Titles, Inc.

Florence Shay, 1922-2012

Florence loved writing this blog and hearing from all of you. Family and friends welcome your thoughts and tributes. Her laughter and voice reverberate in our ears, her memory adds richness to our hearts and the writing she enjoyed over the years will remain here for all of us to treasure. Below please find funeral and obituary information. Many thanks for all your friendship and support.

-- Florence's family

Florence Shay nee Gerson.
Beloved wife of Arthur Shay.
Devoted mother of Jane (the late Eliot) Wald, Richard (Jami Good) Shay, Lauren (Carl) Lavin, Steven (Laura Wold) Shay and the late Harmon Shay.
Mother in law of Bonnie Hillman Shay.
Proud grandmother of Austin (Beth), Seth (Kate), Carter and Celeste Lavin, Natalie and Gabriella Shay.
Adored great grandmother of Moses Lavin.
Dear sister of Donald (the late Louise) Gerson and the late Ruth (the late Mac) Antillis.
Service Sunday, 1 p.m. at Congregation B'nai Torah, 2789 Oak St., Highland Park, IL 60035.
Interment Shalom.
Memorials in her memory to Congregation B'nai Torah, Planned Parenthood or to a charity of your choice would be appreciated.
Arrangements by Chicago Jewish Funerals-Buffalo Grove Chapel 847.229.8822, www.cjfinfo.com

Florence Shay, a rare-book dealer whose shop in Highland Park, Titles, Inc., served for four decades as a salon for bibliophiles, died Aug. 22. She was 90 years old and until her recent illness was a constant presence in her store, at book fairs and as a leader of local and national associations of antiquarian book dealers.

Born in New York City on Valentine's Day in 1922 as Florence Gerson, the future book dealer graduated from Brooklyn College where she studied psychology. Married to an Army aviator, Art Shay, who became a writer and photographer, Florence moved with her husband as his career at Life magazine sent them first to San Francisco and then, in 1950, to the Chicago area.

As she settled in Deerfield and raised five children -- Jane, Harmon, Richard, Lauren and Steven -- Florence Shay also became active in a used book sale that supported ORT, the Jewish organization committed to "educating people against all odds and obstacles." Together with a partner, Shay turned that experience into Titles, Inc., a store that for four decades has specialized in first editions, Chicago-related topics, illustrated and art books, leather sets, and other rare volumes.

A passionate advocate for books, authors and booksellers, Shay treasured her correspondence with Joseph Heller, David Mamet and local collectors, including Chicago Bulls point guard B. J. Armstrong. Inscribed photos of these and other luminaries line the walls of her shop. Many of the books she sold were also inscribed by the authors, ranging from photography books by her husband to the Hollywood autobiography of Gloria Swanson, “Swanson on Swanson.”

As a board member of the Midwest Antiquarian Booksellers Association (MWABA), and a prominent figure within the national group, the Antiquarian Booksellers' Association of America, Shay was instrumental in bringing the prestigious international antiquarian book show to Chicago.

Shay, a longtime resident of Deerfield, also focused her attention on her local community, remaining active in the the Highland Park Chamber of Commerce, which recently recognized her for running one of the oldest continuing operating stores in town.

As the grand dame of her own salon at Titles, Shay found that her early academic work in pyschology was often useful when regular customers, famous and otherwise, sought her advice, empathy and wise words.

A prolific writer, she served as a contributing editor of The Caxtonian, the regular publication of the Caxton Club. In her 80’s, Shay started a blog at www.florenceshay.com and recounted the best stories of those Titles discussions for readers around the world. A recent entry quoted a customer who found the very book once treasured by her own sister:  “My sister screamed when I gave her the book.  She pushed it in my face, and said See, see, it’s MY book, here’s my name!” Shay ended the item with a warning to e-book readers: “You can’t get this with a Kindle.  God bless books.”

One son, Harmon, and a sister, Ruth, pre-deceased her. Shay is survived by her husband, Art; their other children; six grandchildren; one great-grandchild; and a brother, Donald.

Services will be Sunday, 1:00 pm at Congregation B’nai Torah, 2789 Oak St., Highland Park, IL 60035.

Memorials may be made in her memory to Congregation B’nai Torah, to Planned Parenthood or to a charity of your choice.

As Florence Shay directed, the store will close by the end of the year. The highlights of her 40 years of acquisitions will be sold at Leslie Hindman Auctioneers in an auction set for Wednesday, Nov. 7. The store will be open as usual through that period, with substantial discounts on other items including books, figurines and prints.

This month, her friend, the Smashing Pumpkins star Billy Corgan, wrote an essay for the Ravinia program about the local area that called Titles "a Highland Park mainstay."

"Run affectionately and decisively by Florence Shay," Corgan wrote, "it's a small bookstore with a big heart: hosting a deep well of off-the-beaten-path tomes that would make even the stingiest bibliophile happy. I've never failed to leave Titles without either a new old book under my arm, or at least the trailing echoes of a vigorous conversation by which to further contemplate my ongoing existential crisis." 

Her 95th Birthday Party

The invitation arrived well before the Saturday evening event at the country club signaling the kind of party it would be by suggesting you come in your fancy clothes. Our dear friend was celebrating his mother’s 95^th birthday.  Wow, I would be a youngster there. We love the host, Michael, we love his wife, Valerie. We accepted the honor.

No problem with my dress.  I had shopped hard to find a Grandma-of-the-groom dress for my darling grandson, Austin’s wedding to wonderful Beth a year ago when I was stricken with ill health and could not attend. I have the strappy, pointy toe shoes. I decided against the knee length skirt covered with strips of diagonal ruffles, I’d be in the wheel chair. Surely a silky pant. Yes, here’s one from a wedding in Sweden about 40 years ago. Throw nothing out – you never know. Art had his black suit at the ready.  He showed me the brown plaid shirt he intended to wear with an orange tie. He wore a white shirt and the tie had a little pattern on it. One party-goer stood conspicuous in his tan suit and I did not see a mate with him who would have hollered 'No you’re not!'

A good friend drove us. He assured us he would retrieve us. At any hour. He did mention that he and his son were leaving the house the very next morning at 6 for a bike ride into the city along the lakefront.  A 20-mile bike ride at any time would be crazy, but 6 AM is nuts. The country club grounds ambled on and on. Finally the Club House. Many in attendance already. We were greeted by a lovely lady who introduced herself as the birthday celebrant. This is what 95 looks like today?  This is the old lady I was going to burnish my appearance on? This handsome woman who had joined into the melee of dancers at the end of the party? God Bless Her.

We joined the party and Art pushed my chair as we looked for a familiar face. None. So we rolled around again looking at all the food on tables circling the huge room. I was looking for anything that couldn’t drip. From of the many circuiting trays I chose a tiny crispy cone with salmon, and an enclosed wrap, crab? Big drink bar. We drifted then settled at the periphery to watch the passing show.

What a show. Red Carpet at the Oscars? Forget it. One dress after the other of gorgeousness. Sitting in a wheelchair the perspective is different. Although you see the dress, more attention is on the skirt and shoes. Dresses with hemlines covering the crotch dropping in the back sometimes to the floor, sometime to the calf, but in various shapes, sharp point off center and varieties of that. One dress took considerable attention to figure out – long to the floor sheer scarf with tall, loose swaying fronds coming back to the waist.  Mostly black with a sprinkling of white dresses, silver. A little color. Bare shoulders, bare backs. Oh yes, my dress had come with bare shoulders, but I had the tailor put on chiffon sleeves.  And the shoes! You see them in the mag ads, staggeringly stunning, but nobody staggered, and all with the fragile ankles required.

Intermittently someone would come up to distract me by being socially gracious. My hearing aids were exploding with sound so I had to remove them which left me practically deaf. I was “chatting” with a lady, nodding when she nodded, shaking my head sadly with some commiseration in response to her expression at that moment and smiling and nodding as she parted. I turned to Art, offering up my ear for translation. He reported. She said her husband died and they have a houseful of books she wants to sell you. O M G  Did you get her name? He nodded.

Interrupting the uniformity of the men in black, were the long legged Men in Kilts.  Valerie is a gen-u-wine Scot. Her guests from Scotland came appropriately attired in the colorful Scottish garb lending whimsy to the room. I called up to this handsome man, “You look great!” and his face broke into a little boy’s big grin.

While I appraised all this beauty, Art was watching the door to the banquet room, with our little ticket #4. We entered to find #4 where I would have chosen, back up against the window wall with a panoramic view of the room. However when seated, the room became a mass of black suits.Still, it was showtime.  As Dr. Michael called each man to address the crowd, it was  synchronized, choreographed. The 350 guests raised their glasses, laughed, nodded, and applauded. Me, deaf as the doorknob sat like a bump on the log. Good planning put a friend/couple next to us.  She said they moved to our neighborhood.  I asked whether they could drive us home  Sure, she said. Art grabbed his phone and released our driver, Jeff. The good dinner finally. Me fish, Art steak, and next to him  a huge bowl of Pilaf, vegan? 

The tables cleaned, the musicians were on.  The dancing crowd centered the floor. Hello, dancing Birthday Mother. And there was Melanie, swinging with wild abandon.  Melanie had just come down only this year from living in a tree house in Maui, but she adjusted to Chicago streets quickly. Melanie is interested in theater and is now involved with Impromptu (Second City) and you can bet she’s a winner at that too. When Joanie showed back at the table, Art asked whether we could leave.  Astonished she said, They haven’t served coffee yet , I can’t leave without my coffee. Art, finally, catching on to the tempo, picked up his camera and walked into the crowd of dancers for his own pictures. Coffee came. They drank coffee,  me¸ green tea. 

Suddenly, Joanie rushed up. My son phoned, he’s at the house, I forgot, can we leave immediatley?  We retrieved Art and scurried out. 

Back at the house, I looked at the clock. We had left at 5 PM.  Surely it was now 4 AM?  What? What? It was 10:40 PM. Never-the-less I considered flinging myself into the bed in my Austin-Beth dress, but tossed it to the chair where it slithered off along with my long strand of white-water pearls. In bed, before falling asleep, I realized I had a MARVELOUS time.

Thank you again, Michael, Valerie, and Happy Birthday to 95 year old Mother!!!

---Florence

 

The Mystical Book

My professional book association (ABAA), Antiquarian Booksellers Association of America, has been running a chat line of weird experiences concerning book buying. One man said he went to a book store while visiting in Fiji and bought back a book he had long ago sold to his local collector.

It brought to mind a couple of sales in my store.  A lady wanted to buy an early arithmetic book, a soft cover she had used in her fourth grade, to show the contrast to her daughter’s current curriculum. I looked at the women -– about 50 years old. I said, “Sorry, I don’t carry any school books, and no soft covers, none at all.” If I don’t see a market for a book, it doesn’t take up shelf space. I do buy odd-ball books that appeal to me personally, thinking someone else might share my quirky taste, and it works.

She wandered around, and returned to the desk with a floppy book, and says. “Here it is.”  I stare at the arithmetic book in her hand, astonished. What!!! I was speechless. I wrote it up, dumbfounded. She said, “Thank you,” and left.

Another time. A chatty lady walked in, an out-of-towner visiting for a wedding.  She said after kissing all those cheeks, she shoots out to her favorite stores when she travels, collectible book stores.  Drifting around, she reminded herself, “My sister had a favorite girl’s series book.  She loved the first in the series, and I try to find it.”  An obscure series, I don’t remember the name, but I did have one.  Only the second in the run.  She said, “OK, why not.”

I got a phone call from her a few days later. She said, “My sister screamed when I gave her the book.  She pushed it in my face, and said See, see, it’s MY book, here’s my name!” It went all the way home to Oregon.

You can’t get this with a Kindle.  God bless books.

---Florence

 

Hoity Toity Salon

I have been thinking forever of having a Salon in the shop. I’ve even named it in my mind: The Third Thursday Salon. I think it has a poetic turn to it, not to mention a reminder of when to tidy up and get the food out. I planned on having this intellectual group exchange pithy ideas (no politics please), philosophical thoughts, wisdom useful to us all. Maybe it was the tidying up part that kept me from this daydream.

Actually these same people don’t wait until that special Thursday to show up. But we don’t discuss smart things. We talk about how things are going with us. Like this really hot guy whose girlfriend drives him nuts. She’s either loving or mean. I tell him to dump her. He came in enraged one day: “That’s it! No more! I told her we’re through. I don’t need this abuse.” Good for him. Weeks later he had to tell me: “Don’t be surprised when you see Maggie at my birthday party. She told me she really loves me.” Yuch. Dumb men.

My lawyer/customer/visitor chats about everything except law. But he did discuss a case with me, and I felt very respected when he turned to me for help. He needed the identity of a local garage owner whose mechanic forgot to screw down the motor of his client’s car. Unfortunately the motor dropped out while she was driving. I read enough mystery novels to know how to solve a crime. I phoned City Hall and the Chamber of Commerce, but by golly, they did not know who owned that garage. This called for subtle maneuvering. I asked the service man at the station where I gas up. He didn’t know, but he asked another service manager and this chain continued until the hidden owner was revealed. The lawyer regarded me as another Miss Marple and I loved it. Then he came up with a new assignment. He asked me to find another elusive person. When I heard the name I said Fuggedaboudit. Even I recognized that name as Mafia.

Well, yes, I do have a guest who buys philosophy books and discusses them. Unexpectedly perhaps, he’s a major sports figure. He doesn’t hang out with members of the team: “All they want to do is talk about sports. I play the game. It’s not my life.” I like to listen to his philosophical ideas, but I got outraged and argumentative when he said there is no such thing as Love – it is all lust. I didn’t suggest that his recent divorce might have colored his judgment. I insisted there was Love. Every argument I offered, like what about parent to child, he had a substitute word for Love. When he got up to leave, I stretched up to hug and kiss him, our goodbye ritual. I said, “I am not accepting what you say. I love you.” He said, “I love you, too.” And we both laughed.

On reflection, it seems urgent to have these social visits to keep from being overtaken by texting. Let’s keep the pleasure, artfulness, joyfulness, intimacy of Conversation alive.

---Florence

But It’s So Old!

He was a cocky little fellow, about 12 years old, strutting to my desk at the far end of the shop. His mother followed timidly behind. He thrust a book at me, and said, “This is an old, and very valuable book.” I’m pleased when children show an interest in books, so I took the time to educate him.

It was a book of poetry by an author who may have been loved in his day, but is unknown today. I said, kindly, “I’m afraid there wouldn’t be any interest in this book because the author isn’t remembered today.” “Just because you don’t know him doesn’t mean nobody else knows him.” Uh oh. “Look,” I said, “See? On the title page? This book was printed in 1881, but the copyright here on the back says 1879. So this is a later printing. Collectors like first editions, the earliest printing.” “But it’s so old”, he insisted. I tried a different approach. “This book is very shabby, see - the spine is beat up, worn away at both edges, and the covers are hanging loose. The condition of the book is very important when we are considering value.” He scoffed, “When it’s this old what do you expect?” “I expect it to look like new,” I scoffed right back.

He said, “I took it to another lady who sells books, and she told me it was very valuable.” Holding my temper with difficulty, I continued the lesson. “See the title page? It says complete in four volumes. This is volume three. Do you have the other volumes?” knowing the answer before I heard his “No.”

“Well.” I said triumphantly, “If you had an antique table with only one leg, it would no longer be a valuable antique.” “Yes, it would. I’d have three matching legs made for it.” “It would no longer be a valuable antique,” I repeated.

He insisted. “That lady told me it is very valuable.” Losing my cool, I said a bit loudly, “So why didn’t she buy it?” He said, “It’s not for sale. I just want to know how much it’s worth, and You Don’t Know Anything!”

That did it. Outraged, I used the silent movie gesture swinging my arm across my body in a full motion and pointed to the door. “OUT,” I screamed. He stood there, his mother tugging at his shirt. “OUT,” I repeated, arm rigidly pointing. He moved backward, reluctantly, calling, “You can’t throw me out, my father’s a lawyer, we’ll sue you, we’ll sue you! You don’t know anything!”

My sympathies for the mother.

---Florence

Men, Teach Your Wives

Yes, men teach your wives arithmetic before they become your widows.

A phone call from a widow explained why I hadn’t seen the husband/customer for a while. He was deceased. Would I be interested in buying his books? Yes.

It was a very large ranch-style house with a full-size basement stretching the length of the house. Racks of bookcases filled the room, library style, with only enough room for a person to slide sideways between the stacks. He collected the sciences and medical books. Although not spectacular, I wanted them all, well, not all –- there were “popular” books in the mix.

I knew I didn’t have storage space for the huge quantity I was planing to buy. I pulled out a grouping of books. I said: “I will come regularly and buy a large group of books. Now, I will give you $100 each for the books in this stack and $50 each for this stack.” She said, “Oh no, I know he paid twice that for some of them.” Did I want to explain why a dealer does not pay retail? She said, “I have another name to call.” I asked her to call me and let me know how it went and I would be happy to come back.

She phoned me, triumphant, a few days later. “I got $ 7,000. He bought 1,000 books. He went right out and came back with a truck!!!!” I was stunned. I said, “You sold your books for $ 7.00 each.” “No,” she said shrilly, “$7,000.”

Slowly, I said,” If one book is $7 then 10 books are $70, 100 books $700, 1,000 books $7,000.” Long pause. I waited. “Well,” she said, “I got $ 7,000.” I said, pleasantly, “OK. You’ve established the price at $7.00 each. Do you have any books left? I can come back and buy the left-overs for $7 each.” She said that would be all right. I asked who bought her books. I did not know the man, but I called him immediately.

I told him I had seen the books and it was a heck of a deal for 1,000 books. He chortled, "1,000 books? I got much more than 1,000 books. She liked that number. I just kept loading the truck.” I told him there were several medical books I wanted to buy from him and I could wait until he unloaded the truck. He told me that they were all gone. He said he stopped at every dealer on his way back to Michigan, and unloaded the entire truck. He said, “There was no dickering. I couldn’t lose.” I don’t remember him. I didn’t want to remember him.

(I did learn something important from him though which fits into the lesson: Men teach your wives arithmetic. If you tell the seller, “I will give you $10 each for these books” it sound cheap. If you say, "I will give you $100” for the same group, it sound like real money.)

Back at the widow’s house, I searched through the remaining books. He knew what he was doing. Left were the commonplace books and lots of scholarly paper pamphlets. I took the pamphlets, many of which are still on my shelves and reduced down to $7.00.

--- Florence



So What’s On Your Mind?

Even after 35 years in the bookshop, I am still having a good time. By now it is as much a social venue as a commercial bookstore. People drop in to visit. Out-of-towners come in to revive the old friendship. Sometimes people even stop in to buy a book. And I stop talking long enough to write up your sale.

If you wander in, you are fair game. We discuss your shoes, your health, your occupation. A young man sitting opposite me at my desk with his purchase had an unkempt beard. “Your beard is a mess,” I berated him. “You have a fine face, great angles, the beard does you a disservice.”  (You can get away with a lot when you are an “older” person – they are reluctant to kick you in the shins.) The next week this very handsome young man comes in and, by golly, yes, he shaved it all off. “I think you are right,” he says, “everyone tells me I look good, and, actually, I like seeing my face again.”  I was flabbergasted.  

There is something about a bookshop, I think, that puts you in a comfort level. People reveal problems with children, parents, mates, the job. And it’s not hands off here. I tell everyone who looks needy how to live his life. 

Here’s a weird coincidence. After writing the above yesterday, a man came into the store and reminded me that he had stopped by about five years ago. After some small talk, he said, “I had to come in to thank you for your excellent advice.” I have no idea what my excellent advice had been, but he was beaming as though I surely remembered so I didn’t ask. Now he said he’s thinking of relocating out west. His father died, and left him and his three sisters a house in Montana.

There was a question mark in his voice, and I automatically fell into my role with my response. He considered, and slowly said, “That’s a Very Good Question.” This exchange followed several more times until I realized he had deliberately come in to ask for a new direction to his life. I just kept throwing questions at him until he could figure out what he wanted to do. Then, an obvious question.

I asked, ”What are your three sisters planning to do with this house you all just inherited?  Maybe you should find out before you cross the country to move in?” Pause. He answered, “That’s a Very Good Question.” We left it at that.

I should add another line in gold onto my window: Consultation and Therapy Inside.

--- Florence

 

No Moon, No Stars

It was a dark and gloomy night and I was glad I was not driving.

Then I remembered a dark night when I was alone in my car at the wheel. It was a dark night, a very dark night, a black night. I was returning from a book association board meeting which lasted too long.  (They all do, don’t they?) It was out of my neighborhood and before the days of GPS.

This road had no street lamps, little traffic. I drove with my eyes glued to the tail lights of the car ahead of me. I was following it on blind faith, literally. Suddenly his red light blinked, he made a sharp right turn off the road and was gone. He was home free. Me? I figured I had about a mile ahead of me until my turn–off corner. Did I say it was pitch black outside?

I hastily looked at my rear view mirror and saw a stream of cars now following me. Cleverly I pulled over to the right and crawled almost to a stop, allowing the car behind me to move ahead. I watched as the whole line of them imitated my act.  No sir, I was lead navigator and was not being relieved of that honor. Bravely, timidly, blindly I pulled ahead, with my face thrust forward almost on the window as if that would help. I realized if I zigged where the road zagged, we would have an enormous pile-up I wouldn’t even get to see. It was with enormous relief that I approached what instinct told me was my turn-off and on to a better-lit street. 

What did I learn from that experience?  Nothing.

---Florence

 

He's The Greatest

There’s no such thing as too much adulation. Stephen Daiter Gallery had a one man, Art Shay photo show. It did include one picture each by Henri Cartier-Bresson, Weegee, Robert Frank, Walker Evans, and W. Eugene Smith for historic interest. I said, ''If everyone shows up who says he will, they won’t fit through the door.” They all showed up, but it is such a large gallery, they all did fit in, all 500-600 of them. I shook so many hands, smiled and smiled and wished I knew who many of the congratulatory people were. There was a cross-over of customers to my rare book shop and Art’s photo collectors.

Tony Fitzpatrick returned to Chicago from his trip to NY a few days early to be able to attend the event. Can’t overlook Tony. Tony is a large man. A big man. With a wool hat on his head. He looks like a truck driver of a moving van. Tony is an actor who writes his one-man plays and performs them on stage. On the stage he floats. He is mesmerizing. After Tony’s show I bought one of his published art books while in the lobby waiting with a crowd for autographs. He recognized Art by reputation, we had lunch with him sometime later, and now here he is at Art’s show. We will have lunch again we both promised.

Tim Anderson, artist, was there. Some time ago we had dinner in a group and Tim drew a profile of Art on a napkin. They passed it down to me and I protested, “You don’t have the nose right. Art has a little nose, not bulbous.” He asked for the napkin back, wet the nose and corrected it. I said, “Now you can sign it,” and after he did, I very carefully tucked it into my purse. I haven’t seen it since. Probably, unthinkingly, I pulled it out to wipe a dripping nose.

Another couple put off their trip back to their home in Paris so they could attend this show.

A young lady rescheduled her long-planned trip to Europe to attend Art’s photo show.

Billy Corgan was there surrounded by awed rock music lovers. The Smashing Pumpkins were memorable. Billy is writing and traveling, performing. Can’t miss him in a crowd either. He’s the very tall, adorable fellow with the shiny bald head. (On him it looks great.)

Someone pointed out a runner-up Nobel Prize winner in cancer prevention research. I was impressed. See, you don’t have to be in the arts to want to look at Art’s photos. I could list the people in finance, but I won’t. I can’t overlook the divorce lawyer –- stunning, tall, slender, her long, straight hair flowing past her shoulders. That’s a divorce lawyer?

Look at all the people asking Art for his autograph!

Let me report that Art is NOT impossible to live with after all this adulation. Ladies, you know what I mean.

--- Florence

Art at Apple

That Apple store in Chicago’s downtown is humongous. And staffed with so many young people in distinctive red smocks. (I was told the red was for the Christmas season, that blue is the regular color.) But you all know that - I am probably the only one who had not been into an Apple store until now.

Art had been invited to present a slide show/lecture there. They had two large screens set up on each side of the lectern, all up on a platform, chairs loosely set around. Big, enthusiastic crowd, all seemingly with cameras and shooting Art, and each other, all night. I saw a lot of rotten pictures of me. Someone once commented after looking through old photo albums how beautiful I looked in every picture. Well, duh, I tore up everyone I didn’t like. Now it’s saved forever in cyberspace up in a Cloud somewhere. I don’t understand it, but if I can’t edit, I sure don’t like it. It was a well-received program, boisterous applause, everyone shaking hands all around. I met a lot of nice people I only knew by name before. (Hi, Chuck Sudo and team, Chicagoist.com).

We had been picked up at our suburban home by a friend who brought along another friend and we stopped for an early dinner before the Event. When I saw the size of the food covering my platter, I neatly cut it in two, the tilapia with the almonds, along with spinach and asparagus, taking half home, easy to do in the winter with the car’s temperature equivalent to the refrigerator.

So when our friend of good cheer, Dan, invited us all to continue the evening over drinks, Art and I looked at each other and both demurred.

It had been a delightful, fun-filled evening that didn’t need that drink to top it off.

--- Florence

Intrusive Music

It was such a brilliant phrase that I stirred myself awake to write it on a slip of paper on my night table. In the morning I read “teetered but held.” Hmmm. Not bad, but what was teetering? I could not remember the blog I was writing in my mind. I was probably dreaming it, but nothing remained except the three provocative words.

Here’s something I do wake up with – music in my ears that stops only when I am talking or listening to something else. Over and over I was hearing "Silent Night, Holy Night, All is Calm… " and this was well before Christmas. Almost immediately after being beset by this most uncomfortable can’t-shake-it music, I read about it. No solution, but a name. It’s called an ear-worm.

Shortly afterward I had an office visit with my doctor and asked how to erase it from my head, and he laughed, “A friend just told me he keeps hearing “It’s a Small World After All.” I don’t know why it struck him funny. Well, it wasn’t singing in his head. I tried to change songs. All I could come up with was "Sing a Song of Six Pence." I got stuck and sang to Art, ”The maid was in the garden…” I stopped abruptly and looked questioningly at him, and he obligingly sang, “Hanging up the clothes.” Yes, now I had a whole new song. It started a pattern – different songs would sing in my head. This morning I woke up to, “You’re in the army now, you’re not behind the plow, you gotta get up….” Good grief, WWII. But mostly it’s “Round yon vir-irgin mother and child…”

So, who out there knows about ear-worms and how do I get rid of this background head music? Help!

--- Florence