Reflections on the First Week of Fall – A Basketful of Books

 

A Basketful of Books

If I could have hugged myself last Tuesday morning, I would have. But my hands gripped the steering wheel, and I hurtled west on Route 87. Browning corn fields edged the road, and a crystal blue sky stretched overhead. My friend Jennifer, owner of Jane Austen Books, had mentioned she could use help packing books and merchandise for her trip to the 2019 JASNA AGM (Jane Austen Society of North America Annual General Meeting) in Williamsburg, Virginia. A chance to see my friend and a chance to be surrounded by books⏤reasons for a double hug.

The first time books had surrounded me was the result of hanging with another friend, Barbara Carey. Then skinny ninth graders, we rode home from school with Barb’s mother one day. She made an out-of-the-way stop at the Mount Lebanon Public Library. We walked through the garage of the fire department, climbed a spiral staircase, and entered a musty room crowded with stacks of books.

Barb’s mother leaned over the front desk and glared at the librarian. “When will you hire my daughter?”

The librarian stuffed a card into the pocket in the back of a book, set the book on a cart, and pushed her chair back six inches. “We aren’t hiring any pages until we move to the new building.”

Barb’s mother shook her finger at the librarian. “Can’t she at least fill out the application?”

The librarian pulled two forms out of a drawer, handed one to Barb, and offered the other to me. “Would you like to apply for the job too?”

Barb nudged me with her elbow. “Sure she would.”

Two months later, I got the library job. Barb didn’t.

As we walked through the halls between classes, Barb shifted the school books in her arms. “Don’t worry about it. I knew I wouldn’t get the job. Mom’s too pushy.”

Throughout high school, I maneuvered loaded carts through library stacks, shelved most of the books, and set aside ones with intriguing titles to take home.

Giggling at the memory, I depressed the accelerator and visualized leaving Jennifer’s book store with a higher stack of books than I’d carried home from the library.

After a welcoming cup of herbal tea in Jennifer’s kitchen, an orientation on how her book store runs at Jane Austen gatherings, and a lesson on packing boxes⏤not too heavy, not too big, and stuff paper into all the empty spaces⏤Jennifer gave me my first task.

In the entrance hall of her house, grand enough for a Jane Austen movie, she pulled a paperback out of a cardboard box. “This one’s damaged. They didn’t stuff paper in the empty space.” She opened and closed the cover with a two centimeter crease in the bottom right corner. “Check to make sure no other books are damaged and count to make sure they sent eighty-eight.” Jennifer set the damaged book aside and disappeared downstairs to the store in her spacious basement.

Would Jennifer really send the book back for that tiny crease? Yikes. Taking the books out of the box as if they were fragile robin eggs, I counted eighty-seven more paperbacks by Devoney Looser, a professor who plays roller derby under the name of Stone Cold Jane Austen. All had smooth, flat covers. I nested the paperbacks in the box and hustled to the bookstore.

Rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs, I inhaled the fragrance of vanilla, no doubt from a candle Jennifer had burned, and walked past rows of bookcases that towered over my head. In the back outside her office, Jennifer stacked books on two long tables. “I’ve transferred the records of these books to the Williamsburg account. They’re ready to pack.” She grabbed a folded box leaning against a counter behind the tables, taped the bottom shut, and stacked books inside. “You’ll have to choose which shape box fits the books.” After stuffing paper, Jennifer closed the top flaps, and ran the mailing tape dispenser up one side, across the top, and down the other side. Zip, zip, zip. She grabbed a marker and yellow tablet paper to write a label.

2019 AGM

about Jane

She wielded the tape dispenser again and, zi-i-i-i-ip, taped the label to the side of the box.

Setting the box on a hand truck in the hall by the back door, Jennifer brushed her hands against her shorts and peered at me over her glasses. “Are you comfortable with that?”

“Yes, but I’ll ask if I have questions.”

Heading to her office she looked over her shoulder and flashed me a knowing grin.

When didn’t I have questions?

After folding the bottom flaps of a box, I grabbed the tape dispenser, pushed the end of the tape against the cardboard, and yanked one-handed like Jennifer had. No zip. No tape. I yanked three more times in vain. “Jennifer, how did you get the tape out?”

She hustled back and reached for the dispenser. “Sometimes it gets stuck.” She yanked the tape then taped the bottom of the box. “There.” Jennifer returned to her office.

Selecting the largest books first, I packed multiple copies including those of Tea with Jane Austen, Austen Country, Jane Austen and Her Times. Though I couldn’t fit another book, air pockets gaped in the box.

Luckily, Jennifer passed me on the way to the stacks.

“Is it okay to fill the rest of this box with paper?”

She slowed to check. “No. The books will shift too much. Try a different shape box.” She leaned over the stacked boxes and handed me one.

This time the tape came out of the dispenser but twisted, stuck to itself, and formed a wonky bow tie. I reached for the scissors across the table and shouted, “May I use your scissors to cut the tape?”

“Fine” came Jennifer’s voice from across the basement.

I cut the tape and tried again. Another sticky bow tie. Sheesh. Forget the dispenser. I pulled tape loose, cut it, and taped the bottom of the box. The books fit inside with only half inch cracks. I stuffed crumpled paper, closed the box, and attached my first hand-written label.

When I carried the box to the hand truck, Jennifer passed me with an armload of books. “Everything all right?”

“Yep,” I answered as if no one could have a question about packing.

Five boxes later, I’d packed all the books on the table. I walked into office where Jennifer, perched on a rolling chair, stared at her computer.

I stared at tree trunks outside the window above the computer. “I’m ready for more.”

“Oh, sorry. I got busy with an order that has to go out today.” She jumped. The chair rolled away from the desk, and she raced to the shelves.

“No need to apologize,” I shouted after her. “I’ll browse awhile.” With steps as reverent as if I walked past Jane Austen’s grave in Winchester Cathedral, I moved into the stacks, gazed at books, and opened ones with intriguing titles.

By the time Jennifer called, “I’ve got some ready,” I had selected three books. I put them on an empty shelf at the end of a stack in the middle of the store and headed back to the boxing table.

Book by book.

Box by box.

Label by label.

When the tape ran out, Jennifer handed me a new roll. I threaded the dispenser, flicked it, and zip, zip, zip, fastened the flaps of the box. Aha. An old lady could learn new tricks.

For the rest of Tuesday and Wednesday, I happily packed books and merchandise⏤Jane Austen playing cards, earrings, and puzzles. Surrounded by books. In the good company of my friend.

With fingers and toes crossed that none of the books I’d packed would develop creased covers and none of the earring cases would crush, I left Jennifer’s after a Jane Austen vacation. And I carried a basketful of books.

Sunset at Jennifer's House

Reflections on the Thirteenth Week of Summer – Coffee Pot Poetry

 

Coffee Pot Poetry

Before he goes to bed, Spence measures coffee and pours water into the 

coffee maker so it's ready for our son Charlie to push the button in the 

wee hours of the morning. And sometimes, both men leave each other 

poems on hand-held, dry erase boards. I eavesdropped on these 

conversations and dubbed them Coffee Pot Poetry. 

Here are some examples.

To Eschew Caffeine

Spence

to eschew caffeine 

will make you mean 

and sleepy—

Stay alert today

Charlie

Once one’s life’s has gone askew

Simply hoping for anew

will get

you not

a lot

Hand to Mouth

Spence

Hand to mouth

Knee to toe

Everyone get up & go

Charlie

Slinking slowly

Center sound

Buckle up and 

Hit the ground

Bespoke is No Joke

Spence

Bespoke is no joke

This brew is for you

Charlie

Revoke your bespoke

Unacceptable brew

There’s no coffee for cats

They will have to make do

Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Summer – Kittens and Company

Ande on the Table with the Warty Squash

Last Sunday, Kay, our friend from Portland, gave me a warty squash, stepped inside the log house, and swiveled her head from side to side. “I want to see those kittens.”

Paws pattering against floor boards, Ande scampered down the hall and stopped by Kay’s feet.

Her husband Eric, Spence’s friend since grade school, chuckled. He dwarfed Spence as they carried luggage to the bedrooms.

Kay bent to pet the kitten. “Ooh. Which one is this, and how do I tell them apart?”

“That’s Ande, the ambassador. He’s mostly white.” I set the squash on the kitchen table and scanned the great room. A kitten slunk along the sliding glass door across the room. I pointed. “That’s Rills, the explorer. He’s skinny with a dark head and white fur that looks like a collar.”

While Kay stood and practiced, “Ande . . . Rills,” I stooped to peek under the sofa for the third kitten.

Wary yellow eyes stared back.

“Gilbert, the philosopher, is hiding. His head’s white with a dark butterfly shape covering his ears.”

Kay glanced under the sofa and sighed. “Even though I’m allergic to cats, I love kittens.”

Our kittens have two modes―rest and reckless rioting. Would she, a dog owner, still love kittens after a two night stay? Perhaps itchy eyes, a stuffy nose, and fatigue from kitten shenanigans would change her mind.

Monday, Kay and I searched websites for Regency fabric and dress patterns in preparation of my attending the 2020 Jane Austen General Meeting. Kay squinted at her phone. “This website gives the McCall pattern five stars for ease of sewing but says it doesn’t satisfy some

historians.”

Ambassador Ande made a diplomatic move. He put his paws on Kay’s thigh.

She petted him and took a sip of coffee.

Ande rubbed his whiskers against her knee then reached his paws higher up her thigh.

Kay set her phone on the table and petted Ande’s head. “What do you want?”

I grabbed his middle and lifted him off the floor. “He’s asking to sit in your lap.”

Kay reached for Ande. “You’re a friendly kitty.” She set him on her lap and touched her screen to review a Butterick pattern.

Later, Ande moseyed to Eric lounging in a log chair. Ande stretched his front legs and pawed Eric’s cargo pants.

Eric chuckled. “You want something, kitty?”

“He wants to sit in your lap,” I answered for Ande while I studied a photo of blue flowers on off-white Regency fabric.

Eric chuckled again. “Okay.” He leaned down, lifted Ande to his lap, and patted Ande’s head.

Compared to Ambassador Ande’s formal welcome, Philosopher Gilbert used a deliberative approach. He studied the guests before interacting.

Crouched behind the toy basket, he watched Kay and me on the sofa. Stretching my hands, I held a skein of soft gray and tan yarn while Kay rolled it into a ball. She tucked the ball inside her pink knitting bag.

From the same vantage point, Gilbert observed Kay sit in a log chair and flick the ends of a circular knitting needle―click, click, click―to make a shawl. The yarn twirled around Kay’s index finger, dangled, and disappeared into the pink bag at her feet.

Paw by paw, Gilbert crept toward the bag.

“Our Westie chases cars . . .” Kay tugged yarn off the ball in the bag. “From inside the house.”

I giggled, and Gilbert thrust his nose into the pink bag.

Kay leaned forward and nudged the kitten away. “You’re clever to find the yarn ball.” She lifted the bag to the coffee table and looped more yarn around the needle. “Duffy runs to the window and barks at every car, bicyclist, or pedestrian until they’re out of sight.”

Gilbert backed out of sight―behind his toy basket.

Gilbert on Pillow Mountain

And Explorer Rills provided drama.

When septuagenarians get together, I admit, there’s little physical drama. We’d lingered over lunch and indulged in a laid-back chat about Eric and Kay’s travels in France―the woman with a big yellow hat that blocked the view of the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, sipping champagne on top of the Eiffel Tower, and protecting granddaughter Cedar from the detachable banister on the third floor of a Paris Airbnb.

Circling the kitchen table, Rills raised his nose and sniffed―perhaps catching the lingering aroma of olives and prosciutto. He chose Eric’s side for the leap. Rills missed the table top by centimeters. He flexed his claws and dug into Eric’s place mat.

Only an empty sandwich plate weighed the mat down.

Swish, thump, crash.

The mat, Rills, and the plate hit the floor.

“Oh. It was my fault.” Eric stared at the broken plate. “I should have caught it.”

Spence picked up the two pieces. “That was Janet’s wedding china.”

Kay’s forehead wrinkled. “Could you glue it together?”

I took the pieces from Spence and stuffed them into a bag. “It was Rills’ fault, and it’s just a plate.” I dropped the bag into the garbage. “I’m just glad I don’t have to clean up any shards.” I was also glad the kitten hadn’t scratched the guests in a desperate grab or pulled one of their cell phones to a smashing encounter with the hardwood floor.

Rills slunk to the bathroom where Ande and Gilbert stalked each other from opposite sides of the shower curtain. Poke, swat, pounce. Their version of kitten whack-a-mole.

With kitten-company daytime relations off to a smashing start, I needed to protect the guests from the feline trio at night.

“Close your bedroom doors.” I yawned as Kay headed for my room and Eric turned into the guest room. “And don’t let the kittens in if you get up for bathroom trips during the night.”

Eric chuckled.

Kay waved.

While Spence read news on the sofa, I climbed the spiral stairs to the loft bed.

Behind me metal steps clanged under racing kitten paws.

Rills and Ande skidded to a stop by the bed. They glared.

Stifling a laugh at their stressed-kitten expressions, I opened Richard Powers’s The Overstory and patted the mattress. “I’m allowed to sleep here. You can too.” Being a practical person, I rolled onto my side and resisted the urge to add if you’re quiet.

Gilbert, the kitten that won't climb the scary stairs, let out a mournful mew from the first floor.

“It’s okay, Gilly,” Spence’s voice assured. “I’ll stay with you―not like those kitty traitors.”

Ande and Rills kneaded the blanket and curled into kitten balls. Perhaps their welcoming-drama day tired them, and we could rest.

Forcing my eyes to stay open, I reread the same paragraph four times before giving up, setting the book on the bedside table, and turning off the light.

A kitten pounced on my back.

I pulled the covers over my head in time to cushion paws hammering my ear.

After a five minute race, which gave me a thorough massage, the kittens changed the speedway bed into a circus tent. They whirled chasing their tails. Finally, having worn themselves out, Ande settled beside my stomach, and Rills pressed against my back. The clock chimed eleven, two hours past my bedtime. We slept until my bladder announced, Morning! Hurry downstairs or else . . .

Attempting to prevent that or else, I didn’t roll to the edge of the bed and execute a gentle yoga rise. Instead, scattering the kittens, I threw off the covers and jumped out of bed.

Oops. The rash rising, together with not enough sleep, sent a swirl of effervescent bubbles through my head. Vertigo.

Clutching the railing and the center post, I staggered down the stairs and into the bathroom. Sheesh.

Tuesday afternoon, Kay gathered her gear and took a deep breath. “The kittens didn’t trigger my allergies.” She paused for a last look at the brothers in rest mode on the sofa. “They’re delightful, rambunctious cats.”

Delightful and rambunctious are two words I don’t usually pair.

I’m glad the ambassador, explorer, and philosopher hadn’t changed Kay’s love for kittens or triggered her allergies. However, the kittens’ company manners did change a Wells Wood custom. We store the place mats in a kitchen cupboard leaving the warty squash in sole possession of the table.

Rills in the Laundry Basket