Pretty Pictures

Not to toot my own horn or nothin' but this week I put up a display of Signet Classic mass markets with cool vintage illustrations on the front, and it looks pretty sweet. Observe:

These covers are so k-rad. Really overlooked, IMHO.


One of my favorite things to come across in the UBC are vintage illustrations. I basically like them as much as fancy paintings or really good writing.

Observe this 1963 children's Spanish wordbook:

Don't you just wanna pet them fuzzy bunnies?

Or check out today's find, a 1961 cookbook:

HAM!

Come on down and find something funky to give as a gift this holiday. Add to someone's weird collection, or find a seed for a new one. Or grab a copy of a really straight-laced history of math. We have something for everyone!

What's all the noise?

Books may not make a whole 'lotta noise on their own, except maybe for the satisfying sound of a cracking spine (BOOK spine!). But books can certainly be splendiferously sonorous: great volumes of poetry and well-written children's books BEG to be read aloud and shared, and just as many books are the conveyances of great music or the science thereof. Below are a few recent finds in the Used Book Cellar that showcase the gamut of sound-related books for part two of my little blog-series on UBC finds and the senses...

The Singing Life of Birds by Donald Kroodsma is a book on how to listen to bird's sing. You wouldn't think you'd need to read a whole book weighing in at 400-some-odd pages, but this bad boy delves deep into the science of bird songs, as well as differences in songs among many types of birds. It even comes with a CD to follow what Kroodsma is talking about. It's a beautiful hardcover in fantastic condition that would make an excellent gift for the avian audiophile in your life.

Just a Little Critter Collection by Mercer Mayer is a a collection of seven of the Little Critter books all in one volume. No more reaching for another and then another when the little one(s) cry "MORE!" - the crème de la crème of America's favorite monster are all handily bound in a not-unwieldy volume. Whenever I think of read-alouds, the first that comes to mind is Little Critter. Of all the books in my library as a child, Little Critter were my mom's favorite to read over and over, (HI MOM!) and perhaps that's why I have so many fond memories of her voice reading the refrains ("I was so mad!") when I think of childhood, books, or nondescript lovable critters. Pick up a copy and make it your family's bedtime favorite.

Vermont Sings is a tiny pamphlet of sheet music printed in 1959. It has great lettering throughout and a lovely illustration on the cover. The songs within all celebrate the awesomeness of Vermont, and there are even a few songs in French and German. It's a great little find that celebrates music AND The Green Mountain State. Win!

That's all from the UBC this week, folks, thanks for reading. If'n you have any books to sell, be sure to bring them by Wednesday through Saturday, 10 AM-4 PM. Tune in next week when I celebrate all things tasty for the Thanksgiving holiday.

Madeline Rodenberg. Remember that name.

A dear friend of mine posted a poem her 10 year old daughter wrote, and I had to share it. It is sweet and subtle and mature. It is proof that poetry is alive and well. Also; what an affordable and accessible art!? All one needs is language, and some senses. I think children in particular should be exposed to poetry, and frequently. Tomas Transtrom-trom better watch out. Maddy-lion has arrived.

Feelings

Feelings change as quickly
as the wind blows,
since I'm human I cannot
explain how I feel all times
it is as if I must be a different...
stranger creation
it feels as if I were a calmed tiger,
a slow horse, a turtle at the speed
of light, a lake as still as the spider's
web untouched by rain or wind,
a circle with an end.

Feelings change as quickly as
the wind blows but today the wind is still.

Madeline Othilda Rodenberg (in her own words)

I like old movies, Mexican food, Indian food, and seafood. I dislike cottage cheese and clothes with holes in them. I love to write and want to write for a living, and I take pride in my work. (My favorite color is blue) and I play the piano, the violin, and the bongos. I'm 10. My birthday is August 2, 2001. My birthstone is perry-dote (haha). I also like watching Arrested Development, Glee, and 30 Rock, and I love love love my family.

endings haunt me

Today my four-and-a-half year old son graduated from his, um, second out of three years of pre-school. I'm aware that the graduation ceremony is more for the parents than the kids. (If I hadn't been before, I would have been as soon as I realized that, instead of playing the guaranteed-to-make-a-room-full-of-adults-weep "Pomp & Circumstance", the teachers had chosen a meek version of "God Bless America". Approximately 90 percent of Jack's schoolmates are sons or daughters of first responders. Firefighter and police families really dig that sort of thing. I can appreciate that.)
Seventeen little folk proceed to their seats, caps askew and gowns fluttering around their syncopating feet, and then there's number eighteen, my boy, with NO CAP thank you very much.
Surprised, am I? Noooooo.

I didn't feel pride, exactly. I am not foolish enough to think that he was making some sort of principled stand against uniforms, conformity, or the (delightful and appropriate) pomp and circumstance of a graduation ceremony for four-year-olds. If he were four or five years older, it would have been respect that I felt. But he's so little (and yet so big. If you have had children growing up in your home, you might know how a person can seem both so so tiny and so so huge at the same time.), I know that he was just doing the thing that he does. Not much more to it than that. It's not as if he felt oppressed by the authority who was trying to force a mortarboard on him.
He just doesn't wear a hat.
Nobody puts a hat on Jackson.

It's like me with ties. Unless you're getting married and you need me to wear a tuxedo, get that pretty noose away from my neck. Never again, I tell you, never again.

So now it's the little snacks-and-goodbyes party in the classroom afterwards. For me, there are memories of endings, and of new schools, new people; mysteries looming. These are teachers and parents and kids that I have known from pick-up and drop-off time for two years. But now we live in another town, and in September Jack, and later Lib will be going to school closer to home. It's bittersweet. Miss Sheila picks up Jack in a big hug and doesn't want to let go. Menisci of tears are to be found in the eyes of teachers, most moms and at least this one dad.

Jack is ready to go. It's just another day of school. In our embraces, he waits patiently for the car, where there is usually a snack for the long ride home.

When does that start for children? The missing things before they are gone? Is it a predictable stage of mental development? Or is it triggered by an event, different for each of us?
Is it something you have to experience before you can learn how to stop doing it?
I mourn the loss of innocence in the world. My children have not lost it.
I mourn the loss of playfulness in the world. My children play.
I mourn the loss of the natural world. I will walk home under trees, I will remove my shoes and walk in a field at night, and in the morning when I walk outside a spiderweb will tickle and tug across my brow.

I mourn the loss of our democracy. I vote.
I mourn the loss of the printed book. I am reading one.
I mourn the death of honest communication. I trust you.

Curious George Finds a Final Resting Place

Photograph by Lindsay Metivier,

ruined via Photoshop by the author of this post.

On the last day of the 49th calendar year of the Booksmith, I came in to the store bleary-eyed and fuzzy-headed from my home, where a four-year-old Curious George junkie in recovery had told me just before the door closed "i love you that's why i'm going to give you a big hug."

Scheduled to train a new bookseller on the Atari-era computer system that keeps our records and manages our point of sale, I spent the first hour of the workday struggling to recall the litany of possible sales transactions that, after twelve years of wrangling the reg (pronounced rej) now exist as pure muscle-memory. The hour was long, but fortunately my trainee was patient, as I ended up spending more time chastising my fingers, which were skittering at their typically manic pace across the keyboard, than imparting actual knowledge. "Slow down! Even I can't tell what you're doing."

Release and relief for my cramping brain came in the form of Ric, Cool Ric. Leaving the continuation of the training to the zen master, I stepped down from the reg and immediately into a classic bookselling moment.

"I need something that will make a paper boat, do you have something?"
"...are you looking for a kit? Or a book that includes instructions?"
"I suppose I should tell you what this is for. The boat will carry a family member's ashes out to sea."

Now, a book has not been written about every specific subject, but I'm usually adept at finding needles in haystacks. The next part of this story would usually involve extensive searching down byways and through the crafts section, the card & gift room, google. And when the objective is something so personal and important, any bookseller worth the title would put off all other duties in the pursuit of the prize.

But me? Coming from where I come from? And that boy, who declared his love and his intention to express it, not two hours earlier?
Inigo Montoya holds aloft his beloved murdered father's sword, invokes the spirits, and is guided to the secret knot in the great tree. The six-fingered man is found. Curious George cannot hide his secrets when guided by the spirit of his greatest fan.

In the one where he rides a bike, George provides a step by step diagram explaining how to make a paper boat out of a newspaper.

This is a great day, for all of us.

Except Philip, who didn't learn a thing from me.

Mothers and Museums

Mother's Day was a blast, start to finish. With a 3 1/2 year old boy who will usually tell you "I don't want to do that" once you mention that something might be fun, and a 1 year old girl who believes it is her duty to bring a smile to the face of every person in JP, on the Orange Line, in Harvard Square, and on the 66 and 39 buses, my wife (the mother) and I visited the Harvard Museum of Natural History. Jackson, in heaven, ran from one animal to the next for what seemed like hours, "I want to see even MORE animals!". Libbie pointed knowingly at birds and monkeys and sharks and fossils and nodded her head emphatically, as if to say, "What's that?, Oh, yes, I thoooooought so.", before retiring her sweet head (her breath smelled of french fries and ketchup) to my shoulder for a walking nap.

None of us had ever been there before, and of course we now smack our heads for having taken so long to go. The museum is perfect. It feels like you are stepping back in time just walking into the first exhibit. The wood framed glass cases, the dried-out, in places stitched together animal hides that often expose the stuffing underneath, the haphazard (at least, in comparison to the modern way of organizing in museums) organization, so that you come to expect the odd juxtaposition: chimp next to whale, thrush next to otter. I may be remembering incorrectly, but I like a museum where a mammal is a mammal, and there isn't any space left for wall sized descriptions of why mammals are important, and what our connection to them might be. Here are the mammals, here are their names. Marvel, and move on, young sir.

Jack loved it, and Libbie loved it and then had a nap. And, as I'm sure most moms and dads would agree, when the kids are happy, everyone is happy.

Kind of on the topic of families and species and manners of organizing, we're doing some re-organizing of our own. You may have noticed some new signs in the aisles of the store. Biography is now "The Examined Life". "Modern Thought" encompasses what used to be Cultural Studies, and most of what used to be Essays. "Here on Earth" was Nature. We were thinking of changing Education to "The Study of Test-Taking Skill Set Enhancement", but that seemed too bleak.
We're attempting to be more specific - a memoir is not a biography, as you know - and more thoughtful. Let us know what you think.

Always let us know what you think!