Titles, Inc.

A Visit to the Doctor

Don't you just absolutely love coincidences!  This morning I went to the doctor's office to keep an appointment I made maybe four months ago.  You know how it goes - the problem was not pressing anymore, but after waiting so long, it seemed necessary to keep the appointment.

We keep loose schedules at the store, although every change from routine is indicated on the calendar.  This was one of those Oops moments.  The Wed. lady also had a doctor appointment, at the same time.  I do it rarely, but I had to hang a large note on the door saying Sorry, We will be back at 11:30.

This is the second time I've seen this doctor, and I love him already.  Before some action on his part, he warned,"This is going to sting."  After the procedure, I admonished, "Say it differently.  When you say it is going to sting, I tense up waiting for the pain.  It doesn't sting.  It's cold.  Say to the patient, 'This is going to be very, very cold'."  He came to another spot, and said, "This is going to be very, very cold."  "You're a quick learner,"  I said.  "That's what they told me in med school."  You see why I love him - he didn't tell me to shut up and who's the doctor around here anyway (which is what I would have said, were the positions reversed.)

The phone interrupted us, and he spent a brief time discussing something about associations, and advanced classes, money, companies.  When he hung up, I said, "I hate when I eavesdrop and can't understand a thing I am listening to."  Darned if he didn't explain the whole fascinating situation to me.  I summed up, "So he is making a large donation to this school project, but he's turned it into an investment by asking for a guaranteed return of 1% for every student enrolled."  "Exactly. That's why I'm calling a board meeting to re-evaluate the situation." 

It's a good thing I didn't need much medical attention.  Sharing ideas took up my allotted time.

So I get out of the elevator, walk through the lobby/lounge, and as I leave the medical building I hear my name  called.  I turn, and there is a friend coming after me.  "Wow, what are you doing in this neighborhood?" I asked.  "I dropped off my parents, and we got here early and the doctor is running late, so I thought I'd visit in your store, and there was that sign on your door, so I came back here, and I settled into a chair, opened my paper, and you walked out of the elevator!"

That's the weird coincidence I was talking about.

--Florence

Sunday With Books

The annual Book Sale held at DePaul U. had its usual wonderful array of splendid books.  The exhibitors at this event, Midwest Antiquarian Booksellers Association, or MWABA, included members from a widening geographical area - I was chatting with someone who brought his books from N.Carolina.  Why not.

I stopped exhibiting.  Packing 20 cartons of books, and then into the station wagon, and then out, and then on to other bookshelves hauled from the store.  No matter how many books you sell, it seems you still have the same 20 cartons to bring home. And then. The worst part.  Putting them back on the shelves in the proper spaces.  Which you have already filled in so the store doesn't look stripped of books over the weekend.  Nah, been there, done that.

Now I visit, and shop a little.  Found exactly the right book about the WWII Pacific Theater for a woman who wanted to give it as a gift.  Bought a delightful pop-up for myself, and a very small, thin blue leather book of Fairy Tales illustrated by David Hockney.  You might wonder at the combination of Hockney and fairy tales.  And you'd be right.  It's no match.  Still, I like the little thing.

Two personal things happened. 

A young man at his booth, said to me as I stopped to look at his books, "I am so glad to be able to tell you in person how much you have helped me.  I wouldn't be here, or even selling books at all, if you hadn't been so patient and kind when I bought a book in your shop and you answered all my questions and gave me so much attention and information about books.  I am so glad to be able to say thank you." 

I was astonished and happy that I had done some good.  His charming appreciation was flattering.  I loved it.

The next incident:  Before leaving I told a book dealer that I was disappointed that I didn't see her husband this time.  She brought him back from the lounge where he had been absorbed with his computer.  Greeting me, he said, "When I see you, I feel so guilty."

"Great," I said, "what a feeling of power, that I can make a big man like you cower.  But why do I make you feel guilty?"  "I crashed your laptop when I used it at your store."  "What?  I have absolutely no recollection of it.  None!  I remember a few weeks ago, my computer guru came in to get rid of all the pop-up screens I was getting, and not only couldn't he do it, he crashed the computer and spent three hours trying to restore it and then said cheerfully, ''Your computer had cancer, and I hastened its death,' and charged me for his three hours of unsuccessful resuscitation.  That, I remember.  But your visit?  I remember it as a happy occasion. "

I assured this husband that I never held him at fault, or I would have remembered.  "I can't say I forgive you, because I never blamed you."  I ordered him to immediately expunge his feeling of guilt.  "Easy for you to say," says he.  I couldn't believe he was so mortified.  "This minute.  Right now.  Get rid of it.  It's over! "   

So there it is, serendipity.  I went for pleasure, and it was necessary that I attend, after all.

--Florence

Without Wasabi

When I heard we were invited to join friends at the restaurant of their choice, Japanese, I was grumpy.  I hate sushi, teeny round discs with speckles of bright color in the center that are either bits of cucumber, avocado or salmon surrounded by compacted rice, and everything held in shape by a black skin.  (Once I took my little granddaughter to a picnic supper - we bought food at the supermarket and ate at the outside table.  She said she loved sushi so after carefully examining the varieties, she selected a little tray of it, and when we were seated outside, she carefully punched out the centers, and ate only the rice.) 

My husband assured me I'd find something else to eat, but I had read their menu when they first opened and it was every kind and shape of sushi-ish delicacies.  I comforted myself by knowing I enjoy the company of this couple even though I would probably starve.

At the restaurant, I searched the enormous menu, and by golly, there was grilled salmon.  I sat back while this savvy couple ordered this and that and the other.  All forms of raw fish. 

When it arrived, and kept arriving, it was all so attractive, so interesting, with explosions of shredded stuff crowning the small shapes.  There were four pieces on every plate so I was urged to try some.  Encouragingly, the friend pointed to one that was crowned with caviar.  Reluctantly I allowed myself to reach for that one, and the rest is history.  YUM!  A fast convert, I kept pace with the other diners.  And the salmon was yet to come. 

(I am just reminded of a huge buffet dinner, at a huge gathering, long ago.  I saw a platter of green stuff, and heaped it on a cracker because I love guacamole.  I almost died of asphyxiation.  It was wasabi.  Truly I coughed till I thought I would pass out.  This might be why I find Japanese food suspect.)

When my salmon came it was perched (pun!) on a lovely mound of mashed potatoes.  What an unexpected surprise.  I'm guessing every ethnic restaurant has a meal for the resistant member of the party. 

The lemon and peach sorbets we finished with were tartly delicious. 

And the conversation, as anticipated, was also tartly delicious.

--Florence

Transplants

A man approached my desk at the shop, and said he wanted me to find some books for him.  "May I sit down?" he asked.  "Please do."  "I get so tired," he said, "it's anti-rejection drug fatigue."  "Oh?" I encouraged.  "Yes, it's for my lung transplant."

"What, what? They are doing lung replacements? Are you saying you got a new half of a whole lung?" I was trying to picture it.  He knew what I meant.  "Yes, I got a left lung."  "Wow."  He gave me the story of his new lung.

He was the oldest person, at 73, to have ever gotten a lung transplant.  That was two years ago.  And at that time he was the 83rd person to have ever had the transplant.  (Do you know how many people are waiting for transplants of any organ? 90,000.)  He had been diagnosed with IPF.  He told me what that stands for and I only remember that P is for Pulmonary.  Hmm, F is probably for Failure.  And I is for?  Irresponsible?  Incipient?  I didn't write it down because it was so obvious when he explained it. 

For four years he had been visiting various pulmonologists, looking for a doctor who would put him on the list, but they all said he was too old.  He finally connected with one doctor who thought his general good health warranted his getting a new lung, and sent him to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester.

He had a battery of tests, returning home in between visits.  Then he got himself wait-listed at Loyola Hospital here in Chicago, and the test results were shared.  At that time he was 109th on the Mayo list.  There was no polite way for me to ask, but I did, "Why should they give it to you over a younger person with a lot more years in front of him?"  He said that's what the thinking used to be, but there was a recent change in the philosophy, and now Need overcame Time Listed.  If the younger person's health was not threatened, the older person in a higher state of risk was moved to the front of the line.

That moved him to 9th place on the list from 109. 

He got the phone call from Mayo - they had a lung - get going to Rochester on their private plane.  They want you at the hospital in 6 - 7 hours from the time the organ has been "harvested" to getting into surgery.

He rushed to the airport.  The plane was in repair and could not fly.  All the private planes at this airport were in the air, none available.  He remembered a friend in another state with a private plane, but the friend could not be reached.  However the message was passed on to the friend's friend who said he would fly him to Rochester if they could meet at another airport where his plane could land. They both made the connection, and he got to Mayo on time.  He said, "The next day, while I was in bed at Mayo, I got a call from Loyola.  They had a lung for me.  I guess it was really my time to get a new lung."

What a happy ending!  Now we can all breathe easier.

--Florence

Home Remedies

Why they bind books in white cloth, and design dust jackets with mostly white background is beyond my comprehension.  Something handled as much as a book should not be covered in white.  Here is this  fine dust jacket covering a very large book.  The DJ has a small design on a lot of white, fine except for being speckled with raised black spots.  On a patterned paper it might have blended.  Here, it is blatant black on white.

First I tried lifting the spots with the tip of a knife blade.  Nothing.  Then a gingerly scratching.  It left scratch marks in this unknown blackness.  Then a favorite trick of book dealers - lighter fluid.  It is liquid but leaves no stains as water does.  Lighter fluid lifts the left-over stickiness from removed labels.  I rubbed and scratched with the lighter fluid, but the speckles remained steadfast.  (Yeah, Out Out Damned Spot - I felt like Lady Macbeth).   

Then I acted reflexively, I put a tissue to my mouth, spat on it and wiped the spot.  It lifted right off.  I kept spitting and wiping.  The white dust jacket is now pristine.  Full of my DNA, but sparkling.  It sounds disgusting, but it will be covered with clear Mylar to protect it.  It will protect you from my spit, and protect it from your further abuse to the whiteness.

Spit was the common cleanser before all this fancy bottled stuff and impregnated cloths.  How many of you remember getting your face cleaned by grandma's spit on a linen hankie?  The word is used in many old-time phrases: Something's bothering you-spit it out.  Spit balls.  Spit 'n polish.  Spit'n image.   Not saliva, or expectorant.  Good ol' spit. 

Now when I discuss book repair, and I say, "It's on the tip of my tongue", it's really there.

--Florence

 

For Want of a Nail

My father had corrugated fingernails.  Ridged.  I used to like to run my tiny fingers across the ribbings on his nails.  I didn't know of the word genetics. 

So here on my own hands are my father's corrugated nails.  They snap, peel, break.  I used to polish them, but the polish didn't hold.  I used a product called Ridge Filler made for people with wretched nails like mine.  It took off the surface of the nail after several applications.

Visiting my daughter one day, she noticed my nails, and said, "Mom, your nails are awful."  Like I didn't know.  We were shopping at a strip mall, and she pulled me into a nail emporium, and said, " Give my mother gel nails."  Of course I protested, of course she prevailed. 

I walked out with the most exquisite set of fingernails.  And as I handed my plane ticket to the person at the gate, she said, "What beautiful nails."  Honest.  I flew home stroking the slick surface of those nails.

I've kept them up.  They are not fake, but I don't know what gel is.  Layers of something that builds up the nails, and never peels off.   In my  neighborhood Vietnamese gentlemen as well as ladies ply the trade.  They chatter to each other, and pay no attention to the client while they do their magic with the brushes.  They encourage you to come back every two weeks, but I wait until the nails have grown out significantly, then I have a "fill in".  I've tried many neutral colors from the assortment: bubble bath, bubble gum, ballet slippers, East Hampton.  I liked East Hampton because of the association with my other daughter, but they don't have it any more.  Well, she's not there any more either.  Maybe they have LA?

One little problem.  The fingernails are so thick, there is no picking up a coin that has fallen to the floor.  Small sacrifice.

--Florence

Well, I Liked It

It is absolutely brilliant!  Wait - let me go to Rotten Tomatoes to see what the professionals thought.  Just as I suspected, they didn't like it - except for one, and when I tried to figure out who that perceptive person is to give him credit here, I deleted everything.  Never mind.

We saw Sleuth with Michael Caine (who can do no wrong in my book), and Jude Law (who was just a pretty face until this movie).  I had seen the earlier movie version with Michael Caine in the now Jude Law role, and even further back when it was on stage.  I loved every interpretation of Sleuth. 

This version has the same premise, but Pinter changed all the words.  And technology has taken over the set.  It was gorgeous, clever, inventive.  A story with only two characters, but such a variation of roles that I was entranced.  And the camera holding on the face of Michael Caine for the count of - well, forever.  Even I thought, enough already.

Compare this to some of the current movies which hold onto a scene for, tops - 3 seconds.  Yes, I read that the latest Bourne movie showed every scene for about 2 seconds.  Two seconds!  They say an eye can register just one frame of the movie camera.  We are bombarded with action films.  With all that movement and noise it appears that something is actually happening.  It is so much easier than thinking.

So I know this movie will die at the box office. 

Among my favorite visual scenes:  The camera is looking at the living room.  But we do not see the actors who are talking to each other across this space.  They are each out of range of the camera.  Another scene.  A glass vase almost fills the frame.  Jude comes into the room.  You watch him through the vase as he makes his approach.   Also, we see many of the scenes through the vision of the security camera.  Maybe you just have to see it - it's to look at, not to talk about.  The set designs were not background. They held a lively place in the movie.  And the music, which I never notice in a movie, was thrilling.  I sat after the movie ended, and the credits rolled, until the last note was sounded, and the screen black. 

The audience was sparse.  It was a 5:50 performance, always slow, but still only a handful in the theater.  When we left, another couple was exiting at the same time.  I said, "Wasn't it brilliant."  "Yes," they agreed, "it was brilliant."

Still, should you see it?  I don't know.

--Florence

To My Credit

A man phoned and ordered a $300 book.  I took the information and happily packed it, very carefully padding it and putting it in a box.  I affixed the label, and then ran the credit card through.  It was rejected.  Probably I wrote it wrong as he recited it.  I'll phone him.  Uh, I didn't ask for his phone number.  How careless.  On to the problem-solving-Internet.  He was easy to find because he had an unusual spelling for a common name.  Sure enough, there it was: three listings at different addresses but all with the same phone number.  Good.  Ring, ring, and here's the operator:  This number has been disconnected.

I told another book dealer, and he said, "How long have you been in business - 30 years?  And this is the first time?  Finally, welcome to the retail world"

A few months ago, I got an order for an $1800 book from someone in Portugal.  It was very tall book, with stunning hand colored plates of early Portuguese and Spanish military men in their flamboyant military attire.  The book is scarce because the individual plates frame beautifully. 

I sent an e-mail to members of the ABAA to ask whether any of them had done business with this customer.  Our chat line is a wonderful source of information.  While nobody knew the man several offered suggestions on how to handle the money issue from a foreign country.  I always accept credit cards, but there are some countries one must be suspicious of.  Hello, Nigeria.

It is not paranoid to expect the worst.  Stolen credit cards, bad credit cards, credit card charges later refused or reversed.  Everyone had a horror story.  The one method several agreed on was to open a second account with only $100 in it, and have the customer wire money to this account.  The minute it is deposited, move it to the regular account.  This way he can't pull the money back out, or take out your entire balance.

So, suavely, I advised him to wire the money.  He agreed.  The money came in, I went through the whole prescribed ritual, feeling very financially astute.  Aha, I had outwitted him if he had evil intentions. 

When he got the book, he emailed me.  He was ecstatic.  "I had heard of this book, I never hoped to own it.  It is too wonderful for me to keep.  I am donating it to our museum.  Thank you for your kindly help and cooperation."

I felt only a tiny bit abashed. 

--Florence

Quilting is Sew Fun

A lovely lady walked into the shop today.  She's a quilter, using fine silks for the crazy quilt pattern she favors.  She was excited because she just rented her own apartment and it will have a room that she can set up exclusively for quilting.  She had shared a house with her sister, now deceased, and for the first time she has her own space.  She's approaching 80.  A very young 80, indeed.  As they say, if you wait long enough....

I told her about my daughter's quilting blog, and showed her pictures of quilts my daughter and daughter-in-law made.  She was happy to find a blog that offered camaraderie and information.

Even I made quilts, two of them, way back when, at the adult evening classes at the local high school.  The program was called A Quilt in One Day.  The classroom was filled with people who thought this was possible.  First we were introduced to the Log Cabin Quilt which was the project for the group.  Its theory was explained, and the next scheduled class had us at the store choosing our fabrics.  I was surprised at the timidity of the group.  Such muted colors were selected.  Greys, beiges, for instance.  Their completed quilts were dreary, I thought.  With a new baby in mind I chose red, green, blue, yellow.  Of course I found my completed quilt to be splendid.  We all finished our quilts in the few weeks the program allowed.  I was so thrilled, I made a second at home, using the same colors in a different arrangement.

My daughter, not yet a quilter, thought they were splendid too (or was she indulging me?) and hung them on the baby's wall.  Where in a short time they were sun-faded to the dreary colors I had criticized.  A lesson was learned from this - do not buy cheap fabrics.  If you put so much effort and pride into it, get fine sun-proof fabrics.  Anyway, I had enough of quilting. 

Which brings to mind a phone conversation I had with a woman who wanted to sell her deceased husband's books.  She ranted, "I want his books out of here.  I want that room for my sewing room.  I always wanted that room for a sewing room.  Out, everything out."  "What kind of books?" I asked.  "Civil war, Abraham Lincoln.  He was crazy.  Every penny of his went for books.  I remember I gave him money for shoes. Did he buy shoes?  No.  He bought books." 

I say, "But see, if he bought shoes you wouldn't have anything to sell.  So it's good that he bought books."  She hung up on me.

But she got her sewing room, I'm sure, and I hope she's making crazy quilts.

--Florence

It's Entertainment

The subject of movies came up, and both ladies said they never go to the movies any more.  Too expensive - and when you buy the popcorn and the drink....  "So don't buy the popcorn and the drink, I never do, but it's the calories I'm avoiding."  And I can't stand being gouged.  So there was no point in telling them to avoid the worst movie I ever saw that got 3 1/2 stars by a favorite reviewer. 

I checked out the many other reviews and all gave the movie high marks, raving about the director and the color and the visuals and the music and the on-the-spot foreign scenes.  "What about a story?" I'm thinking.  And then I read the comments by moviegoers, and like me, they all hated it.   

Unhappily, later, the star tried, unsuccessfully to kill himself.  It's terrible when someone attempts suicide.  Terrible.  So it would be very very unkind of me to say he probably had just seen his movie.

I love the movies, and we see a lot of it.  But I watch very little TV.  Except for one program which comes on in Chicago at 11:35 PM (really. Why :35?) on CBS.  I am absolutely in love with Craig Ferguson. 

He's witty, clever, fast and wildly entertaining.  Repeating a joke here wouldn't work.  It's his delivery, his voice, his eyebrows, his body language, his playfulness.  He is just plain funny.  He is laugh-out-loud funny.  His stand up routine at the beginning of his show always starts with something newsworthy, and although it may relate to a political figure, he avoids taking a political position.  He refers frequently to his application for citizenship. 

He's from Scotland, and the accent is sometimes incomprehensible to me.  The audience is laughing madly so it must be me.  I am getting better at understanding him. I watched a re-run and was able to fill in much that I had missed.

A few years ago he appeared at a very small local comedy club, and of course we went.  I loved it, Art didn't.  When he came back the following year, I invited a friend.  I loved it, she didn't. 

He's coming again and I am planning to ask another friend to join me.  This time he is playing at a much larger theater.  It won't be nearly as much fun as sitting almost at his feet.  Wait.  I just checked the ticket price: $209 per ticket!  He is no longer my little secret - my adorable comedian has been discovered!

That means inviting a friend will cost me $418.00.  Oh dear.  Oh dear.  Do I love Craig Ferguson 418 dollars worth?  I'm afraid it turns out I'm just as "scotch" as he is.  I'll watch him on television.  Drat.

--Florence