A little childlike wonder here in Lewes

Dear Reader -  One of my favorite family traditions growing up in small-town Kansas was hitting the road in our gianormous Pontiac station wagon to "go see the lights." We'd toodle around our little town of Augusta a bit and then head over to the "big city" of Wichita, lingering the longest in Eastborough, where Mom loved the neighbors' tasteful takes on holiday hoopla.

To this day, I'm a sucker for a simple, pretty holiday display, and I'm charmed by so many of my neighbors' homes here in Lewes.

But what I'm in love with this December is the new creation that our town blacksmith (you may remember how I met him a couple years back and what an interesting and astonishing character he is - here's the story) has assembled over at Preservation Forge.

By day it's delightful and engaging:

By night it's stunning and enchanting:

Now I don't have to tell you, dear Reader, that my silly iPhone photos are sad, not coming close to doing John's art justice. So, if you happen to be driving through Lewes over the next few weeks, make a turn onto Third Street and stop by at the corner of Chestnut. John's creation is sure to kindle that sense of childlike wonder in your heart, too!

Blessings to you, dear Reader, as you settle in to celebrate with those you love.  - Jenny

P.S. I've been wearing out my Doris Day CD here at the shop this season - love this little ditty (cheesy graphics notwithstanding):

P.S.S. In my eyes, the best thing that those of us who care about the tragedy in Connecticut but who are distant from it can do in response is to love the children who're closest to our lives. Whether it's sharing a smile with a child in the checkout line at the grocery store or dashing down the stairs with our own children to find what's waiting under the tree, every act of kindness that we share with a child sows a seed of hope and peace. Let's love every child in our lives with utter abandon.

Lament of the Resort Retailer (Erstwhile) Blogger

Dear Reader -  A month! It's been a bl___y month since I was here last [she exclaims with the requisite level of incredulity]!

I thought at the first of the summer that it was just my initial adjusting to juggling home, charity, and shop commitments that was my blogging stumbling block, but now I see that the stumbling has not ended, nor do I see an end in sight.

It makes me sorta sad, 'cause I do love sharing stories (oh, and heaven knows, dear Reader, we've had more than our fair share of 'em at little biblion this summer!), but I have to resign myself to the realities of the laws of physics (my dear grandfather, Fred, born in 1900, went to catch the train to college in a buckboard wagon - he eventually made it from Sedalia, Missouri, to Baldwin, Kansas, where he graduated with a degree in physics from Baker - he always said, "Everybody needs a little 'fuzzicks.'"). I cannot do everything. Balls must drop. And I must be content with standing here and watching them lying on the ground. I'm thinking that Grandpa and Grandma would understand much more than my childlike perceptions of them would guess:

The good news is that even while I sit here, rather ineffectual as a blogger, the world does move on. And we have been having a spectacularly lovely summer here at biblion. The magic that happened last February hasn't stopped. And folks keep finding us - from all corners of the world.

This week we received a call from Dan Shortridge of the Wilmington News Journal (since Delaware's so tiny, the NJ is kinda like a state paper, though we have some awesome local papers - like our own, independent Cape Gazette, which has been awesome to us). He was pulling together a story about the used book market and spent some time chatting with me - and then he sent his photographer, Jen, down to take a few shots of the shop (which, before she arrived as chock full of regulars and visitors, the last of whom cleared out as she opened the door - and, as soon as she left, as she predicted, the shop filled up again!). They were sweet enough to run a picture of biblion on the front page of yesterday's edition and to include some great quotes from our guests to lead the article. It was super kind of them. Very happy.

So I'm off now to gather up a few books to fill in the shelves, yadda, yadda, yadda. As Miss C said in a  dreamy voice yesterday, "I just love the shape of our life!"

Contentedly  - Jenny

Silly Jenny! Children's books are for kids!

Dear Reader -  Yesterday saw a striking number of adults - young and old'uns alike - buying children's books at biblion.

Now, part of the attraction, I'm sure, is that Miss C intentionally prices our kids' books very accessibly, making sure that when a kid comes in, he or she can walk out with a book without their mom or dad having to think twice about it. And we've seen that scenario play out time and time again. We've also had our own fair share of grandmothers and teachers who've stopped in and cherry-picked our stacks. But yesterday had a different air to it, as many of these folks were just buying the kid's books for themselves.

And I can relate.

You see, dear Reader, I adore children's books. I love the depth of story-telling that one can find - storytelling that so transcends the trite, syrupy fare that so many adults produce for kids, thinking that's all they're up for. And I love the art.

It was my mother who first taught me about the power of children's stories for all ages.

As I mentioned in my Grandma Moses post, theater and the arts were at the center of Mom's life in little Augusta, Kansas (I'll tell you all about mom and her family some other day - there's some juicy bits there that it'd be more fun to linger over when we're not in the midst of talkin' 'bout kids' books). And one of the things that Mom did on a regular basis was readings.

Mom had a spectacular reading voice. Something magic just seemed to happen whenever she read aloud.

And one of the sometimes traditions at the little Methodist church where we settled for most of my growing up years was for Mom to read The Littlest Angel as the sermon on the Sunday before Christmas:

Now the original building that housed the August United Methodist Church was this big (to my little eye), square-ish brick thing down on the corner of 6th and School. Its shape was relevant, 'cause the sanctuary mirrored it as well, and the two-storey seating was arranged in a horse-shoe shape. We always sat upstairs on the southwest side, which turned out to be a perfect vantage point for me to entertain myself with people-watching for the hour or so that we sat in services each week.

This is all germain 'cause I remember the first time I ever watched my Mom read this story and how the faces of my neighbors - all of them, young and old alike - responded to the tale. I remember seeing folks start to choke up when Mom got to the part where the littlest angel adds his own, simple gift to pile of splendid offerings for baby Jesus:

And then how some folks'd just up and cry when the humble gift became the star.

I saw first hand how the books that I thought were for just me and my kind held power and wonder for  grown-ups, too.

Years later, in 1989, my mom and dad visited one fall when I lived in New Canaan, Connecticut - we did the obligatory leaf peeping, and we made our way into New York for a day of sight-seeing and shopping. One of our finds that day was a just-published English translation of of Ophelia's Shadow Theatre by Michael Ende (some of you may remember him as the author of The Neverending Story):

Mom and I were initially attracted by Friedrich Hechelmann's stunning illustrations:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But when we pulled it out after dinner at home and Mom set to reading it out loud, Ende's gorgeously-written, tender story left us both verklemmt. It was one of those wonderful, emotionally-connected moments that has stayed with me for life. And every time I pick up the story to read it for my own child or for the kids who escape to the graveyard with me to read during the sermons in the summer at our little church, I feel her there with us.

Some years after that night, I went to find a copy of Ophelia for a friend and learned that the book was out of print. It had never occurred to me that something so wonderful would ever not be printed. But, alas, that is the fate of many books. And I came to find out, once  the Internet became a tool for locating titles, that procuring another was possible but would run me considerably more than my little $14.95 volume.

In fact, as I've been researching biblion's books, I've found that out-of-print children's books in particular tend to be valued disproportionally high. And I think there are two reasons for this. First, it's really hard to find children's books in good condition. They simply often get loved to death. And second, the emotional connections that people experience with children's stories - whether due to the emotional impact of the stories themselves or those with whom they've shared them - serve as powerful ties.

So while all of these adults were enjoying our children's books, it was a fun coincidence that I'd been busying myself with children's books the last couple of days as well, culling out the collectible ones from the boxes that Sue (Queen o' Goo Gone) had de-stickered for me. And, man, did I find some doozies.

I'm afraid that I've gone on here for quite long enough without launching into a series of lengthy expositions of my finds, but let me just give you a little taste. Here on this first day of Spring, let's take a quick peek at Kit Williams' book without a title, where the four seasons engage in a surreal battle amidst their changes, while Ambrose the beekeeper unwittingly participates:

 

Here, mid-story, Ambrose wakes to Summer:

"A thin shaft of sunlight stood absolutely still as it pierced the silent dimness of a cottage bedroom.

"As the earth revolved, the cottage moved and so too the bedroom until the thin white beam lit up the edge of a wooden bed. Slowly, imperceptibly, the world rotated and inch by inch the many contours of the counterpane were illuminated. Tiny specks of dust sparkled in the sunbeam as it gently penetrated the dreams of the sleeping man. Ambrose woke up, yawned and stretched, then, swinging his legs out of bed, he sat up and slipped his feet into a pair of worn carpet slippers. He slowly crossed the room, half knelt on a chair and opened the curtains.

 " The first day of Summer flooded into the room all ablaze with glorious colour and heavy with the scent of countless blooms. Ripples of birdsong broke the silence and Ambrose, filling his lungs with the eager breath of the morning, all but burst with excitement. He flung on his clothes and clattered down the stairs."

As must I, dear Reader. Blissfully content as a seller of out-of-print books  - Jenny

In Search Of . . .

Dear Reader -  As I told you in Steinbeck's birthday greeting, I loved me some television back in the day. And one of my favorite shows to catch when snuggled up in Dad's big brown chair was In Search Of . . . :

Who could help but love the way that Nimoy and the producers turned up the theatrical volume on the questions that they raised? Ah! The drama! I loved watching it with the lights turned low, amping the creep-factor as much as my wee imagination would allow. The titillation was always worth another 30 minutes of sittin' still, even when those Kansas skies were cornflower blue.

Well, dear Reader, I'm on an "in search of" adventure myself these days. And, frankly, it's turning out to be much more of mystery than I ever anticipated.

It all begins with the Brits. They're planning another wedding, and folks are thinkin' that it'll hold the same fairytale factor that this one did:

Now my little practical, Kansas-girl self has never really "gotten" the hoopla over weddings - and I find that not just my head but my hands and arms, as well, all start a vigorous shake of "no" whenever I think of the money folks pour into these affairs. But our little town of Lewes is planning to celebrate on the wedding day, with businesses offering British- and wedding-related specials and enticements. And, of course, we want to be part of the fun.

I'm not sure if I've mentioned to you, yet, that readings are definitely in the vision for little biblion. The space, though small, has an openness to it that lends itself to such an experience. And I've been visited by a few scholars and poets who've expressed an interest in just that.

So, of course, when I heard about this event, I immediately thought of offering a lecture (or two!) on royal unions - one that was replete, I hoped, with all sorts of juicy, fun bits to chew. And I set off to connect with some of my retired professor buddies to find a lively, former English history professor (or one serious amateur history buff) to pull a fun one together.

Dear Reader, I have failed. Each rabbit hole I go down leads to nothing, nothing at all - just one dead end after another. And I can't believe that this isn't possible - with all of the wonderful waves of retirees that've made there way here to the beach, there just has to be a gifted professor among them, right?!

So I, like Leonard and his producers, am taking to the airways, if digital, to seek my answer.

Dear Reader, can you help me? Do you know a really cool English history professor who might have fun playing with us? Or, better yet, are you one yourself?!

Seeking  - Jenny

My Profile Picture: Sharyl Weinshilboum, the Enduring Miss Frost, and the Watergate Trials

Dear Reader -  I've been getting several inquiries about my profile picture. Everyone asks who the little girls are:

 

The one to the left is a third grade me, giggling up a storm with my best buddy from that year, Sharyl Weinshilboum, on a Girl Scout trip to Joyland in Wichita.

I loved Sharyl. I loved her wit and her creativity and her daring. And we had a blast and a half in third grade, coming up with one wacky project after another, like the intricate miniature animal display that we created for a school-wide fair; or the "Thom Boys Club" that we established in my back yard, replete with a big ol' used tire of my daddy's that we half-buried in the ground to be our club house's toilet (yep, everybody had to do something interesting in the tire in order to be in the "club"); to the extended election campaign that we organized, pitting two of my largest stuffed dogs against each other and getting kids from all the grades at recess with us to vote on which one they thought was "best" (oh, heavens, we talked poor Steven Rudy into being the campaign manager for "Big Snoopy," who was roundly trounced by my man, "Big Greeny"); to the time we both came home from school completely coated in mud after having thrown it at each other for a good, hilarious half hour or so, ruining a ball diamond in the process.

Like I said, we had a blast and a half.

But then came fourth grade and Miss Frost.

Miss Frost had been a fourth grade teacher at Lincoln Elementary since the beginning of time.

Miss Frost had been Sharyl's dad's teacher, so we knew she was really, really old. And while she turned out to be my fourth grade teacher, she wasn't Sharyl's, which was a sad thing for me. You see, Miss Frost started every day off with the Lord's Prayer, and Sharyl's dad made sure that her little Jewish soul didn't have to endure it as he had.

Miss Frost was sweet. She was the kind of teacher who bought a box of Girl Scout cookies from every girl, who never, ever got pissy, and who always came up with simple, enriching things for us to do (I still remember being "Juanita" in our makeshift Spanish class). I loved her, and of course she loved us, too - heck, I still have the note she wrote to me when I graduated from high school - what a dear.

Here's Miss Frost and our little class:

Miss Frost was also the kind of teacher who stopped to answer most any question that we threw at her.

Well, it was 1974, and Gilligan's Island, I Dream of Jeannie, and Mr. Magoo had all been preempted in their after-school timeslots by the Watergate trials. I remember going home, turning on the television with its four stations and finding every single one of them trained on these seemingly deadly dull conversations. So one day I up and asked her what it was all about.

Miss Frost, of course, took the time to explain it in detail to us. She said that cities in the Middle East were built with walls surrounding them, and that there were gates in the city walls for various purposes. She reminded us that the Middle East was very dry and that water was a hot commodity, and she said that there was always a water gate in each city where they brought the water in. And the trials? They, of course, were about a water dispute in the region.

Yep.

I was thrilled, finally knowing what all the fuss was all about. I went home, turned on the television, and immediately made up a song about the whole affair - dancing around the basement, standing up on the cabinets at the back of it to look out with a sense of power and knowing at the big cedar gate in our back yard. It was a happy day in Jennyland.

Sharyl moved away after fourth grade, and I think that I only got to see her once after that. Imagine my delight when I searched for and found her on the facebook thingie - just feels happy to know that she's still there, now with three gorgeous and impish-looking children of her own!

All of these 1974 remembrances got me to thinkin' about the music of the day. I remember that, like my Watergate ditty, I was more than a little fond of the story-telling songs. And these three flew to mind, along with the Grand Funk Railroad number (which sticks with me since I wrote to them in third grade for a class project and got a really cool fan packet back with a dozen 8x10 glossy photographs [I thought that was cool, but it didn't come close to the handwritten note that Keven Miller got back from Billie Jean King]).

I don't need to say anything more about these songs, Reader - they (and their grooming/fashion) speak for themselves.

Nostalgically yours  - Jenny