Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: used (Page 26 of 47)

Perseverance and Panning for Book-Gold.

Whap! Whap! Woohoo! (That’s me slapping myself on the back and giving a general cheer…) The result of proving to myself that an occasional reward is extended for tenacity and sticky-to-it-ness as a book detective.

It might have been five years ago when a customer asked if I could find a book for him. Sure can, I replied. I’ve had pretty good success searching out titles, largely due to the internet. Before the Web, finding an out of print book meant calling bookstores one after another. Visiting fleamarkets. Book fairs. Taking extended buying trips out of state.

Now, I can scour shops from coast to coast by simply visiting a couple of websites. Auctions like eBay have new offerings daily.

Still – the task I was given turned out to be a tough one. It wasn’t the first time I was asked to find a particular book based on the color and shape, but it was the only time I’ve taken up the challenge.

Over the years, the customer has stayed with me – now, he is a regular and respected client. We never meet, though, that he doesn’t ask me if I’ve had any success seeking out the book, the one printed in 1960 or ’61, the one with the white cover, the coil-spiral binding, and the smudgy black and white reference-guide pictures throughout the interior.

Me, repeating our routine of many years: Who’s the author on that?

Mr. Client: Don’t know.

Me, smiling through our stage-play: And what about a title?

Mr. Client: Don’t know it. It had a white cover and a spiral binding at the edge.

Me: The publisher?

Mr. Client: Probably privately published in Chicago.

Me: If I only had the author. Or the title. The publisher. I’m thinking it’s going to come to you in a dream one of these nights.

Mr. Client: Won’t happen. I was just a kid and didn’t pay enough attention.

And so, having run through our well-rehearsed exchange another time, I make a promise to keep me ears peeled, me nose to the stone, and me eyes to the ground in the continuation of the hunt.

There are plenty of tricks to searching the internet beyond the basics. I’ve tried them all. But I haven’t stopped there. I’ve written letters to dealers. Telephoned libraries. Emailed booksellers far and wide. Not many get past the first scoffing reaction to the idea of trying to find a particular book without knowing the title, author, or publisher.

“It’s coil bound,” I’ll tell them. “Probably privately published in Chicago.”

“Good luck,” most reply. “You’ll need it,” some add.

I received a dusting of good luck this week. Found the book.

After so many years, there’s no short way to describe the twisty, keyword-tweaking, obscure-location scouring methods that gave me a first hint of hope. Nah. Not hope. Just the slightest – possibility. The shortened version would go like this: I added a word or two in the search box, clicked on something and saw part of an online classified advertisement. It wouldn’t let me read the ad without first paying an auction-site membership fee, and if I had paid for each opportunity to look at a classified ad over the years it would have amounted to more than the price of the book.

There was this small, compressed-graphics image of a beat up looking old book with a coil binding. The part of the ad that wasn’t hidden from non-members indicated it was printed in the early 1960’s. I got out my magnifying glass and held it up to the computer screen.

There was an author’s name at the bottom of the cover in the picture.

Typed it in, and Bang! Three copies listed. One had an image of the red-ink cover. Not the white I’ve been looking for all these years, but I printed it out anyway. It was an image of the closest thing yet. Out of curiosity, I checked with the World Catalog to see how many copies existed around the world. Six. Including one at the Smithsonian, of all places. Six in libraries, three for sale. Nine in the world. Pretty much a needle-and-haystack search, if ever there was one.

At our next meeting, Mr. Client embarked on our Q-and-A routine about the book, no variation. Afterward, he added: How are we ever going to find it?

I slid the paper across the desk. Maybe you can look this one over, I said. Red cover though.

“That’s IT!”

And the hunt is ended, more than five years in.

Found the book after all, without the title and without the author’s name. Without knowing the publisher or release date. Only an incorrect description of the book’s appearance.

Feels good.

Find your own treasure (without a five year search!) Come visit!

McHuston

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

Here and now, and back then.

She’s five years old. Maybe six. Small enough that a dad’s arms can reach full ‘round her twice with room left to pull her in tight, hug-close. Such a pretty thing that you never want to let that hug loose. Never let her go.

Her hair is blond and longish. No particular style, because I don’t know much about that stuff. To me, it is perfect as it is – but I brush it on occasion – because that’s about all I’m qualified to take on.

I don’t know what she’s wearing, but it suits her exactly. I’m taking her all in because it seems like forever, but what I’m really looking at is her eyes. She isn’t crying because she doesn’t do that much. Ever, really. But if she wasn’t so stoic I might have seen a tear by now. It’s clear she is sad. Somehow, I can tell she is profoundly disappointed.

She says it out loud, at last.

“I didn’t get invited,” she manages. The tears were close, but she hardly ever goes there.

“To what?” I ask, knowing that the options for a five year old are limited. “Are you sure?” I’m hoping for clarification right off, trying to find some solid footing, some point of reference to make this all better. It’s a dad’s job, you know.

She is free of my hug but I am still squatting down before her so she’ll know she has my undivided attention. It is no performance on my part. It isn’t my job to slay dragons. It’s my passion. Clear the path. Teach, when possible. Inform, when relevant. Prepare her for the inevitability of her flight from the nest and watch with confidence when she first leaps into thin air.

That day is still far off. She’s five years old. Maybe six.

I’m waiting for her reply, but something is tickling in my head that she cannot already be worried about things like invitations. Then, something rattles around that time passes much too quickly. Remember this moment, I’m thinking.

Her hurt is palpable, but all I can remember is holding her close to me and how it seems like so long ago, but – didn’t I just let her loose?

“A birthday party.”

“Maybe they haven’t been sent out yet.”

“Everybody else got one,” she says in a voice almost a whisper. I know she wants to say more, but she won’t. Her point has been made. Nothing more need be spoken.

“Do you think it might still be in the mailbox?” I ask. Obviously, it is expressed with a naïve vestige of hope. I don’t remember retrieving the mail, but somehow I know that there was no invitation. Nothing at all addressed to my daughter. “Why don’t we check?”

Normally, that would be a mistake. There is some kind of confidence, though. Like an invisible sword and shield designed especially for attacks upon the children of men. Dads with daughters who think and act beyond their years. Those girls who won’t cower in the dark or cry out without cause. Who won’t much ask for help. I’m saying the words that should be the shield, if the construction of that thing holds true. I believe my own words.

“Let’s go look,” I say, and we walk through the hallway and out the front door. For some reason, the mailbox is across the street, one of those metal things with the red-raise-it flag and the hinge trap door. Someone is at it, just as we step onto the porch. I don’t recognize the person at all.

“Hey,” she calls out, looking in our direction. “There was something else in your mailbox.” The woman I don’t recognize at all holds aloft a square-shaped piece of correspondence.

“Looks like an invitation,” she adds, with a smile.

I look down to see the reaction on the face of my little one, but her expression is unreadable. Could be relief, but it doesn’t really resemble that. Joy would involve jumping or shouting, or some such thing. I want to believe it’s a look of appreciation for my simple suggestion to re-check the mailbox, a grownup response to her dilemma. Could be she’d already thought of doing that. She’s quick that way.

In the end, I don’t know. Just seeing the invitation in the woman’s hand had to end the disappointment. Her eyes are no longer cloudy, though. She is glowing like sunrise. My best guess? The world was righted – set back on its axis – at the moment the paper envelope escaped the mailbox. Nothing else to say about it.

Her arms came up toward me and I wrapped mine around her twice and pulled her hug-close. It feels just as real as it did so many years ago, back when she was five years old. Maybe six. I don’t want to let go.

Ever.

They’re funny like that sometimes, but sometimes not funny at all – just filled with lovely memories of those precious days in the nest with invisible swords and shields held aloft by dads in dreams…

Working late on the stacks of books, my head spinning with titles and prices and shelf locations – and thinking about my little girl with girls of her own – looking for those dream interpretation references!

Come visit!

McHuston

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

Apologies, from the orphans and myself.

I confess to it. I did it. Blame no one else. My apologies.

John Fogerty (and Creedence Clearwater Revival, or CCR as we hipsters used to call them) posed the musical question – Who’ll Stop the Rain? – back in 1970.

In mid-Summer 2013 in Broken Arrow, OK… I did. Sorry folks, I know we needed it, but I wanted to keep the driver’s seat dry and – without thinking – I strolled out and rolled up my car window.

Oops, and – again – sorry about that.

Nothing like anticipating a thing to kill any chance of it. As I look out the window now, even as it approaches dusk, there is nothing to be seen but blue skies over our fair city.

Sorry.

It would not have happened except for the fact that it is Sunday, store closed, day off, and here I am working away at the front counter. Pricing books and running them out to the shelves (maybe that’s a stretch. Limping them out quickly is probably more accurate), I noticed the cloud cover and thereby completed my rain-killing activities. I actually held off washing the car, which would have guaranteed a downpour.

Sorry.

As for the work aspect on the day of rest: I managed to get the huge backlog of books sitting around in stacks at the front of the shop on the shelves. I unpacked ten boxes of new arrivals and stacked them for sorting at the back. I inventoried (perhaps) three boxes of the new arrivals.

Would have done more, except I could tell they would require some reorganization of the shelves. Man. One thing does lead to another. Had to change the height of the shelves in several bookcases, dig out additional shelving from the back of the storage closet, clean everything as I moved it, and re-align the inventory. New signs had to be hand-labeled. Nothing too big when considered alone, but – as a project – enough to make an eight hour workday out of a store-visit on my day off.

While checking in the orphans (the books, you know, are like children in my custody and care while I prepare them for new homes), I realized that some of these are the final glimpses of our past. A good many of the books on the back table will never be digitized by Google or Kindle or Kessinger or anybody. These little orphans in my custody are truly – orphans.

Many are recollections of pioneer folks who lived in the times of our grandparents and great-grandparents, who took the time and effort to record on paper their stories. It’s clear from looking at the interior that a number of these have been typed by hand (on that old machine called a typewriter, which was like a keyboard without a screen, digital memory, or insert-mode). The subject? A specific and localized region of our US. Some of these contain history of Oklahoma and Indian Territory. Some are recollections of a family’s involvement in the history of that time. Some are from Arizona and New Mexico. There are books on this table with original source material from Nebraska, Minnnesota, and Illinois.

There is a book about the early history of a Caribbean island – not one of the tourist traps – with information that will never be found by the Google digitizing radar. The second image is a book by a woman in NW Oklahoma who chronicles her family’s life in that area, with details of the local history – facts that will be lost unless this particular orphan finds a good home.

Among the stacks in the image are several signed copies, including a memoir by the mother of Dr. Karl Menninger, an eminent psychiatric pioneer who autographed the title page with a note of his connection to the author. Getting a signed copy on your Kindle, Nook, or iPad just won’t be the same.

It made me a little more optimistic about the many shelves of dinosaur-style inventory I maintain. I understand the convenience and trendy-ness of electronic reading devices. Looking over and handling my physical inventory, for me, is a sensory connection. There is a place for plastic books displayed on a digital-file optimizing glass, with touch control. I know that. I can appreciate that. I just can’t believe it means there is no place remaining for paper-and-cloth-bound books in the digital age.

Maybe I’m in charge of protecting the orphans who won’t be a part of that assimilation. If any of you have concerns, their safety is well-placed, and I do my best to vet new guardians before letting them out the front door.

Come visit! (I’ll keep the orphan’s singing to a minimum!)

McHuston

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

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