Titles, Inc.

Fatherhood

He asked whether we had an old bible.  With his two girls walking close behind, he followed me as I pointed to a top shelf.  “That big beautiful leather book up there? It’s a bible from 1789.  A Lutheran bible in German,” I described, hopefully.  He didn’t want it either.  It’s been sitting up there for years, but someday someone will see it and exclaim, “Ach, mein Gott, I have been looking for that bible forever!”  And if it doesn’t happen soon, another generation will be burdened with finding its new owner. 

While her dad looked at the Americana, the elder girl, about 11, brought me her selection, three little books from the Little Leather Library, all classics.  She hands me the books and opens her purse.  I looked at the top one – Dante’s Inferno.  Very fitting, considering dad’s request.  “I’m getting a haircut,” she volunteered, “I’m giving my hair to a charity that makes wigs for people who need them.”  I told her I had heard about that charity and it was a fine thing to do.  I turned to younger sister, “Are you cutting your hair, too?”  “Nooooo!” she said, emphatically, and ran to hide behind her dad.  Dad bought a small item and little sister came up with a cartoon book, and told dad she wanted it.  The cartoons were directed at adults, ironic and nonsensical, and dad said it was not for children.  She explained, “I’ll just look at the pictures, I can’t read it.”  When he repeated No, she put it away without whining and begging.  Refreshing.  They left. 

I asked the young lady in the shop whether I could help her with anything.  She hadn’t touched a book, just drifted along looking at each book on the shelves.  No, no, she just loved to be with the books.  “There are hardly any bookshops like this anymore,” she said wistfully.  I replied, brutally, “It’s the rent.”  We chatted a few minutes.  I asked whether she had a lot of books.  She said she had no space for books at college.  “And what are you studying?” I asked.  She said, “Science.”    Science?  I figured her for Poetry, or Romantic Literature.  I was going to pursue it – what science? - when the man, followed by his two girls, hurried back in.  

“I forgot something,” he said breathlessly.  I looked hurriedly at the floor for a backpack or parcel.  Nothing.  He came up to us.  I asked, “What did you forget?”  He looked at the young lady.  “Her.”  

He added, “She’s home on spring break.  I am so used to corralling the little ones, that I forgot all about her.”  He turned and walked briskly away.  She ambled behind him, her eyes on the wall.  He’s out the door, and she turns and walks up to the books still mesmerized.  “Go!” I holler.   She doesn’t move.  “Go,” I repeat, “You will embarrass him again.  Out!”  I am shrill by now, so she glides gracefully to the door, and leaves.  

He forgot his daughter???   On the other hand, she never noticed. 

----Florence

Advice, Ready or Not

The young man asked for an old map of Chicago which I don’t have.  He was tall, handsome, and looked a mess.  He wanted a map of Chicago because his mother and father grew up in Chicago.  He grew up in Georgia. 

I said, “You don’t sound like Georgia.”  “That’s because my parents grew up in Chicago,” he said again.  I told him, “Kids grow up speaking like the neighborhood,” thinking of children with foreign born parents who sound like Chicago. The only thing South about his voice was the quiet, soft tone.

“So what are you doing here now?”  He tells me his grandfather is giving him a job before he starts school next fall.  “You’re going to work for your grandfather?  You’d better comb your hair.  Even if you are trying for a casual look your hair is a mess.  What kind if job will you be doing?”  “Nursery,” he tells me.  I ask, “Nursery with children, or with plants?”  “Plants,” he says.  “OK,” I say, “Maybe you don’t have to comb your hair.” 

“My grandma is getting married Saturday, that’s why I’m here now.  She’s 71 and she’s getting married again.”  “God bless her,” I say, “You’d better comb your hair.  What are you going to wear?” I ask accusingly, looking at his ratty clothes.  He says, “I have a clean pair of jeans and a shirt?”  “OK,” I assure him, “but the shirt has to be fresh looking, crisp.”  He nods.  I look at his vari-colored scuffed running shoes and decide they will have to do. 

“Where will you be going to school?”  He mentions two schools he is trying for, both in Georgia.  Exasperated, I say, “Get out of Georgia!  Find another school somewhere else!  There’s lots to see outside of Georgia.  Explore!”  He says, “I have no money for another school.  I’m thinking of starting in Georgia and then transferring out.”  “Good plan,” I agree.  He admits, “I worked for a year to make money for college, and spent it all by the time the year was up.  This is my new idea.  I will put away half of everything my grandfather pays me to save for college.”  “Good, that’s good,” I assure him, “and watch out for the girls.  It’s easy to use up the second half on girls.”  “I know,” he admits, “that’s what happened to my money last year.”  

So here I am, berating this stranger, when two ladies who frequent the shop come in.  I wasn’t finished with him, “And never mind the credit card.  If you can’t afford it at the moment, you can’t have it!”  He nods, obediently.  I turn to greet the ladies.  

One asks, “Is that your grandson?”  “Nope, I never saw him before,” I say, “but I’ve been telling him how to live his life from the moment he walked through the door.”  I turned to him, and we both said Goodbye cheerfully, and he assured me he would come back to visit, just as if he had, indeed, been a grandson. 

Actually, I have never said a word of admonition to my grandsons, ever.  Well, yes, my mantra has always been e-nun-ciate!  Other than that they have always been perfect.  

----Florence

Rebound

The binder returned the book to me proudly.  The new brown leather spine bore a new large shrieking green leather label with the gold lettering which was almost uniformly embossed.  Even high up on the store shelf the green label telegraphs itself to any casual peruser.  I should be brave and ask him for a do-over. 

When we first started in this book business, Sonja and I were not as cautious about buying perfect copies as I am now (with a few exceptions).  We had asked other book dealers for referrals to bookbinders, but only one person had a name to suggest.  He whispered that we were never to mention the binder’s name to anyone, it was our secret.  Because this old man was charging rates he established in the days of yore.  The select few who used his services brought bags of books to be restored.  He refused to be backed up.  You were expected to pick them up as soon as they were ready, and he only accepted as many as he could do in a reasonable time, another reason the book dealer didn’t want his name circulated.  I joined this secret society.  The binder made no small talk, in fact made no talk at all, and it seemed that he would prefer you to push the books through the door slot of his tiny store if that were possible. 

He did exquisite work for a pittance.  One day word came that he dropped dead in his store.  They said, “Well, he was old.”  I said, “He found out what bookbinding prices  really were.” 

The next bookbinder I located who under priced the Chicago scene was in Florida.  Including the price of shipping both ways he was considerably cheaper than the local binders.  One day I got my carton back with the restored books and a staggering bill.  He replied to my agitated phone call saying he was matching our local prices.  

A lady fortuitously dropped by to introduce herself as the new binder in town.  I admired her samples and reluctantly agreed to the going rates.  She returned my important book, now tightly encased in its original boards.  A quick inspection revealed a tear on the title page.  A tear!  On the title page!  “Sorry,” she said. And handed me the bill. 

My current binder usually does an acceptable job.  I recommend him to all callers who want to preserve their bibles for another couple of generations.  He can make the book sturdy again.  A solid utilitarian job. 

There are very skilled binders in the Chicago area.  However since binding has advanced from being considered a Craft to the more exalted position of Art, the prices have accelerated to match the new nomenclature.  

So I got a binder’s supply catalogue, and find I have the delicate touch for using the proper glue to tighten loose pages and loose books.  Shabby books remain on the shelves of the homes I am buying from, unless the content of the book merits being preserved with at least a pedestrian leather spine and label. 

But I’ll bet not one of the Fine Art binders has a piece of screaming green leather in his arsenal. 

----Florence

Books, Here today, Gone….

It happened again.  A man walks in, pulls a ladder up to see the books on the top shelf, and stares in disbelief.  “It’s not here.  I saw it last month,” and in horror, asks, “Did you sell it?”  Well, yes.  A couple of days ago we got an Internet order from Beijing, China, for this item, and had just mailed it.  Jazz, by Matisse, single sheets in a portfolio and then enclosed in a box, very handsome production.  When I got the order I checked the name wondering what nationality person had asked for this book to be sent to China.  It was a Chinese name.

I berated the customer.  “If you thought you might come back for it, you should have told me.  I would have held it for you.”  He said, “I didn’t have the money, and didn’t think I would have the money.”  Now he has the money – a few days too late.

It is not an uncommon occurrence.  Several winters ago, when the snow was so high and the streets so slippery, someone walked in, took a glance around, quickly chose a book and was gone.  The next day I got a phone call.  “I was looking at a book the other day.  I couldn’t buy it because I forgot my wallet.  Can you take a credit card number on the phone and hold it for me?”  “Sure,” I said.  The book he wanted was the one bought by the hardy soul who braved the snows.  The phone caller said, “Nobody was out yesterday.  Nobody!”  I told him at least two people were out, me and this other crazy person.

Ah, this reminds me of a broken friendship.  Years ago, a New York book dealer who had become a friend when I used to go to the annual book fairs at the Armory, phoned about a book I had that she wanted to buy.  This was not the first call about the book.  She was arguing for a better price and I kept saying I couldn’t do better than the dealer’s typical 20% discount.  She said, “Think about it and call me back.”  A man in the store put a book on the desk and reached for his wallet.  I said to my friend, “Guess what, a customer just bought the book.”  She screeched, “You’re lying!  You don’t want to sell it to me!”  I tried to placate her, but she said, “I never want to talk to you again.”  And she never did.

What’s the moral?  Buy the book, ready or not.

----Florence