Collective bargaining

About five years ago, a book store fortuitously appeared next door to the coffeeshop, replacing a wine store.  I'm not a wine-drinker, so I was thrilled.  

It's a bit like a Tardis, looks quite tiny from the outside, as you climb the entrance steps, which are painted to look like book spines. (The titles change every few months.). Inside, is much what you'd expect: books on one side; small gift assortments, i.e. bookmarks, reading glasses, cookies, etc. on the other.  But beyond, are two large rooms:  one for used books, and a much larger day-lit room with new books, games, journals and other stationery.  (My particular weakness.) At the end of a corridor with cards for every occasion - some of them quite rude - is a closet stuffed with jigsaw puzzles. There's a puzzle exchange every few weeks; people line up for it.  It's that kind of neighbourhood.

In December, I buy stocking stuffers.  The rest of the year, I mostly buy cards, stocking up every month or so.  Recently, I lay my choices on the cash register counter, in order to rustle up my loyalty card.  The cashier totted up my selection and mulled over what collective noun would work best.

"A kindness of cards?" I suggested.  "No, wait!  A communication of cards!"  She was clearly taken with the former.  I prefer the latter.

He's not a man, he's a reading machine...

In an era when books are routinely used to train artificial intelligence, usually without the author's permission,  it was a little unsettling to see this sign outside of my local bookshop this morning.

 

We readers are very witty

So, I'm minding my own business this morning in the coffee shop. I've just taken a big bite of my cherry/yoghurt Danish (my favourite, which is not always available), when two gentlemen approach my table. They're a bit Mutt-and-Jeff-ish - does anyone know what that is, anymore? - one fellow is pleasantly plump with a short groomed salt-and-pepper beard, and the other is very tall indeed with white hair and mustache.

The shorter man excuses himself and begins: "This may seem a little strange..." I chew and swallow quickly and apprehensively.
He continues: "We're from the Zone, and we noticed that you have a lot of books on your table. Are you a reader?"

I know The Zone is a local radio station - that's about all I know about it, except it's a rock/pop station, and, thinking they're doing some sort of survey, I quickly explain, "Well, these are mostly journals, but..." I pluck a library book from the pile. ". . . I do have an actual book here."

"So you are a reader!" they exclaim.  One of them fishes out a envelope.
"We'd like to present you with this fifty-dollar gift certificate for Bolen Books!"

My surprise and joy is unfeigned.  Bolen Books is the largest independent book-store in Victoria; they have everything.  I stare at the envelope and say, in a rather high-pitched rush of emotion:  "This is like coke!"

The two men laugh heartily and walk away, wishing me a wonderful day.  The tall one says, over his shoulder, "That was very funny."

He apparently doesn't realize that I wasn't joking.

Book buddies

At Russell Books, I'm searching for a book that Demeter has long desired, the third part in an out-of-print trilogy about Elizabeth I.

A fellow is camped out by the British History shelf, so we have to pick our way around him -- good-naturedly, of course, as he is clearly a kindred spirit, just by being here.

"Such a wonderful shop," he glows up at me, as I step over him gingerly.


"Amazing!" I agree.  "What a selection, and the books are in great shape!"  (Russell's, if you haven't heard of it, claims to be the largest shop for rare, used, and out-of-print books in Canada, and the books are usually in pristine condition.  Elder daughter managed to acquire a large fraction of the works required for the Foundation Year Programme in her first year at the University of King's College in Halifax -- and that was one hell of a list.)

"I shouldn't be allowed in here with a credit card."

"There should be a buddy system for Russell's, like in AA."

This amuses him mightily.  "That's right! 'Just put your money in your pocket; I'll come get you...'"

He proudly tells us that the volume he's holding has more than twenty references to an ancestor of his, who had a position in the Elizabethan/Jacobean courts, and who miraculously survived, even after getting mixed up with Walter Raleigh.

A fellow family researcher, I think to myself as I head to the cashier to get help in my own quest.  I might have known.  Russell's must be crawling with them.

Demeter's book, as it turns out, is in the basement with the "vintage" books.

Adventures in book borrowing

The crossing guard outside the Catholic school en route to younger daughter's school tells me we're being grazed by the edge of what's left of Hurricane Gustav, so Friday night, the sky blackened and the trees tossed fitfully, and Saturday brought steady rain.

Elder daughter, who spent the earlier part of this first week back at school declaring that her course on World Religions was a terrible mistake, has now revised her opinion and is directing her vitriol at this year's drama teacher. I'm beginning to understand why. On Friday, this teacher announced that she was dividing the class into groups and assigning a play to each. Elder daughter's group got George Bernard Shaw's Candida, and was airily told to bring a copy of the play to class on Monday. "Oh, there's plenty of copies at the public library," said ill-advised drama teacher. I take it she hasn't checked. There are not many copies within the system, some are out, and those that are in are at far-flung branches. A hold will deliver the play to one's local library -- after Monday.

I placed a cautionary hold, then elder daughter and I shouldered our brollies and hiked the kilometre up the hill to see if we couldn't scare up a copy that way. If we'd been in Victoria, Demeter would have lent us her copy, but if we were in Victoria, we wouldn't be dealing with this ill-advised teacher. Candida? For sixteen-year-olds? This isn't exactly one of Shaw's most accessible plays. She assigned another group Strindberg's Miss Julie, for cripe's sake. Never mind the fact that this is a Drama class and not a literature class; is alienation her goal?


Anyway, no dice at the library. I suggested we try Books on Beechwood, our charming local bookstore (long may it reign). So back down the hill, past our house, to the main drag. We skulked around a bit, then approached the charming proprietor. She shook her head, considered us for a moment, then said: "I could lend you a copy..." Well, it turns out that her house is always getting mail meant for our house, and vice versa. Every month or so, I take a small detour from the trek to retrieve younger daughter from school, and deliver wayward catalogues and envelopes to the townhouse that shares our house number on swish Rideau Terrace. She phoned up her husband, interrupting his championing of Federer in the US Open, and told him where her Shaw anthology was. We thanked her profusely, promised faithfully to take excellent care of the book (after all, she knows where we live!), and started the climb up the hill again.

"Now, there's a Victoria moment in Ottawa," remarked elder daughter.

I don't know what to do about ill-advised teacher. Sometimes you just have to suck it up. But, do, if you love books, go and support your local independent bookstore when you can. And if you live in Hades, buy a book from Books on Beechwood. Evidently, it's a classy establishment!