the trash can. Repeat.

Repeatedly.

What? Oh. There’s a lady talking to me, wondering if I’m still open. I guess I am, since she is inside and I haven’t attended to any of the closing duties. I look around, start to look at the bank clock – reassess – and look down at the little computer screen indicator. 7:10pm.

Time warp.

Ever happen to you? How a little project spins off another? You move this from here to there and then experience the attack of the dust bunnies? Back! Back! Knock them back! Then, the squirt bottle overspray must be wiped up and the paper towel comes up grimy. Another forgotten corner. Clean it. Clean it.

It’s still only around five, isn’t it?

Lady, at the counter: Are you still open?

Me, freaked out. Sure. Sure. I’m just trying to get an early start on the clean-up.

Lady, looking confused: How late do you stay open?

Me: ‘Til seven.

Lady: Well then. I guess you’re getting an early start on tomorrow’s clean-up. I’ll be quick. I know what I want.

Slam! Bam! Time warp.

Another late night at the shop, hours seemingly sucked completely away like dirt in a Dyson with the rollerball.

The other image would have been another time warp, given that I thought there was no activity on the Main Street renovation. I just hadn’t been paying close enough attention, since it began at the south end of the district. In truth, they’ve dug up a lot of pavement on Main, and have almost readied the east side from Commercial to Dallas.

Bam! Nah. No time warp, this time. Unless that fellow in the picture with the metal detector brings up something hidden under the dirt since the time Main Street left dirt behind in favor of asphalt.

Come visit! (Don’t waste time…)

McHuston

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

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