Titles, Inc.

The Haiku

This is a post-script to the earlier Thanksgiving report.  Lauren recognized my not so well hidden disappointment that there was no wild applause for Carter's recitations of our extemporaneous Thanksgiving Haikus, so she responded with the following.  (A reminder for those who forgot, the Haiku has three lines, with 5 syllables in first line, 7 in next line, and 5 in last line.  A lot of finger-counting in this poetic form.)

at thanksgiving meal
minds on food not intellect
smart in retrospect

 ---Florence 

Don't You Just Love Thanksgiving?

Raise your hand if you can get the key on a Thursday night to the house you will be moving into, and  get the furniture out of storage, set up the house, and get all the shopping done needed by next Wednesday when everyone will be arriving (all sleeping in), to be ready for Thursday's Thanksgiving celebration.  That's five days.  Anybody's hand up?  Yes, Lauren and Carl's, hosts extraordinaire.

The furniture was in, rugs down, pictures and mirrors up.  Guest towels in guest bathroom. And each of us arriving Wednesday by plane, train, bus and car, all on different schedules with mine host calmly meeting each arrival.  (My brother picked us up to facilitate the chauffeuring.)

We deposited our bags in the assigned bedrooms.  I was one of the lucky ones- I had a bed. (Oh, please, you didn't think the bedrooms would be set up too?)  Young people are capable of Making Do.

We chatted companionably, catching up on family news, intermittently walking into the kitchen to watch Lauren's preparations.  I made my cranberry relish with its secret ingredient that I divulged to those nearest and dearest (aside: today at the supermarket's gourmet prepared food case, I peered at the card with the ingredients of their cranberry relish, and there it was for all to see - orange, and orange juice, my closely held secret.) 

Thursday we snacked all day until Meal Time. Then the ten of us, family and one friend who is our traditional guest, sat down to the table adorned with its unpacked beautiful tablecloth and  candlesticks.  There was such a variety of delicious food (including Jane's wonderful asparagus, but I don't feel free to tell her secret recipe) that the tender turkey was superfluous. The only thing boughten were the three huge pies, apple, pecan, of course pumpkin.  I recommend a slice of apple and pecan on the same plate eaten as a unit. Yum.  The entire meal was Yum, Yum, Yum.

Carter and I had written Thanksgiving Haikus that were exceedingly clever.  We were rewarded with some chuckles.  Now, I don't remember even one. 

We missed our two sons who couldn't make it.  We could have squeezed a bit tighter around the table.  And there was enough food to feed a village.  I would have loved eating left-overs through Sunday, but we had to leave early Friday morning. Came back to an empty refrigerator.

I love Thanksgiving.  Even the briefest reflection reminds us we have much to be thankful for.

---Florence

It's Who You Associate With (Chapter Two)

"What a sweet book."  An "older" woman was holding a book by James Whitcomb Riley called A Child-World.  Back in 1896 when this book was published Riley was a household name, and when you admitted to reading poetry, it was often James Whitcomb Riley who held your attention.  A Child-World is a recollection of things childish, remembering in 1896 how it was in the old days.

This particular edition she had in her hands was "Limited to one hundred copies" and signed by the poet himself in a very small hand with Whitcomb embellished by a very swirly crossing of the T.

"Here, let me show you something interesting about this book."  I opened it to the back where was written, "This is my mother's, Mrs. Eugene Field, own copy of A Child Word" and signed Eugene Field II Sept. 4 - 1921

This fellow was the son of the Eugene Field who wrote children's poetry, long ago committed to memory.  (The Land of Counterpane - When I was sick and lay abed I had two pillows at my head..."  I suppose one of the reasons it is not read today is the vocabulary.  How many people remember that a counterpane was your quilt or bedspread - I just looked it up to make sure.) 

Eugene II, famously known as Pinny, is infamously known for signing (forging) "Eugene Field" on all of daddy's books.  Here he mis-spells World, and writes an awkward sentence, besides.

The book had been bound in red silk which apparently rotted away, so the former owner saved the still fine front silk panel with the gilt picture and decorations and had it put onto a new cloth binding.

Yes, a pleasant Association copy.  You remember - a book previously owned and signed by someone else of significance. (Click for more from the Titles Inc. blog about association copies.)

Which reminds me of another Association copy - this one a triple.  It is an early paperback by Upton Sinclair called The Fasting Cure.  As it says on the cover, "In this book the author tells how he regained his own health by fasting..."  Although it came out in 1911, the shop copy is 1923.  Tucked in is a typed letter signed by Upton Sinclair to James Jones.  He says he is planning to write volume VIII of the Lanny Budd series, and hopes his book The Fasting Cure is beneficial, wishing James Jones success in his new book.

The new book referred to is From Here to Eternity.  James Jones has written his own name in the Fasting book. 

The third association is the next owner I got it from, the famous photographer Art Shay, who photographed James Jones for Life magazine. Jones pressed the book on Art at the farewell party before Jones moved to Paris.  (Actually, I was there too. And more impressed by the musical theater writing couple Adolph Green and Betty Comden.  Not that they were being scintillating, no, Adolph had a little dog up to his face and he was kiss kiss kissing it all evening.) I suppose Art Shay should add his name to the book legitimizing this third ownership. 

As for The Fasting Cure, the frontispiece shows a before photo of Sinclair described as "spiritual" and a second shot showing "the athletic figure" evolved from systematic fasting.  Of course he looks wonderful in the before picture.  Younger, too.

Oh shoot.  The front paper cover just came off from all this opening and closing.  I always admonish, "Do not touch your books!"  Now you see why.  Darn.

-- Florence

Music With No Direction

Late afternoon he visited with an enormous "thing" carried back-pack style.  It was fat and curved and covered the length of his back.  "He's got a whale in there," I thought.  "Hello," I said to our Yoga/musician friend, "nice to see you.  What are you doing in town?"  Meanwhile he has put down the familiar circular case that by now I know is the drum.  He has slipped out of the monster, and is unzipping the mouth.  "More like a shark," I am now thinking.  But it is beautiful.  I tell him I think it is beautiful, that the huge curved zipper is wonderful, the piping along the edging is striking.  Meanwhile he is removing pieces of a shiny musical instrument.  I continue with how clever the compartments are.  He is puzzled, "it's just a case."  Maybe it's a woman thing, admiring luggage and handbags.

Finally he has all the parts engaged, and voila a trombone!  (That would have worked better with: Voila, a viola!)  I settle back for a concert.  I like the voice of the trombone.  Thick and deep.  And the theatrics - sliding that tubing back and forth, slowly, and then briskly, long extensions, short repetitive moves.  I concentrate seriously.  I see no pattern between the music played and histrionics of the slide. 

Finally the song is over.  Very, very nice.  So I pose the question, guessing it is stupid but how does one learn if one doesn't ask?  I tell him, "I thought it was like a piano keyboard and when your arm is extended I would hear the low notes, and when it was closed I'd hear the upper range."  He is very kind.  He explains patiently that the rage of notes is all in the mouthpiece. He removes it, blowing into it with all kinds of facial contortions.  Amazed I say, "So why do you need the rest of the instrument?"  Whereupon he gives me a scholarly, technical lecture on vibrations, etc, etc, while I nod sagely.  No, I still don't have a clue.  He repertoire is wide, and he delights me with a range of songs, the 50s, military, modern.

"So how come you're here?"  "I'm playing with a group in a Highwood bar."  "Good!" I exclaim, "You'll make some money?"  "No. The leader gets paid. We don't."  "You get dinner?"  "No, but we get all the beer we want."  "You don't drink," I remind him.  "No, but I could get it if I wanted to."  "So," I ask cautiously, "why did you get on the train to come here if you don't get anything?"  Proudly, "For the pleasure of playing in front of an audience."  Then, he asks hopefully, "Do you have a microwave? I brought soup."  "No, I have a refrigerator."  Talk about non-sequitors.  But it made me remember that I had a homemade chicken sandwich I didn't eat for lunch, and I pressed it on him.  He tucked it into the drum.

Now it is past time to close the store, and I remind him that I have to go home.  He packs up.  I remember he has no car.  "I'll drive you there."  "No, no, I'll catch the next train."  "Don't be silly, it's so close it's no trouble.  I'll take you.  And when does the next train leave, anyway?"  Vaguely, "They run about an hour apart.  I don't have a schedule."  I call home to say I will be only a little late, I am driving a friend to Highwood. 

He shrugs on his encumbrances and we get to the car where he deposits them in the back.  "OK, what's the address?"  "I forgot the address, but they said it is not far from the train station in the middle of town, easy to walk to."  We drive away.  It is dark.  I go slowly through town which is known for its many bars, and we see the train station.   We also see a bar.  "That must be it," he says, so I roll to a stop, and he collects it all, assembles it on his back again, and crosses the street to the bar.

I continue on until I can turn around and reverse my direction towards home.  As I approach the bar I see this weird silhouette trudging along. 

I keep on driving. I can't bear to lower the window to ask, "Wrong address?"

---Florence

Sunday Chores

The professional pedicure was a necessity.  The last time I cut my toe nails I pulled at a recalcitrant toe and broke it.   It was such an embarrassing admission that when people asked why I was wearing the wooden podiatrist shoe, I told a gentle lie - I said I dropped a book on my toe.  Besides it sounded literary. 

The fancy salon is pricey, and in these belt tightening days, I thought I would visit the Vietnamese nail emporium.  It is a cheerful place.  The manicurists (more men than women) chat with each other and laugh at their private jokes while we sit glazed and uncomprehending. 

It is a drop-in place, no appointment necessary.  I was told there was a 15 minute wait.  I said I'd be back and drifted to the office supply store.  I picked up generic Post-Its, and very special pads - special because they are readily found on an encumbered desk.  I recommend them with their very large metal spiral, vertical, bright yellow pages.

I popped back into the shop and was assured Yes, they could take care of me in 15 minutes, so I went out to the super-grocer for a snack to tide me over all of these 15 minute cycles. 

There I passed an old man pushing a cart.  Finally I can use the word Grizzled.  He was so wrinkled, so old, so bearded, so curled over the cart, that I paused to look back.  He was fumbling with a plastic bag from the veggie section.  I can't open those bags either so compassion forced me to ask, "Can I help you?"  He looked up and asked whether I could put the Russet potatoes in the bag.  The only thing alert about him were his eyes.  As I fumbled with the plastic, I noticed the pumpkin pie, bag of grapes, bananas, his purpley-red blotched, bruised looking skinny hands. I put the potatoes into the bag, and he asked whether I saw any corn.  I told him I thought it was late for corn.  He said he was sorry to have troubled me, and I said, "No trouble.  You're doing your own shopping, that's great."  Why did I add that?  He slowly slowly walked away, and I dashed through the whole section looking for corn, thinking it would be husked and in plastic, but there was none.  I reached him again, and told him there was no corn anywhere.  He thanked me again in his thin whispery voice.  I wish there had been corn.

Back to the manicure shop where new faces were waiting.  But he remembered me, and called back to a pretty little young lady who escorted me to a chair, had me put my feet to soak in the little tub.  She turned away to do a lip wax and another pedicure, holding me hostage before she got to me, surely more than 15 minutes later.

---Florence