Tag Archives: Wendy Welch

Agnes Grey dishes the Dirt

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Hi, I’m Agnes. Agnes Grey. My kittens and I came to stay here at Tales of the Lonesome Pine until suitable homes could be found for each of us. You’ve heard the story before, I’m sure; I met this Tom, he said he loved me, then after the kittens were born –seven of the most adorable fluffballs in every shade of grey – did he call? Visit? Send flowers? He did not.

But the people at the bookstore took us in from that scary shelter place, because they work for an animal rescue called PAWS. We’re not going to live here forever, but it’s a good stopover for a cat to get her four feet under her again, regroup, see that the children go to good homes.

The children… well, there’s a sad story for you. There were seven, sweet as honey buns, cute as… well, cute as kittens. I would have liked to give them a better start, but times were rough. I didn’t have a home of my own during pregnancy, only nine months old when I got knocked up–and my “family” took me to that shelter when I did!

So my babies were born in jail, and they contracted coccidea (which is sort of like kitty cholera) and five of the seven have left this world. At least they all passed here at the bookstore, with medical care in a soft kitty bed. I cry my eyes out when I think of all the kittens back at the jail–er, shelter–who die alone. They’ve committed no crime, except being born–and that’s not their fault. If humans won’t spay and neuter, what’s going to happen? You think I WANTED to be mom to seven, and me still a teenager? If I’d had the money and could talk, I’d have gotten myself seen to, you can bet! It’s just $50 with the county program.

So now it’s just me and the twins: Earl and Zane. Earl is the feisty one, very independent, likes his ears rubbed but don’t try to pick him up! He’ll be a great hunter someday. Zane is the cuddler in the family, loves to be held against a woman’s chest and baby-talked. Well, you know, he takes after his father….

I’ve enjoyed this chat, and I hope it’s made you think about doing in your own home or business what the bookstore does: fostering cats like me who need a little space to come right in this life. We haven’t done anything bad; we’re just down on our luck. And with help from nice people like you–and spaying and neutering by pet owners everywhere!–we can lick the overpopulation problem. Eight thousand animals every day, killed because there are no homes? Really? Thank God my boys and I won’t be among, but doesn’t it break your heart? So please, adopt your next pet, and if you can, foster some cats like me (or dogs if you must) so they can find a good place to live.

Thanks for listening–and if you want to see the twins or me in the fur, please come on down to the bookstore! They’re open Tuesday-Saturday, 10-6. I’d like to meet my boys’ future parents, you know? (That’s Zane and Earl below; Earl is on the left. Aren’t they handsome?)

Editor’s note: Agnes was adopted today by a man who lives alone on a farm; Earl and Zane went to a family with twin boys. If only all cat tales had such happy endings!

 

A Steady(ing) Weight of Book Boxes

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Boxes…. book boxes. They’re everywhere, coming in droves, full of hardback fiction, old textbooks, and occasional gems like the latest bestseller or an obscure Carlos Castaneda title. Jack reckons we’ve had 22 boxes of trade-ins come through in the last week alone.

These coincide with what might be the busiest two weeks of our lives. Big Stone Celtic Festival is Sept. 22. My book launches Oct. 2. I’m complaining about NOTHING, mind; The Celtic Festival is fun, and good for the town. My book is fun, and I’m so happy people are liking it, and it’s getting good publicity. (The Book News page has links.)

Through all the hoopla and the final arrangements of where to put the Shetland ponies (on the park lawn) and where to park the British Cars (outside the schoolhouse museum) and when the latest newspaper or radio spot runs for Little Bookstore (I don’t know) those boxes of books trudge like determined soldiers, reminding us that underneath everything else, our bookstore needs to keep running. Or limping, at least.

Between sheepdog trial planning and radio spots, the book boxes stack and empty as Jack and I try to keep the shop floor clear. That anchoring weight of books–solid, steady books–anchors us. Publicity is a wild ride. Running a festival is a wild ride. Books can certainly be wild rides when read, but triaging them for trade-in is a more staid activity. It’s like intellectual solitaire: categorize, value, stack, shelve. Repeat.

That repetitive motion of getting those volumes into places where customers can find them, buy them, read them, enjoy them, is the heartbeat that underpins everything else. We remember this, come happiness or high water, and we are grateful for that steady, weighted pulse, steadying us in the sturm and drang. Because when the festival is over, the hoopla past, and the publicity gone, it will be the two of us, and the book boxes.

What was it Thomas Hardy said? “And at home by the fire, whenever you look up there I shall be—and whenever I look up, there will be you.” The wild ride is fun, but it’s a ride. When it’s finished, more book boxes will arrive, and we will sort them, Jack and I. Then we will sit together amid our bookshop’s tightly-packed shelves with a sigh of contentment and a cat on each knee–ready to do the same again tomorrow.