Titles, Inc.

Craft Fair

Ours was just a cloud burst.  Not nice to complain especially after reading about the flooding throughout the country.  Still when a sudden rain pours down on a weekend of outdoor festivities it is damaging to one's spirits as well as some amount of destruction.  Not that I was caught in it.

Highland Park hosted its annual Craft Fair on the streets this weekend.  I'm sure that's the reason nobody came into the store Saturday.  If I could have gotten out, I'd have been there too.  I went on Sunday.  What a wonderful event.  It stretches out a little further every year as new craftsmen participate. 

It's hard to believe all this magnificence is handcrafted.  Jewelry, wood, glass, painted silks, woven wools, and much more.  The ingenuity, the imagination.  I overheard a comment to one artist, "You must have gone to art school."  The woman replied civilly, mentioning the art school.  I said, "Art school doesn't give you the creativity.  That's your own."  She said, "Thank you."

As I paused at each tented booth, if the artist was not engaged, I would murmur to him/her, "Gorgeous" or "Stunning" or "Exciting."  Then I remembered what a visiting friend had said when someone leaving my store turned to say, "Beautiful store, beautiful books."  I called, "Thank you!"  When the door closed, the friend hollered out, "That doesn't pay the rent!"

The cleverly worked clothes were mighty special.  I gazed wistfully at one striking piece, and said, "You have to Go Somewhere when you have that on."  She said helpfully, "Maybe when you have it on, you will think of someplace to go."  I imagined I had it on, reviewed my social options, but still couldn't think of a place to go.   

I did buy a lovely thing. (I try to, every year.)  It's a pin, with a sweet porcelain face with tiny beads for wild hair and a silver crown.  She has a silver body which happens to be a frog.  I think I like frogs.  I once owned a live frog.  It was a magic frog.  That's another story.  This frog pin had tiny green beads for hair.  It gave me pause.  Finally I admitted that I do not wear green, don't really like to wear green.  She asked what colors do I like, and when I looked down at my vivid red tee shirt, she said Oh.  I added purple and pink to the mix.

She said. " I will take it home and remove the green beads and replace it with red, I just have to take this off, see?"  I didn't see it at all.  But it's what she does.  She will mail me my beautiful red-headed frog princess. 

I looked and touched and admired.  Finally, having seen it all, I got in my car and drove away.  About twelve minutes later, the skies opened and dropped rain.  Drenching rain.  I hope they were able to move things under the canopy and drop the front in time to keep out the rain. 

You can wipe the silver, the pewter, the glass, the wood. But the silk jacket I admired?  Will it still be fit to Go Somewhere?

---Florence

I Thought I Knew You

A friend stopped by with her friend.  They had just returned home from a convention of 500 ladies.  They were happy, they were exuberant.  They had had such a good time amongst warm, loving, embracing people. 

"Who were they?"  I asked.  They were other ladies like themselves who had been nuns, and left the church before taking their final vows. 

"You were a nun?" I asked, astonished.  "For seven years.  I was a teacher," she told me. "You were a nun?" I asked, as if I hadn't heard the answer.  "Yes,  but I left before the final vows."

My friend has since been married, had children, divorced.  In other words, lived a normal life, with seven years of being a nun thrown in.

She picked up the book she had asked me to set aside for her.  It is about the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.  She, umm,  drooled over the pictures of Solti.  There he was with his raw passion distorting his face as he was conducting the orchestra.  Picture after picture of his special beauty.

My friend sighed, "Yes, that's his face. That's how I saw him."  "How could you see him?" I asked, "You saw his back while he faced his orchestra."  She looked at me, puzzled.  She said, "I sang in the symphony choir."  "You sang in the symphony choir?" I asked, astonished all over again, "you sang with the Chicago Symphony?"

Maybe if I stopped talking, I'd learn all about my wonderful friends.  Hello, out there, what have you forgotten to tell me about yourself?

---Florence

Appraisal

Remember the book appraisal program I gave at a nearby library?  I ran into the Library Director who had engaged me for the session.  "The feedback was great," she told me.  "We're looking forward to your repeating the program.  I have to tell you one lady's assessment of you.  She said you are a Personable Character."

I think I'm flattered. 

---Florence

Hear, hear . . .

My hearing aids blew. But not while they were in my head. I had gotten them at Costco (they sell everything), and they make adjustments whenever you need it.

They have a new computer program for the adjustments. He was fiddling with it when suddenly the screen went black and then started up back at the beginning. I could relate to his disgust which matched mine when my computer whimsically closes down. When he had it back to the screen he wanted, he hollered, “Ouch.” He said, “I blew the hearing aids. I have to send them back to the factory.”

I was astonished. I said, “You mean the computer spoiled them?” “No,” he said, “I did.” That’s why I was astonished. He took responsibility! Remarkable man. I forgave him for my inconvenience, and left in awe.

I am reminded of the surgery I had for this hearing problem. Long, long ago. They don’t even do that surgery anymore - stapes mobilization. The stapes, smallest bone in the body, had become rigid so it was replaced with a wire, both ears.

Now I can’t get an MRI should I need it because the magnetic part would pull the wires out of my ears, as I understand it. Or something like that.

Those were the days you stayed in the hospital to recuperate. (Yes, that’s how long ago it was.) We all wandered the hall visiting each other. While I was still in bed with my head between two pillows, a young black man popped in. “Need anything? Newspaper?” I assured him I was fine with the book I had brought along. When I was right enough to get out of bed, I looked into the other rooms, and there was the young man casually reclining in his bed. “I thought you were staff,” I told him. “No, I get bored.” He sat up, and we chatted about my surgery.

“And what are you here for? You look great.” He hedged, stomach trouble. Next visit he asked how old I was. Even young as I was, I was reluctant to say it. “I know how old you are,” he said, naming a number ten years younger than I was in those young days. “Girls don’t know it, but the neck gives them away. They lie, but I can guess pretty close.” I was so thrilled I remember it all these years.

“How’s your stomach today?” I asked him. He whispered confidentially. “Nothing wrong with my stomach. When it gets too “hot” for me outside, my doctor gets me into the hospital. It’s the best place to hide out.” Wow!

When I was released and I stepped outside, I had to put my hands over my ears to cover the loud sounds. What a thrill!

Now when I hear loud sounds, the hearing aids are turned up too high.

---Florence

Book Appraisal

Today was another annual trip to a suburban library to do a program on appraisals, inviting members to bring books for an evaluation.  I let the library call it Appraisal Program because I do not think the patrons would turn out to a program more aptly named "Your book is a piece of junk, and let me tell you why."

It doesn't matter how many times I explain that Grosset and Dunlap, Hurst, A.L.Burt, and Star among others are reprint publishers so, sorry, your book in not a first edition.  I get a new audience each time so I have to repeat the same spiel instead of moving ahead to defining the subtleties of the first edition.

There are exceptions.  Nancy Drew and the series books of those times were originally published by Grosset and Dunlap.  But they have been reprinted so many times that the first Grosset publishing has become important.  The first time the Nancy Drews were printed they were regular size books, not the thinner later ones, and the covers were dark royal blue with red printing. If you have the dust jacket on that edition, you have a Nancy Drew collectible. The only way it could still have a jacket is that the child did not read it.  The non-reader is the winner.  Doesn't seem fair, does it?

Some of the books brought to show were pretty books but of no consequence.  Or not pretty and falling apart.  "But it is Old!"  Old says nothing about the book.  Everything becomes old, so what?  Whoever remembers that old author?  Who wants it today?

A woman showed me an early children's book about Indians and apologized for the two names written in it. "Someone scribbled in them, but it's not family."  I pointed out that they were the signatures of the author and illustrator.   Nice reaction.

One lady brought two large heavy books with the covers unattached.  "These books are worth having a binder repair them," I said, after having been so dismissive of the other shabby books.  Both were on Irish history.  I didn't make notes, but one was from about 1790 with large foldout maps, and many wonderful engraved plates.  It showed up on the Internet at around $1200.  The other was from the early 1800s also with engravings, but was listed at a more modest price.  She will have them restored and keep them in the family.  Darn.  I would have enjoyed owning those, before selling them.

And here was the famous David Adler book by Richard Pratt.  I told the woman how disappointing this book has become.  It used to be uncommon and command such a high price, but the price has plummeted.  "It is now only $500."  I saw her happy astonishment, and I realized that I was judging it against copies I used to sell for $1200.

Most of the houses by this architect that are pictured here are in our local communities.  When someone sold his David Adler house, he took the book along to show where he used to live.  The new owner wanted the book to show the house he now lives in.  The book was scarce with two people after each copy.  Now suddenly there are more of them.  Open to conjecture: maybe the original owners have "passed on" (the book was published in 1970) and the younger generation feels no tie to the house, and disposes of the book instead of keeping it out of sentiment.  Or, the subsequent book that has been written about the David Adler houses, much more detailed and inclusive, might have replaced some of the demand for the earlier book. 

So what did I teach my audience?  That books are like any other material item, that they are in fashion and then out of fashion, that quality counts, and that the rules of supply and demand hold true even for something as wonderful as collectible books.

---Florence

Seen Any Good Plays Lately?

For once it's great to be wrong.  I wanted so much for this play to be well received, and when I saw it on opening night, I thought unhappily, "It's awful."  The two piece band, a bass and drums, were boom-booming, and bang-banging, and whistling, and shh shhing so that while striving to hear the one man performer's words all I got was a voice buried in sound.  The movies projected on sheets artfully pulled open and closed here and there at the back had rushing head lights and train lights and otherwise-lights that made me look away to avoid car-sickness.  No intermission.

After the blackout signaling the end, I applauded with the rest of the full house, thinking What a dud.

I read the reviews in our two major papers by their top reviewers:  They LOVED it.  They loved the performance, they loved the words, they loved the backdrop movies, and especially they loved the modern jazz original work and its creative execution. 

What do I know.  Thank goodness, in this case, nothing.

I do know I love the theater group that produced it, the Lookingglass Theatre.  I love the MCA (Museum of Contemporary Art) whose wonderful theater it was performed in.  I love that it enhances the reputation of a Chicago literary treasure, Nelson Algren.  I love that the play used Art Shay photos as part of their projected background, I love that the gallery of the theater has mounted a Nelson Algren photography exhibit, all photos by Art Shay. 

I loved the food and drink reception for the first nighters.  I loved the delightful Lookingglass Theatre people I met at the party.

The play is Nelson Algren: For Keeps and a Single Day.  I hear it has already been nominated for a Jeff Award (Chicago theater's Oscar.)

It must have been great.

---Florence

Camping is Fun?

She said, "We're leaving next week on vacation."  "Yeah? Where are you going?" I ask.  She said, "Yellowstone Park.  We go camping."  She said it with such enthusiasm.  I shuddered.  "You sleep in sleeping bags under the stars?" I tried to keep the distaste out of my voice.  "No, we sleep in the camper."  I felt claustrophobia creeping into my mind. 

"The only problem,"she continued," the bathroom building is far away.  Wherever we camp, it's always far away."  "What do you do when you have go in the middle of the night?"  Helpfully she explained, "You carry a flashlight and maybe a bell, or you talk out loud to yourself."  That didn't make sense.  I asked, "The flashlight, OK.  What's the other stuff all about?"  She said patiently, like explaining to an idiot, "To keep the bears away."

This is a vacation of choice?  "Uhm, you see bears?"  So she told me about a camping trip in the mountains in New York.  Maybe it was the White Mountains, she doesn't exactly remember.  (Oh, the mountains in NY.  I've been there - the Catskills with the big hotels, the eat till you drop, the big name comedians who did their entry level work in the casinos, the swimming pools you sat around while you got this gorgeous suntan that turned out to be cancerous - sure I know the mountains.)  Whoever heard of the White Mountains?

"So," Joan continues, "we're sleeping, and we hear loud noises outside.  And we know it is two bears fighting.  We huddle.  Even Fallon is scared.  They are banging around, and one of them hits our van with such a crash, we rocked.  I thought we would roll over.  Finally, they went away."  The next morning they peeked out.  They saw a Forest Ranger and called her over.  She had already heard about the bears.  They examined the van.  It had a huge dent in the side (that would cost big bucks later to repair.)  The Ranger told them that by looking at the claw marks on the paint, and the claw marks all over the ground, she could tell them that a Grizzly and a Black Bear were engaged in that rumble.  I guess it's like fingerprints.  They have different shaped claws.

"So why would you walk out in the night to the bathroom building?" I wondered.  Joan assured me, "Bears stay away from people.  Just make enough noise so they know it is you, and they'll get out of your way."

I'm not trying it.  Not even with a bell.  I never went camping, and for sure now I never will.

---Florence