The Book "Parlor"
Whenever I look at some of my old poetry books I’m propelled back to when I first moved to New England. I missed the used bookstores I had frequented in Maryland.
One of my favorite haunts had shelves stacked with poetry books and milk cartons jam-packed with well worn small press poetry magazines and chapbooks—some were yellow, others fell apart unless handled gingerly, while more than a few gave off a musty aroma. This was a treasure trove. The name of the store was nondescript and easily forgotten. I referred to it as The Bookstore Up Two Flights of Stairs and To The Right. The owner fashioned himself as a philosopher, spinner of literary tales, and a shrewd purchaser of books at library sales and yard sales.
Moving meant a new geography and a place within that landscape. One day while driving around, foraging for new landmarks, I passed a small house with a lackluster exterior and shutters hanging askew. Outside the front door a small hand painted sign hung on a pole —Books. The license plate on the blue sedan in the driveway, a vanity plate, spelled out Books1. I parked in front in a spot barely able to accommodate two small cars. When I entered the house a woman called out, “To your right.” To my right was a small room with floor to ceiling bookshelves crammed with books.
“Come in, don’t just stand there if you love books. You may call me Mrs. Peters and this is my parlor, which I found of little use and transformed it into a bookstore.”
Mrs. Peters sat behind a mahogany table. She resembled a character out of a Dicken’s novel.
“I’m just looking,” I said and then added, “I’m new here and have been looking for a used bookstore.”
“This is not a used bookstore. It is a place for serious readers.”
Despite my gaffe we became friends. Her age —“Closer to ninety is all you need to know…” In time she told me of being taken to China when she was ten months old and living there until the age of eighteen. “My parents were missionaries. A useless, intrusive occupation.” Mrs Peters held strong convictions about the right of people to believe in “doorknobs or hobgoblins.”
I quickly discovered her two long poetry shelves. Books on that shelf had a long shelf life. I found a number of books that had been there for ten years and the price you paid was the one on the back cover. I bought the Galway Kinnell ten years after its original soft cover publishing date and purchased a 1970 copy of 19 Masks for a Naked Poet. It was Nancy Willard’s first book, published as a chapbook, no ISBN, and a run of 1200 copies . Yesterday I checked a used book site and discovered that my copy now sells for $80.00.
Mrs Peters kept a three-inch thick ledger where she wrote down each sale, the customer’s name and any pertinent information. If you asked her for a suggestion she wrote down the book she had suggested. Months later she might ask a particularly penetrating question about the book. Her acuity and recall for specifics bordered on total recall. Mrs. Peters loved discussing “good books”.
Over a year’s time I purchased most of her poetry books. “Now imagine,” she said, “if I didn’t keep all those books we might not have so many visits.”
Visiting her “parlor” of books was a bit like walking back in time. She never purchased a cash register nor did the metal box she used as a receptacle for money have a lock. When she left the house to go on a short errand she left the door open and the box and ledger on the table.
And it wasn’t only old books that occupied her shelves. Mrs. Peters kept up but no longer had enough money to expand her inventory. She’d borrow a book from the library and if it deserved a place on her shelf she wrote a review—and thumb tacked the paper to the wall. These were times before Amazon captured the public’s fancy. Several people ordered expensive texts from Mrs. Peters and one local doctor kept a standing order for any new books from his list of four favored mystery writers.
Once when Mrs Peters was away for a Saturday she offered me a chance to play book lady for the day.
“Don’t drink coffee when you’re reading one of the new books,” she said before she left for the day. Mrs. Peters considered all her books new. “And,” she added, “don’t forget to write down the name of anyone who buys a book.”
“One more thing, I don’t have enough money to pay you for the day. How would three books do?”
One woman bought a red leather covered PRÆTERITA by John Ruskin and published by George Allen of London. This small treasure had sat on the shelf for over a decade. Mrs. Peter’s discrete pencil mark in the corner listed the date the book first entered the “parlor.”
Thumbing through the book and after finding and quoting one Ruskin line, “ …accuracy of diction means accuracy of sensation, and precision of accent, precision of feeling.” she said, “I’ve always wanted this book and this edition.” I don’t recall her name, but I dutifully wrote both her name and comment in the ledger.
That day three people bought books. At the end of the day I closed the door, but not before putting the metal box on a shelf where it stayed on Sundays and after hours. I shut the ledger and placed a note on top. “The Ruskin,” I wrote, “found its owner.”
One of my favorite haunts had shelves stacked with poetry books and milk cartons jam-packed with well worn small press poetry magazines and chapbooks—some were yellow, others fell apart unless handled gingerly, while more than a few gave off a musty aroma. This was a treasure trove. The name of the store was nondescript and easily forgotten. I referred to it as The Bookstore Up Two Flights of Stairs and To The Right. The owner fashioned himself as a philosopher, spinner of literary tales, and a shrewd purchaser of books at library sales and yard sales.
Moving meant a new geography and a place within that landscape. One day while driving around, foraging for new landmarks, I passed a small house with a lackluster exterior and shutters hanging askew. Outside the front door a small hand painted sign hung on a pole —Books. The license plate on the blue sedan in the driveway, a vanity plate, spelled out Books1. I parked in front in a spot barely able to accommodate two small cars. When I entered the house a woman called out, “To your right.” To my right was a small room with floor to ceiling bookshelves crammed with books.
“Come in, don’t just stand there if you love books. You may call me Mrs. Peters and this is my parlor, which I found of little use and transformed it into a bookstore.”
Mrs. Peters sat behind a mahogany table. She resembled a character out of a Dicken’s novel.
“I’m just looking,” I said and then added, “I’m new here and have been looking for a used bookstore.”
“This is not a used bookstore. It is a place for serious readers.”
Despite my gaffe we became friends. Her age —“Closer to ninety is all you need to know…” In time she told me of being taken to China when she was ten months old and living there until the age of eighteen. “My parents were missionaries. A useless, intrusive occupation.” Mrs Peters held strong convictions about the right of people to believe in “doorknobs or hobgoblins.”
I quickly discovered her two long poetry shelves. Books on that shelf had a long shelf life. I found a number of books that had been there for ten years and the price you paid was the one on the back cover. I bought the Galway Kinnell ten years after its original soft cover publishing date and purchased a 1970 copy of 19 Masks for a Naked Poet. It was Nancy Willard’s first book, published as a chapbook, no ISBN, and a run of 1200 copies . Yesterday I checked a used book site and discovered that my copy now sells for $80.00.
Mrs Peters kept a three-inch thick ledger where she wrote down each sale, the customer’s name and any pertinent information. If you asked her for a suggestion she wrote down the book she had suggested. Months later she might ask a particularly penetrating question about the book. Her acuity and recall for specifics bordered on total recall. Mrs. Peters loved discussing “good books”.
Over a year’s time I purchased most of her poetry books. “Now imagine,” she said, “if I didn’t keep all those books we might not have so many visits.”
Visiting her “parlor” of books was a bit like walking back in time. She never purchased a cash register nor did the metal box she used as a receptacle for money have a lock. When she left the house to go on a short errand she left the door open and the box and ledger on the table.
And it wasn’t only old books that occupied her shelves. Mrs. Peters kept up but no longer had enough money to expand her inventory. She’d borrow a book from the library and if it deserved a place on her shelf she wrote a review—and thumb tacked the paper to the wall. These were times before Amazon captured the public’s fancy. Several people ordered expensive texts from Mrs. Peters and one local doctor kept a standing order for any new books from his list of four favored mystery writers.
Once when Mrs Peters was away for a Saturday she offered me a chance to play book lady for the day.
“Don’t drink coffee when you’re reading one of the new books,” she said before she left for the day. Mrs. Peters considered all her books new. “And,” she added, “don’t forget to write down the name of anyone who buys a book.”
“One more thing, I don’t have enough money to pay you for the day. How would three books do?”
One woman bought a red leather covered PRÆTERITA by John Ruskin and published by George Allen of London. This small treasure had sat on the shelf for over a decade. Mrs. Peter’s discrete pencil mark in the corner listed the date the book first entered the “parlor.”
Thumbing through the book and after finding and quoting one Ruskin line, “ …accuracy of diction means accuracy of sensation, and precision of accent, precision of feeling.” she said, “I’ve always wanted this book and this edition.” I don’t recall her name, but I dutifully wrote both her name and comment in the ledger.
That day three people bought books. At the end of the day I closed the door, but not before putting the metal box on a shelf where it stayed on Sundays and after hours. I shut the ledger and placed a note on top. “The Ruskin,” I wrote, “found its owner.”
1 Comments:
How wonderful. I can almost see the two of you and all the books.
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