Category Archives: writing

The Redemption of Evansville

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Those of you who have read Little Bookstore know about the trip Jack and I made in 2011, visiting indie bookstores and small towns. One of these was a little place along I-64, not named in the book because every bookstore we tried to visit there turned out to be a porn shop.

Fulton Avenue Books was the only shop I mentioned by name in Little Bookstore. I had no idea at the time how (in)famous it was. About every three days, someone finds my blog through a search on “Fulton Ave Books,” or “Fulton Books Evansville,” or even “porn shops little redhead Wendy Indiana.”

(I have no idea, and I’m not about to Google to find out.)

But soon after my book came out,  a nice e-mail arrived from a lady named Betsy, saying, “I know where you were: Evansville, Indiana. I live there, and it’s not ALL bad! There’s a really nice Middle Eastern restaurant just one town over, and pleasant shops. We’re not just porn bookstores!”

I told Betsy it was a fair cop; yes, it was Evansville, and we’d actually tried FOUR stores, not just the two mentioned in my book, and she shot back an invitation that, next time we were out that way, she would buy us dinner at a great place in a cute part of town.

So when Jack and I realized that our trip to MariaJoseph Books near St. Louis would take us past the infamous Evansville, we let Betsy know.

“Saturday night dinner on us,” she responded. “We’ll show you the good stuff!”

Well, she and her husband Freeman and daughter Sarah showed us Newburgh, which is a little town right next to Evansville, full of quaint shops and cool bistros. And we had a lovely meal of goat cheese and curry and baklava–oh bliss. But we teased her that she’d had to come to the next town over for redemption–whereupon she hauled out a little gift bag and gave us chocolates (mmm, pecans) and lavender soap as well, both made in Evansville.

We had a grand time discussing Sarah’s teen sweet stash exchange with an online pal from Sweden (salted licorice not a hit with Sarah stateside; peanut butter spat out in horror in Sweden) and talking about the chances of survival for printed books and media. (We think they have better chances than peanut butter does in Sweden).

Would that all small towns in America had such staunch defenders as Betsy is to Evansville! Evansville, thou art redeemed–and scented pleasantly with lavender.

I Think you Owe Me ….

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Jack guest blogs today!

Wendy and I left our hotel room in St. Louis on Friday afternoon to visit a nearby Indian restaurant she had managed to locate as a special treat for me. My wife isn’t the world’s biggest Indian food fan, but I am, and she loves me and wants me to be happy, and there aren’t a lot of Indian restaurants in Southwest Virginia, so she seeks them out when we travel.

At the room beside ours stood a slightly harassed gentleman knocking timidly on the door. A loud female voice from inside said, “I think you owe me an apology!”

As Wendy and I passed, the man mumbled, “I’m sorry, honey” with obvious embarrassment.

We managed to keep our dignity until we were safely inside the elevator. Then we lost it – eyes streaming with uncontrolled laughter as we bounced up and down like kids who had heard an adult farting. What could have produced such a display? We created increasingly hilarious scenarios as we headed off gaily toward our Indian banquet–only a few miles distant and an easy navigate courtesy of a list emailed us by fellow bookstore owner Bruce Campbell, and John Cleese’s voice on our trusty GPS.

Of course, this was St. Louis – a big city! A big American city!! Which meant Wendy driving and me navigating. (We reverse this on the other side of the road – er, pond.)

Ah, the eternal bugbear of couples everywhere: communication, or lack thereof. As we careened in Friday afternoon rush-hour traffic across unfamiliar spaghetti junctions doing 70 mph, Wendy first requested, then demanded in increasing volume, advice on directions as I frantically tried to second guess what lay ’round the next corner and Basil Fawlty bellowed insults about signposts we had passed, turns we should have made.

Finally we screeched to a halt, terrified, sweating, and ready to give the whole thing up for a bad job, at the red light marking the intersection of the two major streets where the restaurant was supposed to be.

We missed seeing it the first time. A turnaround in a shopping plaza, a second pass – and we passed Saffron’s on the opposite corner of the crossroads we’d just turned right on. A few minutes later we passed it again and missed the rather small and hidden entrance. Then we passed it for the fourth time on the other side of the divided highway, meaning we had to go back through the crossroads and start all over again.

It took us twelve minutes to reach the place, fifteen to figure out how to get into it. All the while Wendy bellowed questions about one-way systems or whether a housing subdivision had a through street, and I shouted back my stock answer: “I don’t know!”

During the meal, I drank wine. Wendy’s hands shook as she poured herself water from the carafe.

The next day we navigated a five-highway junction, practically empty at 9 a.m. on a Saturday, and Wendy said, “Hey, isn’t this the intersection where I shouted at you?”

“You shouted at all of them,” I replied.

I’m sorry, honey….. and fellow traveler outside the hotel room, I feel your pain.