Book Ends
Once upon a time, in the world before Tomato Nation, I worked in an antiquarian bookshop in Chelsea. I made seven dollars an hour. I learned how to “spine up” a shelf, tweaking the books into a neat, flat row.
I learned how to pull book-search matches off the ABA wire, a résumé relic of another age, like so many of my vintage skills (VCR-to-VCR editing; best iron-on practices). I learned about firsts, about toning. I learned that the first-editions buyer at Kinokuniya would buy just about anything, that Mrs. Dinsmere wouldn’t, that the grad student who got teary even talking about the Audubon prints he wanted could never afford them unless one of us pretended to have found them for $40 below market and covered his action (so that’s what one of us did) (the grad student came to retrieve the prints toting a coffee can of saved cash, and wept at the sight of them, but carefully, to keep them dry; if it’s not the best forty bucks one of us ever spent, it’s close).
I learned that a lighted loupe gargoyled to the owner’s anxious brow meant surgery in progress — the rebuilding of a broken board, the gluing of a wandering flyleaf — and I shouldn’t interrupt until after the procedure. I wish I’d made him teach me how to give an antique book another few years…to keep the story going. Not the most useful skill on the face of it, but that guy with the doll hospital knows: not every thing is “just” a thing.
I have my own bookshop now. It’s all true crime, some new, mostly secondhand. Before I signed the lease, it was a barbershop, whose proprietor left the property in handcuffs last year. The neighborhood has a lot of theories (involving drug-dealing) and opinions (involving his hilariously narrow tank tops; I share these opinions) and few facts, but I think it’s fitting that I could open a true-crime joint because “Davey” (allegedly) committed a crime and is (probably) in the joint. I renovated the place, sent the barber chairs to Queens, threw out a dusty hairdryer and some loose Advil I found in a drawer. I left Davey’s first two-dollar bill on the mirror with its cheery good-luck note. The spiders stayed too, a rotating cast of daddies longlegs whom my associate, Woodland Jane, periodically escorts out to a tree well in front of the shop. It is both bad for business and aspirationally impressive how quickly a Charlotte can find her way back under the gate, throw a line between a stack of Ann Rules and the space heater, and get down to some insect murders of her own. I used to hate spiders, but it’s nice to have someone there when I arrive, even a tiny someone who takes hostages.
One book, part of a JFK/crackpot trilogy, came to me with a dead spider pressed in museum-quality style between the pages. She seems to point accusingly at an explanatory sentence about the CIA. This is my favorite part of the bookshop — these “freebies,” proofs of life, that make a book sometimes harder to sell but also easier to love sometimes. The story in the book, sure, In Cold Blood is a classic and finding a first printing at an estate sale for two bucks is my second-favorite part, but the story of the book before it came to me, that’s what I love. Crumbs. Hasty bookmarks from long-gone department stores. Football trading cards, torn dollar bills (still legal tender!), nail polish streaks, curling bookplates. Sand. What you…hope? Was a chocolate chip? Each book had its own life, and too, so many of them make their ways here because a life has ended, because the book is a property about a murder — or because the book was the property of a mortal. That’s the deal with the estate sales: someone died, that story ended, but now new ones begin somewhere else, with a child’s roll-top desk and a tote bag of hardcovers crossing the river to start over in Brooklyn, filling a tiny car with that old-book smell.
Yes yes, it’s mildew. Decay. I know. Everyone knows. We who love it, love it for that; it is the past, and it is right here. To open my great-grandfather’s Churchills is to sit beside him seventy years ago. To find a “heritage” streak of French’s in a signed Robert Graysmith is to know that, in a previous life, someone couldn’t put the book down long enough to eat or even wipe her hands. That book’s story was loved. Then it was let go. Now it’s here, in Exhibit B., with all the other stories and stories of stories, spined up, nice and neat.
They’re so tidy, books. Stackable sturdy citizens of hushed places, of trains and firelight. They all end; they all wait to start again. Someday, on a greyed card stashed in a copy of Sarah, Plain And Tall…the story continues.
Happy birthday, Don.
Tags: September 11th
Thank you for this tradition. I can’t wait to visit Exhibit B some day to thank you in person.
Happy birthday, Don.
I’ll be there!
I came early this year, was late last year due to that mortality the 11th encompasses, reminds, and yet defies.
Sarah, so glad you are continuing to post here on this day, but when you need to stop, please don’t feel compelled to continue.
I doubt you would be surprised if we continue to return to wish Don a happy birthday and to read our past journey.
You once wrote a line about wanting to “marinate in the smell of old pages” or something close to that. It’s never left my brain. I’m so glad you’ve achieved that.
Thank you.
An early treat, to be sure — thank you. It’s warming to type in the ol’ “Leigh in CO”; that moniker is for here, and here alone. I’m hoping to get to the bookstore someday, too! It seems pretty far away right now, though.
Wishing you and all of the Tomato Nationals the best, and, of course, happy birthday, Don.
Yeah. That had me in tears. I expected the Don story. Came here for it, in fact. But the story about stories of story holders…it distracted me beautifully. Because: I Love Books.
Then you closed it and I’m crying.
Thank you for this.
Happy birthday, Don.
I’m crying, as always. Happy birthday, Don.
<3
I love this as seriously, who doesn’t love old books . . or any books? But I come here every year and read through your stories of this day and I shed many tears for everyone. Thank you Sarah!
Happy Birthday, Don!!
Thank you Sarah. Happy birthday,Don.
This is beautiful, Sarah, and if (God forbid) your associate should ever leave you, I will send you my updated contact info stat. PLEASE tell me that Exhibit B has a cat or two among the stacks!
Happy birthday, Don.
Here we are again, together. Sars, your writing didn’t make me cry today … it’s been many, many years, and the pain is a scarred, old wound that doesn’t hurt so much when you touch it any more.
But then on my way home from work, I saw a fat white airliner in the approach pattern toward the airport nearby. Its juxtaposition against the brilliant blue sky, the high, puffy clouds, that early-September angle of sunlight … that’s why I’m sitting in the driveway, weeping. The old wound.
Happy birthday, Don.
Happy birthday, Don.
I know it’s 9/10 but I thought to myself.. what if? Glad I came by early. Glad also, you’re still here, Sarah.
In the likelihood I make my way to NYC on the other side of things, I shall come by, fill my arms with true crime books and say thanks. Whether aloud in earnest or silently, but gratefully, in my head- remains to be seen.
Happy Birthday, Don.
This resonated so deeply with me, Sarah. I am a librarian and I think often of the stories that the books themselves have experienced. I wonder what they could tell me. I hope to visit your store someday!
Happy birthday, Don. Thanks again for sticking with Sarah that day.
There are many books I count as “Old Friends…..”
Your words and pages are well remembered.
Thank you, Sarah.
Happy Birthday, Don.
Much love to you all.
Thanks, everyone! Nice to see you here. @frogprof I may need multiple associates! Still auditioning store pets, but the joint is teeny so we may need to stick to spiders for the moment :)
Thank you Sarah. Happy Birthday Don. And to everyone who stops by this year, I’m glad you here.
Still here, still indescribably grateful for this little community. Love to all y’all, and many happy returns to Don.
Lighting a mental candle for Don, this year and all the years.
My only yearly pilgrimage…thank you as always for this gift. Look forward to being able to visit your store someday
Happy birthday, Don.
Happy birthday, Don. It’s been 20 years but I still believe you’re out there somewhere.
Thank you, Sars, as always, for having the right words.
I hope I get to visit Exhibit.B someday.
Thank you for gathering us here each year. My kids learned about 9/11 for the first time this year. We were in the car and I started crying, remembering. The fear, and the sadness, and the confusion, and the rawness of that day. Twenty years is a long time, and I would guess we are all living very different Iives than we were then. Coming here feels a bit like a window into a past life. Thank you, thank you Sars, and happy birthday, Don.
This is the only September 11 anniversary *thing* I indulge in. I always think – this will be the year Don reappears. I really thought it would be this year somehow.
Happy birthday Don, and thank you Sarah.
Happy birthday, Don.
Happy birthday, Don.
I can imagine there will be some befuddled bookstore owners over the next few days and weeks as we each casually walk in to our hometown favourite, take a long, deep breath, and dissolve into tears as the memory of this essay comes rushing back. I’ll be sure to seek out what looks to be the most-loved book, and continue its story.
Thank you, Sars, as always, for giving me a space of quiet contemplation each year.
Happy birthday, Don. Thank you, as always, for helping my friend.
Nice to see everyone back here for our annual check-in.
Thank you, Sarah, for telling stories (about stories). I’m always grateful for your words, and for this place, and you.
in the dark, before I attempt sleep, the day looming (& for all & only ephemeral reasons, lucky I was, I am) I seek.
I find
your constance of remembering, your exhibit of unvarnished & unsullied humanity.
it has become something I look forward to.
something I fear I need
I am grateful that you persevere, thankful for the anchor point to the personal of this narritive.
may you someday be able to tell Don in person ‘its your birthday today, another year to play…’
much hope for your success in your new adventures, good soul Sars.
:scott:
Thank you, Sarah, and everyone else who stops by this wonderful place every year.
I have been feeling rather blue for many reasons, mostly this day, but also missing my mom who was an avid book collector of mostly mysteries and true crime, and with an odd penchant for using random items for bookmarks; dollar bills, receipts, a note torn in half, pictures, etc. How serendipitous to find this post!
If I am ever in the neighborhood, I will visit your bookshop!
Happy birthday, Don
Happy Bookstore,Sars! And yes, Happy Birthday,Don.
I checked in early this year. There’s been so much in our feeds this year given the anniversary but this was the only one I wanted to read. And when I got here and saw a Sept 10 entry I thought, I hope this is still something you want to do. I hope there isn’t a sense of pressure or dread. I would have a hard time maintaining this tradition and yet it seems like a reunion every time. So thank you, Sarah, once more. For another lovely story. It is still a good thing you’re doing and I am always grateful to have this odd community on this day.
Think of you every year. And Don. Happy birthday, Don.
Actually on the day for me for a change. Happy birthday Don, and if the world ever settles into a new normal and we can travel again I have a new bookshop to seek out. Thank you.
Happy birthday, Don.
Thanks for still being here, Sars.
As the years go by and this anniversary resolves itself ever more clearly into a yahrzeit event, this is the place I want to come for readings. Happy birthday, Don. Hugs to you, Sarah.
You’re all very welcome, of course. In every sense! Thank YOU for coming by; your comments are always so heartening.
Thank you, Sarah. For all these years. Happy birthday, Don.
My first visit on the day. Thanks for being here, and for bringing back my fond memories of my time entering inventory in to ABE for a rare books dealer (damn book club editions).
Happy birthday, Don.
Oh, no pressure or dread. I wouldn’t call it an easy process — I was describing it to Dirk as kind of like those old text RPGs, one you haven’t played in a long time, so you know there’s SOMETHING with a key and a cup and a door in the forest floor, but you don’t remember the order, so you’re just kind of wandering around in this room holding a feather or whatever and then finally the game cuts you a break all “[sigh] Do you want to PICK UP THE BOOK?” And there may come a time when I can’t crack the old code in time, but it’s not a chore.
Happy birthday, Don. Thank you, Sarah.
It’s well before dawn here on the west coast, and my cat Beastie is licking away my tears.
Our neighbors are death doulas: they walk the dying through their complicated feelings.
I think you are our 9/11 doula, holding space for our memories of the day and our feelings about its fallout, all the ashes still descending to ground even now. You find the right words every year, somehow.
This year I re-read all the past entries in order in preparation for today. It’s a beautiful collection, stacked spine by spine.
Your bookstore sounds incredible. If I ever find myself in your neck of the woods,I’ll stop and buy some material for the plane ride home.
Thank you, Sars, and happy birthday, Don.
Every year, I wonder about Don—who he was, where he is, and every year I’m glad he was there and hope he is everywhere, because we need him.
Every year I come here for the thread of kindness and community you foster, Sarah, to read the narrative of evolving experience and check in with the recurring characters—the city, and you, and the others, and Don, always Don.
Hello, everyone. Thanks, Sarah, and happy birthday, Don.
I came, I saw, I read, I bookmarked your shop. I don’t get down to New York too much but when I do and when you open I hope I get to visit.
Wishing you the very best and I’m glad to see something you wrote on a screen today.
love,
Beautiful as always, Sars. Thank you
Gorgeous writing, Sars.
I’m overdue for a visit, and I can’t wait to see the store and have a potter around.
Happy birthday, Don.
Thank you for this, every year. Your words, this constant, is so important to me, during a season of my life filled with trauma and profound change. This community is a touchstone to a past life that no longer exists.
Love to you, Sarah, and happy birthday, Don, as always.
Happy birthday, Don. And thanks, Sars.
Every year. Thank you Sarah. Happy birthday Don.
You are the caretaker of so many stories. I’m grateful that you share them here,
Happy Birthday, Don.
Thank you, Sarah. TN is always my first stop on this day.
Happy birthday, Don.