Category Archives: humor

Six o’clock and —AH, CRAP!

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Inevitably, when Jack and I hatch an after-the-shop-closes plan, we get last-minute browsers. It’s part of the business of being a business owner and we accept that, Zen-like as two Quakers can be. . . .

We got addicted to a French TV series called “Spirals.” After squeezing in an episode here and there after Needlework Nights and choir practices, we had a clear evening and planned to watch the final three episodes in a oner—a veritable orgy of big-screen viewing for two souls who struggled to get an hour in per week.

And we were really, non-grownupishly looking forward to it.

Picture it now: two college-educated adults debating the merits of turning off the phone. I made a veggie pizza at 4 pm and set up the hot air corn popper. The last customer disappeared at 5 pm and we sat, twiddling our thumbs in a dawdle of anticipation, useless for any project save waiting. At 5:45 Jack got out our screen and projector (all the benefits of a big-screen TV, plus economy and portability.) I checked the oven upstairs – pizza just going nicely golden at the edges – and started the salad.

And the shop bell rang.

We have an electric bell rigged to the door’s opening so we’ll know when customers come in. At 5:54, a teen-ager in a hoodie bopped into the shop, smiling. “Got any books on meditation?”

Yes, dear. Several. We use them to find inner peace at moments like this.

Baring my teeth in what I hoped would look like a smile, I led the child to Comparative Religion. She had questions; late browsers always do. Eastern or Native American? Dream therapy or transcendence? I took off my party hat, donned my bookselling beret, and swung into action.

Twenty-five minutes passed before she seemed satisfied that we’d found the single published book that met all her criteria. She arose from the puddle of rejects pulled from the shelves, stretched languorously, and said, “OK, then, I’ll guess I’ll take this one.”

$1.05 later, she meandered out the door, stopping to idle in the local book section as I resisted the urge to give an un-Zen-like push from the rear. It’s not her fault she bought a cheap book. She’s a teen. I should be grateful she’s reading. And that she shops local. That I got a chance to talk to her about what she likes to read. She didn’t know we had a “big” (pathetic) night planned. We should be thankful that we have customers at all in this bad economy. We have friends who run bookshops that close at 9 pm and then they still have to drive or walk home.

These things I chant to myself as I bolt the door and turn out all the shop lights. Munching burnt, cold pizza as the opening credits roll, Jack said, “Most of the time, it’s good to be our own bosses.”

Yes. Just perhaps a bit harder to find inner peace.

101 Creative Curses for Bookshop Handymen

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Regular followers of this blog may remember that I discovered a hidden staircase in our basement. Three rooms of unused space, accessible from inside the house? It was inevitable: Wendy “requested” that the stair be re-opened, and (my) work commenced. I said at the time that I should have kept my mouth firmly shut, but – hey, ho – I never was any good at that!basement stair

Other part-time DIYers will nod knowingly when I say that any project is a voyage of discovery, because things rarely go as expected. My first step down the path of the absurd was to decide that the basement’s four hopper windows needed replacing. Original to this 1903 house, they were rotten and falling apart.

“It won’t take long, and it will keep the basement watertight,” I told Wendy as I unloaded window frames from our pick-up, “Unnecessary” (That’s the truck’s name. Don’t ask.)

Ah, the best-laid plans of mice and men…. The closest size of ready-made window almost fit the first opening; none of the openings were quite the same dimension. Adjustments were required, usually involving a hammer, lumber, and curse words strung inventively together.

The next “not to plan” moment: water pipes in the underfloor staircase space had to be removed and the washing machine relocated to the garage and plumbed in again. Luckily our good friends Leroy and Witold were on hand when sealing off the old pipes proved difficult and frustrating. I hate water leaks!

But I was yet to meet the bigger leak (and further plan diversion): four days of continuous rain led to the discovery that rainwater simply ran off into the yard, and that our bone-dry basement wasn’t always so clear as I’d thought. There will be digging to do, if this bloody rain ever stops. I have been concerned by the parade of spider species exiting the basement in pairs; rumor has it that Noah picked them up.

IMG_3513Finally, windowsills, torrential rains, pipes and all, I got to the grand re-opening of the staircase (which we promptly christened Tutankhamen’s tomb). No steps were the same size; the old washing machine pipes proved near impossible to cut out; all the electrical cables running through the space had to be maneuvered to the side where they can be boxed in.

With all that done, at last I could re-build the steps using the old ones as supports. This will not be public bookshop space, as we originally envisioned. Wendy is making noises about moving our bedroom down there.

Renovations reveal all kinds of hints at the history of the house, and conducting friends around the work (where we found yet another hidden staircase; no, Wendy, no) has proved fascinating—although speaking of conducting, we found yet another problem: old electric cables down there are live, despite going nowhere, which will mean yet more scary stuff further along.

Did I mention spiders?