Titles, Inc.

Green M&Ms and Uhhh....

"The green ones are the best," he said, popping a green M&M nut in his mouth while picking at the   other green ones in the bowl, one of the six candy dishes I have scattered throughout the store for subliminal happiness.

"I can't tell the difference, " I said, "all the colors taste the same to me."

"They do, they all taste the same," he agreed.  "But the green is the best."

"How come?"

"The green is an aphrodisiac."  "What?" I ask cautiously.  We've already had a long conversation about his three books on finance that have been published, and the man is apparently sane.  "Yes," he repeats, "the green ones are an aphrodisiac."

I say, "The green color? Not the candy? The green paint on the candy?"  He nods.

I say we turn this into a research project.  Six? Ten?  Fourteen of them?  We can package them and put Viagra out of business.  "Go Green!"  It will catch on with the environmentalists too.  "Go Green, and no need to call your doctor if after six hours...."

He delicately finished all the green ones from the dish and left with a big smile on his face, "I'm going home now." 

Is he pulling my leg?

---Florence

Obits and Pigeons

Some obituaries are written a day too late.

If you have achieved recognition in your lifetime you will anticipate that a tribute to your celebrity will be printed at your death.  But I am referring to a four-column obit in the Sunday New York Times (12/14/08) to the man who raised pigeons.  He would have loved seeing that obit before he closed his eyes for the last time at age 84.

I read it because of its startling length, and its mention of World War II.

Richard Topus grew up in Brooklyn in a neighborhood where some residents trained pigeons on their rooftops. He was captivated by it but his parents would not let him have pigeons because it might interfere with his schoolwork.  (Is it even necessary to add that his parents were Russian Jewish immigrants?)  But the local pigeon trainers taught him how to handle their birds.  They had been pigeoneers in World War I.

Now the obituary leaves Mr. Topus to expound on the history of the pigeons as wartime messengers.  In World War I the United States Army Pigeon Service was formally established. Since antiquity pigeons had been flying with little capsules tied to their legs, carrying military messages. Even with the advent of radios, there were times of necessary radio silence when it was suspected  the enemy might pick up signals. So off the birds went, over mountains, over seas, flying as far as a thousand miles if necessary.

I was reading this report with interest.  I can understand how you train the pigeon to come home.  Nobody explained to me how a pigeon finds its outgoing destination. Someone whispers in its ear?  Like, “Carry this to Capt. Yossarian on a small island off Italy,” and the pigeon without pausing to salute, flies away?   

Anyway, in World War II the Army contacted bird racing clubs nationwide, and tens of thousands of pigeons were donated. Mr. Richard Topus enters the story again. He enlisted in 1942 and was assigned to the Army Signal Corps which included the Pigeon Service. As a pigeoneer, he was part of a small group of men who trained soldiers and birds. The pigeoneers also bred pigeons for speed and endurance.  A pigeon can fly a mile in a minute for short distances.

The pigeons were dropped from airplanes, and sometimes the soldier dropped from the plane himself with a pigeon in his vest pocket.  The vest, with its special pigeon pocket, was made by the Maidenform Brassiere Company.  (Fill in your own joke here.)

The obit continues:  More than 50,000 pigeons served the U.S. and have been credited with saving thousands of lives. However the Germans also used pigeons. The British sent their falcons to eat the German pigeons. “But,” it is pointed out in the Topus obit (wonderfully detailed by Margalit Fox) “since falcons found Allied and Axis birds equally delicious, their deployment as defensive weapons was soon abandoned by both sides.”

The obituary leaves the fascinating history of the pigeon as war-bird, and tells us the subsequent life of Mr. Topus. One of his jobs was with the company now known as Friendship Dairies, and he oversaw the design on the containers which is assumed to be a dove, but to the knowing eye is a pigeon.

See all the information you can glean from obituaries?  Still, it leaves questions.  Does the Army Signal Corps still include the Army Pigeon Service?  Are all these very many civilian pigeons proliferating without seeing active service?

--- Florence

Collecting at an Early Age

It all started when Gabi told me, happily, that she invited her teacher and her class to visit my shop as a school outing.  Choking, I said, "No no no no no!"  I didn't even want to imagine a group of nine-year-olds attacking my books (as I pictured it.)  She came up with an alternate plan, would I visit the class and talk about the books? 

The teacher and I picked a date and time.  "Can I really hold their attention for 45 minutes?" I worried to Miss Sacay.  She assured me they were a smart group and would pay attention.  The school is very special - it is a dual language school.  In the course of the daily school work, the English speaking children learn Spanish, and the Spanish speaking children learn English.  

Well, I just found my new calling.  I am going on the circuit talking to nine-year-olds about collecting books.  They are so exuberant, so responsive and so attentive.  I explained why I didn't want people handling my books, except very very carefully, the value being in the newness, the freshness, the cleanness (that's a word?).  I described the role of the dust jacket, and why I cover the books with this special clear wrap to protect the dust jacket.  I showed them how to remove a book from the shelf without tearing the spine.  They got it.

I asked if anyone was a collector of anything?  Every hand went up.  So I pointed to each of these eager children sitting on the rug in front of me, and heard about their collecting.  Stuffed animals. Dolls. Three children collect rocks, one specified shiny rocks.  (I can relate to that - I have small rocks (stones) on shelves and counters here and there.  A Reiki master told me to hold one clenched in my fist until I felt its pulse beating.  It felt it.  I'm not going to quibble about whether the pulse was mine or the rock's, it was thrilling.)  Another collected bottle caps.  He picks them up when he finds them.  "Oh, good, and at some point you will only save the ones that are not all bent up."  "No, I like them all.  But I have a valuable one, it's all gold."  I realized by the time we discussed each one's collections we would have used up my lecture time, so I put an end to that.

I brought a variety of books.  I showed them a group of horse books, a lucky choice it turned out, as so many were interested in horses.  I showed them the secret of identifying the first edition of The Little Golden Books.  (On the last page, at the bottom where it tucks into the rear cover, it has an A.)  And I said, "Do you know how many books you have to look at before you find the A?"  I posed it as a rhetorical question, but one little girl asked, "How many?"  Stumped, I answered, "A lot, maybe a hundred."  They were most excited by the amazing pop-up books, and I reluctantly let them pull the tabs, while I chanted my mantra: Carefully, Carefully.

What an audience.  They sat rapt, focused, and they laughed at all my jokes.  I thought I was doing a good deed, and I came away amply rewarded.

---Florence

  

   

Christmas Gifts

Browsing and looking for a gift for his mother, the young man examined The Book of Ruth illustrated by Arthur Szyk.  Such beautiful color, such detailed illustrations.  He put it back and looked at its companion piece, The Book of Job. 

"What a terrible story Job is," he said.  "All these terrible afflictions to test his loyalty to God.  Letting the devil pursue his scheme of tormenting Job to see whether he would remain faithful to God."

I don't remember enough of the Bible to enter into a discussion.  Well, I tried, "Didn't God turn his wife into a pillar of salt?"  I asked.  He answered with disgust, "That was Lot's wife."  I gave up trying.  He continued with his disappointment of Job's treatment, this Divine misfortune, this punishment just to test Job's devotion.  My customer was not going to buy The Book of Job.  I don't think I could have sold him the Bible either.  No matter,  he bought a lovely book for his mother.

The next day another man came in and I thought it was our former employee who left because he worked six days a week selling furniture, and although working here on the seventh day was a respite, his girlfriend complained that he needed one day off so she could see him.  As I walked up to greet him, I saw this person was much older.  Spittin' image.  His father?  So I asked, "Anybody named Peter in your family?" 

He said, "No, but my son has a friend, Peter B...."  I said, "Yes, that's the Peter! That is so strange. I mentioned it for the resemblance, and he's actually an acquaintance!"  He introduced himself, and I said, "Nice to meet you, John."  So we chatted about sons, and a gift book for this son, and gifts for friends.  He chose several and then he took The Book of Ruth off the shelf.  I mentioned the matching piece, The Book of Job.

"No, Ruth is perfect for the lady I am thinking of."  So I went on with my new knowledge, "I suppose Job would not be a jolly gift book with all the punishment heaped on Job," and I amplified with the devil killing his children, and how the misfortunes visited on Job were not punishments for his evil acts because Job loved God, but tests devised by the devil.   The man nodded, but that was the extent of my biblical lesson for the day.  As I was adding up his purchases, I asked, "And what do you do?"

He said, "I am a minister." 

Naw, I wasn't embarrassed.  Felt a little of a fool perhaps.  But I laughed and said, "And here I was, telling you the story of Job."  He said he actually likes the book of Job, that there is a lot to think about when discussing Job, and God did restore Job to his former circumstances and more. 

We talked about his church.  I was not familiar with his denomination, but I knew the building they are sharing with another religious denomination.

"Why are there so many little fragments of religions all with the same God?"  I asked.

He said, "That is a good question." 

He picked up his parcel, extended his hand and said, "Thank you, Florence" and I shook his hand and said, "Thank you, Father John."  He said, "Just John."

I think I will send him that beautiful copy of Job for a Christmas gift.  Not that I am that generous.  I just don't want to look at it any more.

---Florence

A Sculpture With Pages

They call it a book.  Well, it does have pages, but the cover is bas relief carved marble and this "book" weighs 46 pounds.  Not only can't you take it to bed with you, they don't even trust your coffee table.  It comes with its own stand. 

The New York Times describes it lovingly.  Actually, they are quoting the publisher, who says, lovingly, it is "the most beautiful book in the world."  Since it is his baby he can say whatever he wants.  I'm sure it is gorgeous.  The photographs it shows of Michaelangelo's works are fine reproductions of the sculptures we are all familiar with.  It is the packaging that is commanding attention. 

Its name is Michaelangelo: La Dotta Mano, and it sells for (offered at, is probably more accurate - they mention no sale yet) 100,000 Euros or around $155,000 today (maybe not tomorrow's dollar.)  It comes with a 500 year guarantee from the Italian publisher Gruppo FMR.  Are you snickering too?  FMR promises to be around for 500 years?  (We had a saying in NY: Good luck to you!)

This bas relief marble cover is a scale reproduction of Madonna della Scala.  Michaelangelo sculpted the original Virgin and Child when he was still in his teens.  The "book" will be limited to 99 copies, although they are still working on the first 33.  Mr. Nanni Tamar, the project's production manager explained, "We broke a lot of slabs along the way."

Where is Michaelangelo when you need him?

---Florence

Her Sewing Room

A lady called the other day.  She had books to sell.  A whole room of them.  She wanted them all out.

Cautiously I explained that I probably wouldn't want them all.  I would select the ones I thought suitable for my store and tell her how to deal with the rest of them.  No, they all had to go.  Out!  Out!  I asked her to tell me what a few titles were.  "They are all about the same thing.  They are all about the Civil War." 

A room of books about the Civil War?  My heartbeat is quickening.  "Are they yours?"  I asked, knowing they probably weren't.  "Of course not.  They are my husband's.  I want them out.  I always wanted a sewing room, and now I will have it.  And some money to fix it up nicely, too."  The scenario is playing out in my mind.  The husband obviously ran away from this witch with a woman who shared his interest in books (or pretended to.)  But would he leave his books?  No, he would not.  Hmmm, she divorced him and got the books in settlement, out of meanness.  (Yes, it's happened.)  But he'd fight her tooth and nail.  This was not working out.

Giving up, I asked, "And your husband is ready to sell them?"  Because I sure was ready to buy them - the whole room of them.

"He's dead."

I was shocked, and started to make little "I'm so sorry," sounds.  But she wasn't having any of it.  She ranted on, "I gave him money for shoes.  Did he buy shoes?  No, he didn't buy shoes.  He bought books!"

I'm getting a little testy myself.  I say, "Well, if he bought shoes, you wouldn't have books to sell, would you."

She hung up.

Drat.  Well, there is a lesson in this episode.  What did we learn, children?

Keep my big mouth shut.

---Florence

Entertaining is So Entertaining

The uncomfortable thing about having a party at the store is trying to find everything that was removed from the surfaces in preparing for the event.  Aside from the table-desk, three other display tables were cleared away.  We turn them into bar, buffet, and signing tables.  It seems so easy in retrospect.  Why didn't I have a carton to catch all the table top detritus?  No, I tuck it into drawers, on shelves, on other hidden surfaces seemingly logical at the moment. Hither and yon.  Such folly.  I can hardly wait for the next occasion when I will do it right, after all these years. 

We order trays of food, and the party manager at the deli counter asks the inevitable question, "For how many?"  And each time, not knowing the answer, we just ask for the largest size trays.  Gahd - the left-overs!  I only order what we (staff) personally like so we can carry home bags of food.  Unopened wine bottles get stored for the next event.

This was the Winter Party, Holiday Party, Christmas Party, Author Signing Party all-in-one.  The author was (surprise!) Art Shay signing the popular gift books, Animals, and Couples.  Being crass and commercial I was happy to sell other books, let me think: birds, ships, fish, children's books, golf and Abraham Lincoln. 

The guests were all delightful.  People who like books always are, I say that unequivocally.  Biased, maybe?  A few unexpected guests: a painfully shy lady came at 6 on the dot, and stayed all evening until the last guest left, and others from distances to whom I sent courtesy invitations, and here they were!  I have such a good time at my parties.  I love the din of happy voices.

Afterward we went to dinner with our New Zealander who was back home in Chicago for a while.  I barely recognized him behind the new bushy mustache and wild beard.  We sat down and ate a full meal as if we had not just filled ourselves with two hours of nibbling.  If you guess I was a teeny bit uncomfortable at bedtime, you guessed right.  I love to eat, the consequences be damned!

OK, what's next?  I can give it a rest for a couple of months, and then Valentine's Day.  Party time!

---Florence