Tag Archives: bookseller

Pipe Dreams of the Bookladen Orphanage

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Listen here: http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/pipedream.mp3 

or read on, dear reader…

An energetic, robust customer bounds through the door of Reed Books. He is lugging a large box filled to the brim with pipes. “Here are some more things from the house,” he pronounces. Then, he hands the load over to me and rushes out the door while I search for a place to situate the box.

“Here’s the last of our stuff,” he announces, as he returns and unloads two large plastic containers of old books. He needs to retrieve the containers in order to haul future troves.

It’s like Christmas every day at the shop. Folks bring large trash bags of paperbacks, rickety wooden boxes filled with attic leftovers, linen-wrapped fragiles from another century, suitcases of old documents and memorabilia, purses packed with formerly-loved treasures, books upon books.

It’s a mistake to dismiss even the worst-looking arrival without first peering within, combing for the kinds of saleable, collectible items that keep the store running. There’s almost always something unique hidden among the gewgaws and doodads and thingamajigs and artifacts and disposables that are presented to me. Even the worst-looking or worthless-seeming items have stories to tell. I feel like a fortune teller or seer, as I explain the source or meaning of each societal leftover.

So, why do I accept today’s gift of a large box filled with smoking pipes? After all, this is a bookstore. Why pipes?

Well, at one time in this bookie world, pipes and tobacco and humidors and clippers and scrapers and cleaners and flexible stems and ashtrays and cigar boxes and humidifiers and smoking jackets were part of the setting in which books were read, collected, enjoyed, catalogued, referenced, displayed, meditated upon.

Today, lots of other accumulatables decorate rooms where books are cherished, replacing the now politically-incorrect smoking paraphernalia. Books are not read in a vacuum; they are enjoyed while the reader surrounds them with a favorite reading chair, a blankie, a snack, a cherished pet, photographs of family and friends, a cuppa java, a music reproduction device lurking nearby or stuck into ear.

The surroundings are part of the literary experience—unless you tend to read while suspended in darkest, starless space.

As I walk the aisles of century-laden books, my memory of each title encompasses everything that was going on while I was reading…when I touch a copy of ANTIC HAY by Aldous Huxley, I can almost smell the unmown grass surrounding me on the lawn of my childhood home as I once lay a-blanket, reading in the shade. I can feel my too-tight tennis shoes making editorial comments about the characters in the book whose shoes always fit correctly, I can sense the impending visit from a neighborhood playmate, I can conscript a bit of clover to use as bookmark, I can see the gaunt face of Huxley on the back cover, I can retrieve this visceral memory years later when I actually meet him at a lecture.

Each book in the big world has equal status in my tiny world. Each is conceived, edited, submitted, argued over, politicked, rewritten, slicked up, dumbed down, smartened up, designed, proofed, printed, even re-printed. Each book is purchased or shop-lifted, partially read or not read at all, re-gifted, torn apart for an art project, ignored in a corner for ages, chewed by the dog, passed on to another reader, thrift-stored or ebayed or donated, treasured in the family archives, burned at the stake.

Each book in the shop is my little orphan, awaiting adoption, nose pressed to the show window, hoping for a kindly reader to take it home where awaits an easy chair, a bookcase, a coffee table, a bit of reading light, nurturing, understanding, tolerance, respect.

Nearby, out of reverence for readers of the past, rest pipe rack, ashtray, wooden matches, and the old familiar fragrance of tobaccos past and pulp papers survived and, just out of camera range, the next reader, rubbing hands together gleefully in anticipation of the joys and sorrows and provocative ideas hiding between covers that shield the pages till just the right moment

(c) 2013 A.D. by Jim Reed

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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Nobody Ever Gets Out of the High Chair

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Nobody Ever Gets Out of the High Chair
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To become a bartender or a waiter, you don’t have to have a PhD in psychology or social work, but that doesn’t matter, because your customers think you have a PhD in psychology or social work.
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In other words, in a bar or a restaurant, people often revert to infantilism and look to the barkeeper or waitress as confessor and adviser.  We DEPEND on these people to make us forget the day’s troubles…we depend upon them to act as substitutes for those long ago folks in our lives who fed us and made us feel secure.

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Bring back the eateries of my youth!
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In memory yet green, I can still walk into all kinds of restaurants that used to exist in Tuscaloosa, and I can still get well fed with Food for Thought, even though the restaurant may be long gone and dearly departed.
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In the 1960’s, as a skinny bespectacled radio and TV announcer, I used to take myself and wife to the restaurant beside the Moon Winx Motel and eat an enormous filet mignon with baked potato and goodness knows what else, for under $2.00 on Friday night.  That neon partial-moon still winks at me in my imagination, and I’ve always regretted that I never spent a night there, with that glow leaking around the curtains.
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In the 1940’s, I used to be hauled by Mother and Sister to H&W Drugs when it was right across the street from the Bama Theatre.  There, we would eat the known universe’s best danged chicken salad sandwiches on toasted light bread cut in two, glugged down with soda fountain Coca-Cola.  I can still taste that wonderful oniony flavor and would give just about anything to have one of those sandwiches right this minute.

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We used to drive past the Teapot Diner when I was little, but I never got to eat there.  It would have been an exciting thing to do–eat inside a teapot!  Then, to cap it off, what a treat it would have been to spend the night in the Wigwam Motor Court toward Bessemer!  Wonder what kind of food THEY served?

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Some of the best dining I ever had was while standing on the concrete floor of my grandfather’s store in Peterson, R.L. MCGEE GEN MERCHANDISE, and eating some ice cream washed down by a Grapico, flavored with love and affection from my grandmother Effie and Uncle Brandon and the postmistress, Aunt Gladys.

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The best loaded cheeseburgers I ever had were from the Soup Store cafeteria in the Student Union Building at the University of Alabama, where I worked as an announcer for the public radio station.  Back in the early sixties, I’d put on a long symphonic work for the listeners, then dash down to the Soup Store, grab a burger and a Coke and some chips, and rush back upstairs, hoping against hope that the LP vinyl recording hadn’t gotten stuck in the meantime.

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That juicy cheeseburger would be just right, right about now.

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The best food I could have would be in my parents’ home on Eastwood Avenue long about Sunday evening, when the refrigerator still held cold left-over fried chicken and potato salad and Pepsi Cola.  What would I give to experience that again!

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And so on.

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What are YOUR memories of great food in great places? Let me hear from you.

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Just remember: it’s not the food, you know. It’s the circumstances.

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When I was feeling safe in a safe little town with a safe little family in a safe little neighborhood, anything I ate was memorable.  When I was playing Shostakovich on the big turntable and drinking soft drinks and scarfing a cheeseburger on campus, life couldn’t possibly have gotten any better for that moment.  When I was Downtown ready to go see a picture show, eating chicken salad with my mother and sister, I was in safe haven.

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When I could walk across main street, all the way from my job at WJRD, to S.H. Kress on the other side, and eat a plate lunch for less than a dollar in the 1960’s, I knew life was only going to get better.

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Back then we could sit at Pasquale’s on University Boulevard and gossip and bloat for hours, we could go to York’s Grocery Store on 15th Street and load up on snacks, we could go across the street from city hall and sit and sip with mayor Hinton and other reporters after City Council meetings…and, even before that, way back in the 1950’s, I could take part of my lunch money at Tuscaloosa High School, purchase one of those heavy, yeasty rolls at the cafeteria, grab a half pint of Perry Creamery’s Pasteurized Homoginized milk, and hang out with the other nerds and geeks I loved: Patricia Gresham, Pat Flood, Jon Charles Palmer, Barbara Casson, Dot Jones, Jerry Hudson, Doug Bleicher, Arthur Voss and so on.  Then, I could take the unspent part of my lunch money across the street after school to Parkview Drugs and spin that rack of paperback books and get something new and exciting to read.

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Every meal is a lasting memory, when you’re young. From my earliest recollection of rubber-nipple-bottled milk and my first birthday cake (all over face and body), to my last meal just a few second agos (crunchy fake tacos and Diet Coke), every meal carries a memory to pull out of the file on a future lonely day, every meal triggers a memory of a wonderful eating experience I had a decade ago or a half century ago.

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If I were back in that wooden high chair right now, on my first birthday, knowing what I know now, I would still stick my face and fingers into that white icing and laugh with delight at the prospect of recalling it some 70 years later

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(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com