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Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Civil War Books Are Keeping Us Busy

When an opportunity to acquire an exciting collection presents itself, something's gotta give. In this case, it was the bookcase holding dictionaries, word books, and books on writing. Sorry, dictionaries (we are keeping some of you), but, with so many people relying on software and the Internet to look up definitions and spelling,  Civil War books must take precedence, especially in a case that faces people as they enter the "stacks." Dictionaries that are staying have moved to the bottom row of the language section (foreign languages on higher shelves), while books on writing are in a small bookcase in front of my desk.

Unfortunately, this has left our collection of small ("pocket") paperback classics temporarily homeless, but never fear -- we shall find a place for them soon, as they are a must-have category for students and other serious readers. 

But now -- the big excitement! After a day and a half of steady work, with helper Bruce pitching in today, my rearranged Civil War (general, battles, generals, soldiers, etc.) and President Lincoln section fills two cases and spans an aisle:

There are still empty boxes to put away and boxes of de-acquisitioned materials to move out to a vehicle, but a picture being worth 1,000 words, I'm not going to go on and on about that. Anyway, counting the Monday that David and I moved all the books and all the work since, I'm pretty exhausted and looking forward to this afternoon's drawing class.

Do please notice, however, that we have an event planned for the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend: Leelanau photographer Ken Scott will be here signing the new book, Ice Caves of Leelanau, which will make an artistic and startling response to the summer question, "What's it like here in the winter?"

Saturday, April 26, 2014

Fiction: "Childhood Playmates"

[The piece of fiction here, which may or may not work as a short story, is the result of the joining of two different chapters in a YA novel I worked on a few winters back and never finished. The girl in the story, Nora, is living temporarily with her grandfather because her father has lost his job, and he and her mother are traveling to different parts of the country looking for new employment. This is not the summer Nora had looked forward to, and she experiences a lot of frustration, boredom, and confusion at first. In this section, however, she is beginning to make peace with her new situation.]

*   *   *   *   *

Childhood Playmates

       Nora pestered her grandfather all week to take her to the nursing home.  It was funny, really, because she wasn’t even sure she wanted to go.  The place would probably be depressing, full of old, sick people in wheelchairs, like in that movie she’d watched back home, with her brother Kevin, on TV one night.  In the movie the old people got some kind of drug and came back to life, and everyone was happy for a while, but then the drug stopped working, and they went back to being zombies. 
Maybe Grandma will be a zombie, Nora thought. When she tried to picture her grandmother living in a place she had only seen from the outside, Nora had no idea what it might be like inside, and she just needed to know.  Even if it was bad, knowing would be better than imagining the worst.
“She probably won’t know you,” her grandfather said over and over.  “She won’t recognize you, and you’ll be disappointed.  Wouldn’t you rather remember her the way she was?”
“Does she know you?” was Nora’s challenge.
“Not always,” he admitted.
“But you go, anyway, right?  She’s my grandma, and I want to visit her, too.” 
Would she be in a coma, all hooked up to tubes and wires and machines?  How would she feel, seeing her grandmother like that?  Nora didn’t know, but she kept after her grandfather to take her to the nursing home.
Finally one Sunday morning he gave in. 
Nora decided to go all out and wear a dress, a pink and white checked gingham sundress she had promised herself, when her mother brought it home for her, that she would never wear in public.  She certainly wouldn’t wear it anywhere except the nursing home!  I look like a cartoon character, she thought, gazing at herself in the mirror, but Grandma likes dresses.  She put on a pair of white sandals instead of her usual rubber flip-flops, and a white lace headband to hold her hair back from her face, the way her grandmother liked it.
Okay, she said to herself grimly, you’re finally getting something you said you wanted.
Did she want this visit?  Too late now to tell her grandfather she had changed her mind!
When she appeared in the kitchen all dressed up, her grandfather looked at her with surprise but didn’t say anything about the difference in her clothes.  He was wearing his usual blue plaid shirt.  Maybe he had more than one blue plaid shirt, but if he did, they were all the same.  It was blue and black plaid, actually, with a pocket that held reading glasses and a pencil stub. 
“You all ready?  You sure you want to go?” he asked.  He didn’t look sure himself.
Nora nodded, hoping her nervousness didn’t snow. “Is Sport coming?” she asked to change the subject.
“Is the pope Catholic?” he countered.  That was one of his old-fashioned sayings.  It meant she had asked a dumb question.
Leading the way to his old pickup truck, carrying his dog in his arms, he did not say “Hop in, princess,” as her father would have said, just, “Open the door for me.”  When he spoke, she noticed that he sounded a little out of breath.
“Does Sport have to come with us?  Can’t she stay home just this once?”
       “She could stay home, but she doesn’t have to.  Sport goes where I go.  Now open that door before I drop her!” 
       Nora did as she was told, opening the passenger-side door, and her grandfather arranged the dog on a ragged woven rug in the middle of the long, worn bench seat. Her grandfather slammed the door behind her, and she wedged her rear end as closely as possible into the corner made by the door and the seat back, as far as she could get from the old beagle.
Smelly old dog!  Bad breath, body odor and gas!  Nora breathed in through barely parted lips and out through her nose, right elbow out the window, hand over mouth and nostrils.
       “Does Sport ever get a bath?” she finally venture to ask.  By this time they were out on the dirt road, her grandfather concentrating (or so it seemed) on hitting every bump and chuckhole, and he didn’t answer her question.  Maybe he hadn’t heard it.  She wasn’t sure sometimes if he heard everything she said.
       Grandpa’s dog s-s-s-s-s-sTINKS! she shouted in the secret freedom of her mind.  It would be a mean thing to say out loud, but it couldn’t hurt his feelings if she only thought it.  She turned to look out the window, to breathe in the fresh evening air, to feel on her face the welcome breeze of movement, to drink in the passing scene of jungly green woods and fields, at the same time mentally repeating over and over the mean word describing Sport, her mind’s voice drawing out the long hiss, then biting off the T, making the single syllable into a satisfying woosh and chop inside her head. 
S-s-s-s-s-sTINKS!  Woosh-sh…CHOP!
 “Ready for blast-off,” her grandfather remarked as he turned the key in the ignition.  That was another one of his corny sayings.
She had been with her grandfather for almost two weeks now, and the roads to town were starting to feel as familiar as the house itself.  First was the dirt road, full of holes and bumps, dusty on dry days, muddy in the rain.  At this time of year it was lined with big clumps of bright yellow flowers that looked something like daisies except for their color.  There was one real farm with a dozen young calves, black and white.  Nora had called them “cows” the first time she saw them, but her grandfather corrected her, explaining that they were something called “feeder calves” and that they were raised for beef.  They’re clueless, Nora thought each time they drove by and she looked at the calves enjoying themselves outdoors.  They don’t know they’re going to be someone’s dinner.  Right now they were frisky and cute, like pets would be.
Most of the scenery on the dirt road was fields and old woods, and only the calf pasture had good fences.  All the other fence posts were either leaning or rotten, sometimes both, and old barbwire was sagging where it wasn’t totally missing.
“I remember Grandma’s cow,” Nora heard herself say suddenly.
“You do?  You remember Beulah?  You were just a little thing then,” her grandfather answered.  “What else do you remember?”
“I remember when I was real little, Grandma had chickens.  Black chickens.  In my storybooks, all the chickens were white, but Grandma’s were black.”
“Well, chickens come in different colors, just like people.  Yes, those were pretty birds.  Your grandma wasn’t raised on a farm, you know.  She wanted chickens, but she wanted them for their looks as much as for their eggs.  Those were black Minorcas.”  He added, “That breed came originally from Spain.”
“By themselves?”  The words popped out before she thought.
He looked over at her, startled.  “Are you pulling my leg?  Is that a joke?”
“No!  I’m just making conversation!”
“Well, chickens can’t fly across an ocean!  No, they were brought here from Europe.”
They turned now onto the paved road.  It was kind of a highway, Nora supposed, because it had a number instead of a name, but it was only wide enough for one lane of cars to go in each direction.  On both sides of the road from here to the edge of town were old ranch houses, some wood and some brick.  There were also three really old, big, two-story-with-attic houses.  These had barns in back and separate garages.  The ranch houses had attached garages and only garden sheds in their backyards.  One of the big houses, red brick with a huge front porch, had chickens that walked around the yard, anywhere they wanted to.  They were white chickens. 
“Were the Min-, minna—?“
“The Minorcas?”
“The Minorcas.  Were they kind of like slaves?”
“They were brought here, you said,” Nora reminded him. 
“All kinds of poultry and livestock and trees and vegetables were brought here!  Animals and plants didn’t just decide to come of their own accord!  But—slaves?  Where do you get your ideas, Nora?”
She didn’t know where her ideas came from.  She saw something, or someone said something, and the sights and words connected to something else, and out popped a new thought.  Also, right now she just wanted to keep her grandfather’s mind jumping around so it couldn’t have time to get worried.  She didn’t want her own mind to have time to get worried, either.  She continued, “Well, what about people?  Everyone came here from somewhere else, right?  And some were brought here, and the people brought here were slaves, right?”
Her grandfather’s hands on the steering wheel were firm and sure as he guided the truck around the only curve in the road.  They were almost there.
“First of all, Nora, there were people here in the Americas for a long, long time before anyone else came or was brought over.  Remember?  Native Americans.  And then, yes, I’m sure you remember the Pilgrims from England.  And later people from Africa were brought over as slaves.  You know all this!  You study history in school, don’t you?”
She wanted to keep him talking but didn’t want to look like a fool.  “Yes, Grandpa, we had all that in history.  But what about the black chickens?”
“Chickens aren’t people!”  He paused, shaking his head, then asked, “Do you know where your ancestors came from?”
“Yes.  Your family came from Poland, and my dad’s family came from Ireland.”
“And your great-grandmother Darga, my father’s mother, was brought to America by her parents, but as a child, not as a slave.  If she had been brought as a slave, though, it wouldn’t have been her fault, would it?”
Fault?  Well, of course not!  “Who said anything about anyone’s fault?  Grandpa, where do you get your ideas?”
Both of them were nervous, and the nervousness was making them sound silly, Nora thought.
Here they were at the edge of Everett, and her grandfather slowed the truck to the village speed limit and signaled his turn into the nursing home parking lot.  There was a row of cedar trees planted on the south side of the parking lot, and that was where he liked to leave the truck, so the tall trees would be shade for Sport.  To make double-sure the dog wouldn’t get too hot, he backed the truck into the row of spaces, facing the front away from the direction of the sun.
When she met him around the front of the truck, the nursing home in front of them, Nora looked up at her grandfather, and he took her hand.
“Nora, I’m not used to having a little girl around.  Sometimes I tell you things you already know.  But I don’t know what you know!  So bear with me, okay?  I’m doing the best I can.”
“You’re doing fine,” she assured him, and they turned toward the building, Nora’s heart thumping.
Her grandmother’s room turned out to be sunny and cheerful.  There were flowers and a birdcage in the window.  There was a parakeet in the cage.  There were two narrow beds, two dressers, a small table and four armchairs.  Her grandmother sat in one of the armchairs, wearing light cotton drawstring pants, a sweater, and socks and tennis shoes on her feet.  Not a dress, Nora noticed.  But her hair was grey and curly, and her eyes still blue, just as Nora remembered.
“Grandma?” Nora said, approaching slowly, as her grandfather had told her to do.
A worried look came into the old lady’s face.  “Who are you?” she asked.  “You look familiar.”
“I’m Nora,” Nora said.
“Did we used to play together?”
“Yes, we played together a lot,” Nora answered. That was the truth.  Her grandmother had always played with her a lot.
“Who’s that man?  Is he your father?”
“He’s my grandfather.”  This was weird but so far not as awful as what she had imagined.
“Is it okay if we sit down with you?” her grandfather asked her grandmother, politely. 
“Yes, of course!  Where are my manners?”  They sounded like two strangers talking, but her grandmother smiled brightly all of a sudden.  “It’s nice to have some company,” she said.  “Now tell me,” she said to Nora, “did you and I play with those Kirby girls?  What did we play?  I like to remember, but sometimes I need help.”
Nora’s palms felt clammy, and she swallowed hard past the lump in her throat, looking at her grandfather for help.
“Jump rope?” he suggested.
Yes, Nora remembered.  Grandma always said she had played lots of jump rope games as a girl!  That helped Nora remember something else.  “Hopscotch?” she suggested.
“Oh, yes, I remember!”  The old lady’s smile was big now, and she tipped her head back as if to laugh.  “And sometimes we sneaked into the boys’ tree house when they weren’t around!”
“Sounds like those were good times,” Nora’s grandfather suggested.
The woman nodded.  “I’ve had a wonderful life,” she agreed.  “I just wish I could remember more of it.”  She stood up then, carefully, holding onto the table with one hand.  “Well, I do thank you both for coming to visit.  Maybe you’ll come again sometime.”
Nora was taken by surprise.  They had just arrived!  But her grandfather was already on his feet, shaking hands with his own wife and assuring her that he would bring Nora back to visit again! 
As they walked back down the hall to the reception desk and the exit, he gripped Nora’s hand tightly, and neither one of them said anything at all. Then outside in the sunlight, he stopped and turned to her. 
“Thank you for insisting on this, Nora.  It was a wonderful idea!  Your grandma was very glad to see you.”

Friday, April 25, 2014

So Much, Sometimes, for Planning

South Fox Island from Jelinek Road near Kovarik Road
I'm starting with yet another ice-on-Lake-Michigan picture, just because it's a shot I especially like. I'd planned to put up a bit of original fiction today but didn't plan well enough. (Yes, that's it -- not that planning failed but that not enough of it was done.) I'm sure the story is somewhere, undoubtedly on a CD in a stack at home. It's actually an chapter of a YA novel I never finished, a chapter I think won't need much editing to make a decent short story; for today, however, I'll have to make do with odds and ends for a blog post. 

(But why, when the phrase "make do" comes to my mind, are my fingers tempted to type "make due" instead? Seems an ill omen with a spelling bee coming up in nine days.)

It was too cold for the peeper chorus in my favorite frog pond, but there was lots of bird life. The mallards had gone on down the road, where they found a temporary pond in a small cornfield, but plenty of other birds were busy in the frog pond.

I'll ask my birder friends to confirm and narrow my tentative identifications of the following:


Ring-billed gull?


Farther along our back-roads route to Northport, timber cutters had been at work.

Who doesn't love the smell of fresh-cut wood? And yet, it made me think once again of a W. S. Merwin title I have in stock at Dog Ears. See what I mean? It's a lovely book, too.

And now, here is some of the excitement in the shop today. First, just in time for the last week of National Poetry Month, a fortuitous discovery: a few more signed copies of Fleda Brown's lovely book of poems, No Need of Sympathy. Yea! And then Dan, the UPS man, brought a book order, and there was the irresistible A Farm Dies Once a Year: A Memoir, by Arlo Crawford, and the delicious-looking Low and Slow: The Art and Technique of Braising, BBQ, and Slow Roasting, from the Culinary Institute of America and Robert Briggs. Beautiful, beautiful books!

"Farm to table" is more than a marketing phrase. Nurture and cultivate are words that apply to the soil, the palate, and the mind. And it's all here, on my little treasure island, just up Waukazoo Street from the -- sigh! -- big construction site. I sigh because, as I've already mentioned today to a couple people, all the new building in town is exciting, true, but so was the past winter, with all its ice and snow, and now I'm ready for both construction and winter to be over, for streets to be cleaned, for trees to blossom, even for grass to grow. Aren't you?

A week ago in the woods, at last....

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Ice Lingers On

Lake Michigan over cornfield, orchard, and willows
These shots of the ice lingering in the Lake Michigan's Manitou Passage -- between Leelanau County mainland and the offshore islands -- could go on my photo blog, because they have nothing to do with books, but this was a big part of my morning. The photo above and the one directly below were taken from Jelinek Road, near my home ground. The bright orange-yellow (up close more green-yellow) of the willows seems to sing this time of year, and I love the deep mauve-red of the cherry branches. But you see what I mean about the ice -- .

I hadn't planned an expedition to Peterson Park this morning. The plans I had didn't work out, though, and I had enough gas in the truck to get out northwest of the village, so that's where we went, Sarah and I. We hadn't been to Peterson Park since before winter set in. What a sight from the top of the hill, driving in! Why did it surprise me? Combination of blue sky, sunlight, and white, white ice stretching way, way out was breathtaking, even to Up North eyes that have been looking at ice and snow for months on end.

Anyone for a picnic?

South Fox Island out on the horizon

And then I went a little nuts. More ice. More ice. More ice. Haven't we seen enough already? Stop!!!

You're seeing North Manitou Island way out there

Beach, seen from above with telephoto
It would have been worth the drive out to Peterson Park even without the surprise detour I'd found earlier, entering Northport. Below is the detour seen from my end of the block, not the end visitors see as they arrive, but only half the block is closed, anyway. My end is open. And since helper Bruce (usually here on Wednesdays) is out of town this week, and since my drawing class has been cancelled for today (Boo-hoo!!! Get well quickly, Betsy!), and since today may be the only bright, sunny day we have this week, I'm glad my bookstore is still accessible.

Something going on at the bowling alley construction site....
 -- But what's this? A couple ventured up from Suttons Bay? Time to stop messing about with photos and get back to messing about with books.

Monday, April 21, 2014

Après le Weekend

Manitou Passage from Jelinek Road
In some ways, things look much the same. There was still ice out in the Manitou Passage this morning and still patches of dirty snow on woodsy hillsides and in odd pockets. Mornings these days, however, are alive with birdsong and the gurgling or creeks, and it only took a little raking yesterday to liberate cheery, determined flowers around our old farmhouse.

Winter aconite

Hellebores -- I finally remembered the name

“What’s it like here in the winter?” That’s what summer visitors ask every year, and this year, after the winter we’ve endured, I suggested to a few friends that an illustrated poster was in order. Karen Casebeer took up the challenge on her photo blog and went beyond my conception, providing a narrative from fall to spring. Beautiful work, Karen!

Here's something exciting -- to me, anyway! The bird I misidentified on Facebook recently (and I should have known better), my friends now tell me is a meadowlark. That explains its beautiful morning song! I include a photo here, though it would be poor resolution because it's the only one I have, but you can find better images elsewhere. 

My new drawing class in Traverse City begins this coming Wednesday afternoon, and helper Bruce must be out of town all week. What that means is that Dog Ears Books will close early on Wednesday this week, around 2 p.m. Bruce should be back for subsequent Wednesdays, so the duration of my six-week class shouldn’t disrupt the bookstore schedule too much.

I don’t have a lot of deep thoughts today, but I do have a book to feature, one that I doubt many (if any) of my readers know: the English translation of Alain-Fournier’s Le Grand Meaulnes, absolutely the most romantic book I’ve ever read in my entire life. “Romantic” in the largest sense possible, that is – a story like a dream, with a mysterious, elusive, dreamlike setting. When I first described the story to David, he said it sounded like Green Mansions, which at the time of our conversation I had not yet read. Later, after reading the Hudson novel, I agreed with David that it and Le Grand Meaulnes share the ineffable quality of romance. If you seek temporary escape in literature from the ills or even simply the nonstop challenges of modern life (we all need a break now and then), The Great Meaulnes is what your bookseller prescribes today. 

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Indoors and Out, "Outgoing" is the Word of the Week

Can you see the difference? Maybe not, if you've never visited Dog Ears Books in person, but believe me, the bookstore is much changed in the last week. It was the season of the Big Purge, the object being to clear floor, bench, and all chairs of boxes and piles of books. In order to make that happen, of course,  some books on the shelves until recently had to make way for later arrivals. The weeding-out process is "ruthless," to use the word David applied to the same process in our household 21 year ago, the process that preceded the inaugural Dog Ears in 1993. Been here too long; not worthy of shelf space -- these are a couple of judgments that were flying around the bookshop on those busy days, and it's made quite a difference to me, of which I'm very proud.

Helper Bruce returned from his latest travels and joined in on Wednesday. We filled boxes from law, economics, business, and health sections before he retreated to military history and I to cookbooks, where we continued the work separately. 

And now, look! Browsers and customers will be able to sit on the bench while perusing the shelves -- quite a revolutionary notion, eh?

Meanwhile, out on Lake Michigan, most of the ice is gone, except in the Manitou Passage, seen here from Jelinek Road.

Not everything is going out, though. New books are always coming in, as will -- very soon -- spring blossoms.

Happy holidays, all!

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Country Views, April Two Thousand and Fourteen

Can you tell that the pond above is almost completely frozen over? It looks largely clear of ice but isn't, as you see in the shot to the left here. By afternoon, though, the ice will be gone and water rippling in sun and breeze, and then the question is how far the temperature will drop tonight. The last two nights the pond had refrozen, but maybe we're about to turn the corner in this 24-hour period. I hope so, because I can hardly wait for the peeper chorus to burst into full-throated song right here on this spot. 

Even this morning, however, there was life at the pond. My duck and gull photos are overexposed, as was much of what I tried to photograph this morning. Finally, almost to Northport, I stopped and figured out the problem. I'd been using the Av setting, Aperture Priority, in the woods on an overcast Monday morning and had changed the F-stop to bring in more light. Little did I know that changing the aperture on the Av setting would carry over to the Auto and Scene settings as well. Lesson learned, so all's well that ends well. And actually, one snow-edged road winding through frost-kissed fields seems to reveal its essence more fully with the overexposure. Or am I kidding myself?

(Snow was not really blue)

Closer to home in the past couple of days, here were some of the sights to be seen: 

Wild leeks!

Beechnut hulls (squirrels ate the nuts long ago)

Flicker singing at top of popple tree

I have lots of new photos of building projects around town but will save those for another day. David and I have been reading up a storm these days and nights, making the most of our indoor time before outdoor projects lay their claims on us. We've been reading Norman Lewis to each other and Harry Bruce and will soon embark on a little light-hearted Bill Bryson I've set aside. All these books we've been enjoying are nonfiction tales of faraway lands, compensation for the fact that it's been a year and a half since we've traveled any farther away from home than Kingsley, Michigan. -- But we live in a beautiful place. We survived the winter. And spring it is icumen in!

My other recent reading (the silent, to-myself stuff) has covered fiction (short and long), poetry, and more nonfiction. Some of it will find its way into reviews soon, both here and in the Northern Express, but I won't neglect the progress of the season, either. It's too exciting!

Woodpecker heaven amid last (?) of winter's snow