Titles, Inc.

A Navy Recruit

Cleaning out my purse, I came upon a slightly crushed napkin from United Airlines with inked notes.  I remember speaking to the young man next to me, finding his conversation interesting enough to report here, and cleverly  using the only paper handy.  I can still recall what most of the abridged words mean.

He signed up to join the Navy directly out of high school with a buddy of his.  He wasn't that eager to enlist but there was nothing else to do, and his buddy wanted them to stay together.  After two years in Security at his base in Washington state, and a visit home, he was now on his way to his next post in Hawaii.  "And your buddy?"  Pause.  "He killed himself.  After boot camp." 

My turn to pause, shocked.  "He killed himself?  How did he kill himself?"  "With his gun.  In his mouth."

We were both quiet.  Finally, I asked, "Why?"  He shrugged, "I don't know."  "He was your buddy.  You must know."  Quiet.  "Yeah, I know."  Pause.  "OK," I say.

"So tell me about Hawaii," I say, trying for a cheerful note.  He says, "I hear you can play a lot of golf there."  He will still be assigned to Security at the base.  "Did you ever leave the country?" I ask.  "No," he says, "They give you a sheet when  you sign up and ask you where you want to go.  We said we wanted to stay in the states."  Astonished I ask, "Who would write Iraq?"  He tells me a lot of guys do, you make more money when you go to Iraq. He's not happy in the military, not happy at all, but he signed up for the third year because then he can choose Hawaii, and also with three years, he can get tuition for school.  He wants to be a zoologist, and go home to Pennsylvania.

This conversation was at the end of a three hour flight.  Initially, when he sat next to me, I was disgruntled because he was a knee bouncer and his knee bounced violently.  When we were airborne, he took his small black mesh duffel bag from the floor in front of him, put it on his lap, put his head in his arms on top of it and went into a sound sleep.

He roused himself near the end of the flight, and the flight attendant asked, "Would you like some water for your kitty-cat?"  She was looking at his small duffel.  "No, he's fine."  I looked at his lap.  "What kitty-cat?"  He stroked the bag.  Something stirred.  A cat.  "How come he's so quiet?" I whispered.  "The vet gave him a sedative."  I asked, "What's his name?"  "Tepes."  After repeating the name several times to me, he explained, "Tepes is a Romanian medieval war lord." 

That's when we started to talk about the Navy.  When the plane landed, and we were standing in the aisle, I shook his hand and wished him good luck.  I asked one more question.  "Is Tepes allowed at the Naval base?"

He hugged the bag.  "He stays with me." 

---Florence

It Was a Blue Book

Time for spooky music again to define a situation that goes beyond coincidence into the surreal.

The woman came into the store, drifted around and stopped in front of the large section of children's books.  She didn't move in to touch them, just gazed at the wall.  I went to her to ask whether she needed any help.

"Do you have old children's school books?"  I told her Yes, expecting her next question to be the universal Dick and Jane? and I was prepared to answer No.  She asked instead whether I had any school books about Chicago history.  I told her if a book has any reference to Chicago I put it in the Chicago section, and pointed to the nine shelves of Chicago books.

She turned her back on the children's books, and looked  at the expanse of Chicago.  "It was a paperback, blue, a history book," she said.  "Would you be thinking of the school edition of the Wacker Plan of Chicago?  I don't have it now, but it isn't blue."  "No, it was blue."

I said, "Sorry, it doesn't ring a bell."  I know I don't have such a book.

Twenty minutes later she is still there.  She started at the bottom and was touching every book.  "Lots of luck," I am thinking ungraciously.

She comes to my table with a soft cover book.  "How much is it?"  I look, "$10. plus .80 tax."  She opens her wallet and counts out the money.  "I am glad you found something," I say.

"This is the book," she tell me in an ordinary voice.  "This is the book?" I scream.  I look at this blue book, and continue bellowing, "You found it? I have it?"  I read the title: Pioneer Life, a Study of Chicago, by Ganey, published 1935.  I flip through it, and find it lists questions with answers penciled in by some child.  "It's not my copy," she explains, "but I remember all these questions.  I'm glad it has the answers."

I'm gaping at her, and finally she gets it.  She says," I've been looking for it for years.  I had it in my 4th grade and I could never forget it.  I mean, you said you didn't have it, but I felt I couldn't walk away.  I just felt I had to stay here and look until I found it."

"Wow," I said, "Wow," as I slipped it in a bag.  "I am so glad you didn't walk out."

She took the bag, and before she turned away, she kissed me.

---Florence

I Love Fame

Don't you just hate it when a photographer from the big city paper comes to the shop to take your picture, and you are interviewed for a Sunday feature and you grab the paper Sunday after Sunday and - Nothing?  You restrain yourself from phoning the writer and asking, "So?"  You shrug and forget about it.

This past Sunday I had taken my granddaughter to buy her Halloween costume (finally settled on Batgirl), we had lunch, then strolled past an empty building with ladybugs clinging to its walls.  Ladybugs?  In October?  We played with them, letting them crawl on our fingers, blowing them off and watching them return to the wall.  Eventually tiring of the game, we strolled back to the car and I dropped her off, and proceeded on my journey of shopping for office supplies.  Instead I bought an umbrella colored with a Renoir painting, and an adorable figurine to put in my upcoming Thanksgiving-theme window.

I got a cell call.  "Congratulations on your story in the paper today."  "What story?  What paper?''  He said, "The Chicago Tribune Magazine story."  "Really? Really?"  I was so surprised.  I drove right home and opened the section to a delightful story by Rick Kogan (an author of several books besides), and my picture by the wonderful photographer, Charles Osgood, who shot a gazillion pictures of me trying to get past the smile I paste on my face as soon as I see a camera pointed at me.  He did great.  Oh, I almost forgot to mention - my husband was also featured in MY story with some cute anecdotes about his being a famed photographer.

Well.  The phone rang all the next day with offers of books.  Breathlessly, I answered, expecting each call to offer a gem.  It didn't happen.  People came in, one man with his copy of the magazine as a gift.  That was sweet.  They each said they loved the story and they love the store.  And I loved hearing it.  And they all assured me they would be back.

I assured them they would be very welcome, wistfully thinking, "Bring money."

---Florence

Note:

Rick Kogan wrote about Titles Inc. in The Chicago Tribune Magazine on Sunday, 10/12/08, quoting Shay's observation: "There is an enchantment to old books, especially ones signed by authors. It means that the writer held it in his or her hands. If that doesn't resonate with you, you are not a book lover."

Kogan added:

The store is always a delight for book lovers, whether they are serious collectors, willing to pay the many thousands of dollars that rare and or autographed first editions demand, or merely people browsing and touching and, on the best days, finding an affordable gem.

Click here to read the whole article.

Annual Visit to the Gardens

Strapping on my fanny pack, a small pouch containing eyeglasses, two paperbacks (one near the end), bottled water (just in case), tissues, money, driver’s license, I set off in the Botanical Gardens for my annual visit to Spider Island. (Click for the story of last year's Spider Island visit.)

I trod back and forth on the narrow wooden bridge peering into the murky water looking for the fish.  Not a ripple. I continued on the narrow dirt path to the end of this tiny island, looking for some vegetation that might tempt a fish.  I broke off several round gone-to-seed balls, and then, back on the bridge, plunked one into the water.  Up came the former invisibles sniffing and dismissing my offerings.  So you are down there!  They disappeared.  I waited.  A couple with a baby stroller approached.  “Do you have any crackers?” I asked.  “No.”  The infant was too young to gum anything yet.

Two women approached.  The large size woman had a heavy plastic bag with odd shapes bulging.  I tried again.  “Do you have any crackers?  I want to feed the fish.”  She said, reasonably, “Maybe you are not supposed to feed them.”  I waited.  So she pulled out a bag and dropped large white pellets into the water.  The fish surged.  She was hooked.  She leaned over, watching with me. The fish nuzzled the food, pushed at it.  The white lumps were too big.  She said, “It’s popcorn. Wait, I have crackers.”  She dug out a box and pulled up a handful of crackers.  Putting them in my offered palm, she said, “These are very good.  They are Kosher.”  Automatically I raised one to my mouth, and remembered just in time.  “I’m fasting.”  “Oh,” she said, “Yom Kippur?  You’re fasting?”  “Yes,” I tell her.  So she reached into the box, took out an enormous quantity, “Here, more for the fish.”  She walked on with her friend.

By the time she returned to the bridge, I had figured out how to crush the crackers to fish-mouth size, and even tossed several to the ducks that had quickly paddled over, sensing a snack.  She noted my empty hands, and filled them again.  I sauntered along the bridge with the school of fish keeping up with me as I tossed a morsel.  Turning back, they obediently swerved to join me.  Power!

Back in the gardens among the plantings, I played my game of viewing the flowers with and without my sunglasses.  I have a pair from Walgreen’s called BluBlockers (I think.)  They cut the glare by eliminating blue.  There stretching in front of me is this expanse of little chrysanthemums, all from the palest to the strongest blue, to lavenders, violets, purples.  Lovely delicate colors.  I put on my sunglasses. Pow!  The brightest reds and tones of red, rust, bronze.  Stunning.  Back and forth with the sunglasses. Blue, Red.  I looked for a child to share this with, but they were running, frolicking.  Finally turning to leave the scene I saw an elderly couple on a bench   I said to the lady, “I just have to share this with someone.  See what happens when you put on my sunglasses.”  She looked up at my urgent smile, removed her dark glasses and put on mine.  She is as enchanted as I am.  She nudges her husband, “Here, put these on.”  He does, and says, “Yes, yes.”  They return my glasses and I walk on happily.

Of course in the Rose Garden there is the familiar scene of the bride in exquisite white satin and lace bending to bring her head level with the roses while the photographers hover taking pictures.  I had seen the groom behind the pillar, smoking.  Uh oh, I think, he’s hiding his bad habit.  Does she know?  They call him.  He approaches sans cigarette.  His formal attire is traditionally elegant, except for the shoes.  Is this the newest thing - black and white shoes? The shiny white where spats appeared in the olden days?  It looked amusing.

I could ask him, but I decided for once, I would mind my own business.

---Florence