Pictorial Manual = Idiocy cured

I’m an idiot. Sigh. I am. I won’t go into the details, but I had forgotten a small but enormously important step in bookbinding. Thankfully, although embarrassingly, someone is looking out for me. I recently visited my local printer to pick up bookmarks. While there, the owner (who is rarely seen in the front) came out and exclaimed, “Oh! I have something for you!” She scurried off and then returned with a book. “I’d like you to have this,” she told me and handed me the book: Pictorial Manual of Bookbinding. It includes photographs and excellent illustrations of the steps in bookbinding. When I began to look through the book, I discovered instructions for the aforementioned forgotten step. The only thing more obvious would have been if David had dropped the book on my head. Oh, David – I was paying attention to your lessons, I promise. I stand with my head bowed, tail between my legs. I will get better, and you can bet I will never ever forget this step. Ever.

Fly High Lil Pine

It is with great sadness that I write today that Lil Pine has died. She was 14 years old, and was in good health for most of those years (which isn’t bad for a collie mix – most dogs that size live about 10 years). In early December of 1996, my then-fiancé (now husband) Tom and I were driving home from my job at a bakery when Tom noticed a little creature dart across a road and huddle under a little pine tree. He thought it was a fox and stopped to take a closer look. It wasn’t a fox, but a puppy. She was alone and there was no one around, so we scooped her up and brought her in our vehicle. She was adorable, fluffy, and hungry. I had with me some finger bread from the bakery, so I tore off a chunk and fed it to her. In her hunger, her sharp little puppy teeth scraped my fingers – it was the first and last time I ever felt her teeth that way. Over the next couple days, we tried to find who the owner of the puppy was, but the most likely candidate was shady (to put it nicely), so we kept her. Tom named her Little Pine (or Lil Pine) since we found her under a little pine tree. We knew she would grow to be a sizeable dog because her paws were so big (she reminded me of a baby egret). At the time we brought Lil Pine home, we also had a two year old Staffordshire terrier named Dexter. The three of us raised the puppy. We also had two cats, but Lil Pine was the baby of the family until our daughter was born in 2001. My mind is filled with memories of Lil Pine today. As a younger dog, she was very shy and incredibly sweet. She was the kind of dog that if someone stepped on her or sat on her, she never complained. At most, she would wriggle out of the way. She shed her shyness after Dexter died in 2007, but she remained incredibly sweet to her very last day. Thank you to all of you who gave her so much love at Beagle Books. She loved being at the bookstore and it was because Beagle customers were so good to her. It saddened me to stop bringing her, but she had difficulty breathing, occasionally had accidents, and towards the very end lost a lot of weight (she was being eaten by cancer). I was afraid her condition might frighten our children customers. This isn’t a very coherent entry, but it’s hard to be coherent in grief. Please forgive me if I occasionally burst into tears. Please give your own pets as much love and attention as you can, and again, thank you for all the kindness and love you showed Lil Pine during her stay with us here on Earth.

The Oops Drawer

One of the first times I met with my bookbinding mentor, David, he opened a drawer and pulled out what he called his “oopses” – book covers that didn’t fit the intended text blocks quite right. “Take these home, take them apart, and see how I constructed them,” he told me. I did, and hadn’t thought much about it lately. Until Thursday. On Thursday, I finished the construction of a book cover that I was quite pleased with – front and back boards were identical with 90 degree corners. The spine was spaced just right between the boards. The fabric covering was tight and smooth. I took the text block for which the cover was intended, inserted it into its new cover and discovered the cover was just a little short on width. Oops. Sigh. As a distraction (before starting over on a new cover), I opened up the oops drawer, and just for kicks, I counted David’s oopses – 41! Now there’s 42 in the drawer.

Bindery Tours

Recently, Beagle Books (& Bindery!) hosted the After-Hours Chamber Event. Basically, it’s a party by the hosting business, open to the public, but targeting other business owners in the area to come check out the host’s business. In the literature the Commerce of Chamber sent out about this event, mention was made that tours of the new book bindery was available to interested folks. I wasn’t really sure anyone would want a “tour”, and if not, no big deal. One of the first attendees was a friend of mine who asked for a tour. I told her, “Sure, I can practice my spiel on you, if you don’t mind.” By the time we reached the top of the stairs to descend into the bindery, three more people had joined the tour. I lost count, but I think by the end of the party (2 hours), I gave the tour six times. Sometimes it was a small group, only two people, but still! The next day, two people who had attended the event brought me books to repair! Why am I still surprised by the interest in book binding? If I was interested, why wouldn’t others be too? One of the books brought to me for repair is a book of poems, passed from family member to family member. The book has been signed to someone so many times, the family is out of room to keep passing it on (don’t worry, I’ll remedy that). What a treasure! And the person who brought the book to me has entrusted it to me, what an honor!
I admit it hasn’t been a worry-free ride. I’m struggling to learn to repair corners to an acceptable standard of quality. My mentor is no longer on this Earth, and even though I routinely ask him questions, the answers come slowly and not in the traditional way. But still, how blessed I am!

Response to a recent question

I’m giving everyone (except me) a break from the bindery today. I recently received an email with a good question. Below is the email I received:
I just finished The Book Thief, and I can't remember when I've cried that hard. And the prose! Well, I suppose the prose was why I was crying, because everyone was so real and so beautiful (or not, as the case may be.)
Why is it that so much of the best literature these days is written for young adults? OK, I Capture the Castle was written in the middle of the 20th century, but it was re-released now. Nobody can put down the Hunger Games series once they start, and teens are not the only ones mesmerized by the Twilight books. Granted, that's not so much great literature as a conjunction of attributes that make it a phenomenon, but it's still something special. And then there's Harry Potter, of course. Maybe the great saga of recent years.
Anyway, what is it about literature for young adults?

Here’s my answer (and admittedly, I think some of this answer may have come from a conversation I once had with staff member Cindie):
Young adult authors are FORCED to come up with really fantastic story ideas (PLOT), whereas sophisticated adult readers are more interested in the quality of the prose. But- I think a number of YA authors have figured out that well-written YA books appeal to 2 audiences: kids and adults. Kids could care less about the writing, they just want a good story.
I read a lot of YA myself.

If you’ve got your own answer to this question or a question of your own, please share!

For Real!

On Saturday, a man stopped into Beagle Books. "You're getting into bookbinding, right?" he asked. I replied, with complete calm (of course), that I am. He had planned to take a couple books over to Detroit Lakes and have David (my mentor) repair the books, but he waited too long. When he saw the article in the Nevis paper about my taking over the binding business, he decided to come on in. (YAY!!!!!!!) He gave me his name and phone number (while I commanded my hand: Don't shake, don't shake, don't shake), and said he would return in the next couple days with the books. When I stopped in at Beagle on Monday, there were two books in need of repair waiting for me! I was elated! Then I looked closer, one of the books, a dictionary, is five and one-half inches thick - HOLY &*!@! It must be an unabridged dictionary including slang, prefixes, and a few other things. But what the heck, why not start with a challenge, right? (But pray for me anyway, please. PLEASE).

Frustration

Yesterday I finally had friendly feelings towards the hot stamping press (whenever I used this machine at David’s, I dreaded it, the hot stamp press and I were NOT friends). My lettering didn’t come out perfect, but it wasn’t too bad. The tricky thing about this machine is that it’s hard to teach another person how it feels when you’re using it right. When David taught me, he showed me the basics: the on knob is here, turn it up to 8, wait for the temperature to reach 150 degrees, place your letters in like this, tighten here, place your fabric underneath the press like this, pull the handle down like so for this long. Then I’d do it and the letters would barely be legible on the fabric. “Well, hold it longer,” David said. I did, the letters came out fat and thick and unreadable. “Not so long”…. “a little pressure here…” and on and on. I realized it’s one of those things you just have to learn how it feels.
Then I burned my finger. No big deal, I ran my finger under cold water.
Then I worked on trimming a piece of lettered fabric. I cut the word in half. Rats. I found another piece of lettered fabric and trimmed that instead to my almost-satisfaction.
Finally, I was ready for the LAST step of a book I had done pretty much on my own from the start. I had begun the work at David’s, but like a child who has recently learned a skill and now turns her shoulder to her parent screaming, “I DO IT!”, I kept David at a distance as I worked. So it was time to put the text block in its new cover. I sprayed glue on the cover, set the text block’s spine on the cover’s spine and folded up the sides. The end papers bubbled. I tried again, and again, and again. I stomped around in my mind trying to figure out why I was remembering this step wrong. Then I turned out the lights and literally stomped out of the building, my eight year old in tow. We drove nearly two miles when I realized I had forgotten a box of books and a file folder I was planning to deliver to Sister Wolf Books. I turned around, headed back to Beagle Books. As I physically turned around, something turned around in my mind and I recalled EXACTLY what I’d done wrong. The spine doesn’t go in first! Duh! I was tempted to re-do the book as soon as I got to Beagle, but I waited until today.
Today, I cut the above-mentioned book out of the cover. I re-did it right this time, and what do you know, it looks a lot better! It’s not perfect, but it’s better than a book with bubbled end papers that I would never show another person. It seems every day I work down in the bindery, another piece slides into place. So sometimes I’ll burn myself, make a wrong cut, or just totally do something wrong. That’s ok. I’m sure David burned himself, made wrong cuts, and bungled things too.

"Go get more"

As I (we) have been unpacking the book bindery equipment from David’s and setting it up in Beagle, I’ve been on the lookout for a can of spray adhesive that David told me is ABSOLUTELY CRITICAL. I knew the brand name and knew the product had a two digit product number, but couldn’t quite remember the number. I realized no cans of spray adhesive had moved to Beagle. There is a tote of various glues, another for tapes, but no spray adhesive. I began to panic. I called my dad (what else is a 35 year old girl to do?), “There’s this spray adhesive I absolutely HAVE to have and I can’t find it anywhere and I wasn’t worried before that I didn’t remember the product number because I figured I would get an old can from David and then just replace it someday but I don’t have any from David and-” At this point, I was forced to breathe and my dad in his calm, I-have-a-PhD-in-Chemical-Engineering voice said, “Go get more.”
“But I don’t know the product number!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
“You’ll figure it out.”
Oh.
Well, ok. So I called the local hardware store, found out they do carry spray adhesive, and I headed there to “figure it out.” As soon as I saw the can, I knew (it’s 77, for those of you if I don’t reveal it will go crazy). I bought my very own can of spray adhesive. I raced back to Beagle Books, down the stairs, and even though it wasn’t technically “bindery time”, I couldn’t wait, I just HAD to glue something (and no, I don’t have any sniffing addiction problems, but thanks for your concern). I grabbed a book that David had started work on and I had nearly finished. I set up a spray area, sprayed the outside cover, jammed the text block into it, and, well, it looked terrible. I stepped into another room, breathed in and out a few times. Slow down, I told myself. I re-entered the room with the spray adhesive, and carefully took the cover back off the book. I let myself flounder until I remembered the proper steps: trim the end papers, etc. I glanced at the list of bookbinder traits David had made me and my eye fell on Patience, then Courage – try something new, and most importantly: Planning – if this doesn’t work, then what? Ok, David’s with me. I know what I’m doing and if I don’t, I’ll try again until I get it right. I just need practice, and I just have to “go get more.”

Smells Like a Bindery

Over Labor Day weekend, my dad and I did more work in the bindery. We put up the racks that hold rolls of fabrics and mounted a peg board to hold tools. I have to admit, once the peg board was up and I started arranging the tools on the board, I had a flash of understanding for “garage putterers”. You know who I mean, those people who spend hours in the garage doing who knows what. Well I think I know what, they’re in love with their space, tools, and the potential. I am too. The best part of the weekend was the moment I stood at the top of the stairs (the bindery is in the basement of Beagle Books), about to descend and realized it smells like David’s down there. It smells like a book bindery. I wonder if someday I’ll smell like the bindery??

Bookbinding Day Two

Today will be Bookbinding Day TWO. I had to be bookstore manager all day yesterday. Day One was back-breaking and magical. I felt a bit overwhelmed by ALL the tools I didn’t know…. And then, I came upon a knife I used many times with David. I knew EXACTLY what it was for (scraping the old glue off bindings). To be honest, I expected David to be a bit more present than he was, but upon finding that knife, it felt like he was telling me, “I’m here, I’m not going to do everything for you – you have to do that yourself, but I’m here.” Ok, fine. My other concern was being able to get set up fast enough that I can start working on products to put on the sales floor. I found a box with books that David repaired and were ready to sell. It’s not a lot of books, but it’s enough to put out for sale. Again, I think David will help, but he’s certainly not going to do it all for me. Day One began at 2:00 and ended at 5:00. At 2:00, I thought to myself, “It’s not enough time!!” By 4:48, with an aching back, I thought, “What was I thinking? This was too long for Day One.” So here comes Day Two….wonder what treasures I’ll find today.

Bookbinding Day 1

Bookbinding – Day 1
I’ve chosen September 1 as Day 1 of serious official bookbinding. The equipment is not exactly organized and ready to go. The guillotine is still in my garage. But I have to start sometime, so September 1 sounds good to me. I felt like a kid on the first day of school this morning. I got up on time, did my morning routine (feed the dogs, get coffee, eat breakfast, read, shower, etc) and got out the door. I needed to be in Park Rapids by 8AM this morning for a meeting. I arrived at 7:30. No small feat for a habitually late person. I feel antsy. I want to run downstairs, roll up my sleeves, and get my hands on paper, boards, and glue. I have to wait. I have a schedule. 8:00 meeting, work the bookstore sales floor from 8:30-12. Eat lunch and do office work from 12-2, THEN I can go downstairs, change clothes, and get to bookbinding. I’m not sure I can wait, but on the other hand, I’m not entirely sure what I’ll do once I get down there. I’m counting on David (my bookbinding mentor who “got his wings” in July) to guide me.

Tribute to Becky Walpole

This piece was written to honor Becky Walpole, the (now) former branch manager of the Park Rapids Library. Good luck in your new adventures, Becky and we'll so miss you!

Once upon a time, in a land called Minnesota, in the town of Park Rapids, at the house of books and magic (otherwise known as the library), there came a young book princess. She was smart, beautiful, kind, sincere, and generous. She was not the airy, fairy sort of princess. She was the sturdy, hard-working, dependable sort. Her name was a grand, majestic, time-honored name: Rebecca, but she never answered to that name, only to "Becky". Becky came to the library as a volunteer, the rare sort of creature who will work for the pleasure of the work. No doubt Becky was paid in generous amounts of magic: time spent with children and books. Becky was the sort of princess that drew in children like butterflies to a flower. She listened to their stories, asked the right questions, and gave hugs freely. In time, the library came to realize the power of Becky: she strengthened the magic of the library itself and kept children coming back for more magic. And so, Becky stepped across that great line of monetary compensation and began to work as an employee of the library. Becky steadily grew the attendance of the children's story hour. Together, Becky and the children shared stories, sometimes from books and sometimes from imagination. Together they created crafts, laughed, and sometimes spilled. The parents and child providers looked on with admiration and relief. They patted themselves on the backs: they had done a good deed by bringing the children to the magic of books and Becky and the library. In more time, the library came to need a new queen, someone who could rule with a steady, gentle hand and yet keep the magic alive and well. With the former queen on her way to another domain, Becky graciously accepted the library's throne. Being the queen meant more hours and more pay, but a lot more work: meetings, responsibility, meetings, management of staff, meetings, management of events, meetings, and most of all, meetings. Although a bit overwhelmed at times, Becky held tight to the magic of the library and worked hard. She kept her crown atop her head, but could still kneel to meet the eyes of the children. Once Becky had comfortably settled into her reign, her prince came to her and said, "My dear, sweet princess, we have had a good life here in the town of Park Rapids, but alas, I am being called to another town, still in the land of Minnesota, but two hundred miles south of here. Won't you please come away with me?" Of course Becky would leave Park Rapids with her prince, but it was with tear-filled eyes that she surveyed the Park Rapids library. She had spent the last fifteen years here in this magic-filled place. She had come here as a novice princess, the mother of babies, and now her babies were nearly grown. She had moved from one library castle to another during her time here. The library staff, volunteers, and children wept for the leaving of Becky, but knew that Becky would move on to another place to instill her magic there while leaving a bit of her self, her magic to reside forever at the Park Rapids Library. With heavy hearts and tear-filled faces, they bid her adieu saying, "May you live happily ever after". The end.

The Future(?) Saleswoman

Many of you are aware that I have an eight-year old daughter named Megan. (If you’re not sure, then you didn’t know – no one who’s met Megan forgets her). Megan has one of those bright, loud personalities that baffles her somewhat introverted parents. At restaurants, it’s not unusual for Megan to turn to the people in the next booth and announce, “HI. I’m Megan, this is my dad and this is my mom.” She’s done this since she learned to talk. (Typically, my husband, Tom, and I turn red in the face, nod, then hiss, “Megan, sit down.”). Even before she learned to talk, Megan once insisted a fellow patient at the medical clinic pay his attention to her rather than to the friend with whom he had been chatting. In addition to loving attention, Megan, like many children, loves money. So really, it was only a matter of time before she hatched the idea to set up a lemonade stand. What could be more fitting for a talkative, money-seeking girl? Tom and I decided to make the most of this and turn the idea into an economics lesson (we are, after all parents, and it’s our job to make fun things a little more mundane and practical). We explained to Megan that she needed to spend her allowance to buy the necessary materials for a lemonade stand. If she spent $10 on materials, she would need to sell $10 worth of lemonade to earn her money back. Anything beyond that would be profit. We made a trip to the grocery store, and the debate over what to buy began. Real lemons? This was quickly dismissed since we don’t own a juicer. Powder? Frozen? Pink? Yellow? Raspberry? We compared unit prices on plastic cups. We hemmed and hawed over ice bags – 5 pounds or 20? At one point, Megan stopped me in the aisle and said, “Wait. What if I don’t sell enough to earn back what I spent?” Welcome to business, honey. Anyone who ventured down 3rd Street in Park Rapids on the afternoon of June 21st likely heard a girl calling, “LEMONADE! ONE DOLLAR PER GLASS!” (If a person happened by at the right moment, s/he could have heard/seen Megan look her grandmother in the eye and declare, “Some people have tipped me.”). Determined to maximize her profit, Megan refused to vacate her stand until she had sold 50 glasses of lemonade (she had bought 50 plastic cups). When she got down to 3 cups, Tom was sorely tempted to buy them up, but he resisted the urge. To be honest, Megan and I butt heads a lot. (I say this is Megan’s fault, and when I do, Tom gives me the look). There was no butting heads yesterday. How could there be? My baby put her best skills to the test and came out a winner. Now if I could get her to sell fifty books in four hours…plus tips…hmm…

Stone Soup Revisited

It’s less than a week before the CSA boxes begin their regular arrival for those of us signed up for the Morgans’ CSA program. For those of you unfamiliar with CSA, it stands for Community Supported Agriculture. My family bought a share of the farm for the summer and so we will receive a share of the harvest for the summer. I can’t help but think about the summer when we did the Stone Soup project at Beagle Books. For eight weeks, a group of us gathered at Beagle to discuss Barbara Kingsolver, Steven Hopp, and Camille Kingsolver’s book, Animal Vegetable Miracle and to explore the many opportunities we have to indulge in locally grown food and drink. We took two field trips to the CSA farm (one at the beginning of the season and one later in the season) and were blessed with visits from local food experts including Forestedge Winery, Bill Maki (wild ricing), Chef Tom (morel mushroom hunting), Donna Ludwinksi (bread making), Sari Mabbett (cheese making), and more. We ended the summer with a feast of local foods. It was a summer of exploration and change for me, and I hope for others. Maybe we should have a Stone Soup reunion. I wonder if the other participants still think about choosing local foods when making their food choices. Do they pause when discovering a desired food traveled here from another continent, consider the food miles, and put the item back? I hope so. My mantra that summer was, “start small.” I encouraged my fellow Stone Soupers to make one small change, make it a habit, and then make another small change, etc. Have the others done this? To be honest, I myself have not made a new small change in some time. To my credit, though, I have stuck with the habits I created that summer. I still buy raw milk from a local farmer, eat local meat, buy a CSA share every summer. I avoid bananas. I buy wine produced by my local winery. I pick strawberries at Keskes Farm. I’ve noticed one of the grocery stores in Park Rapids makes a point in their ads to highlight local items available. Has a change for the better occurred right here in the small town of Park Rapids? I hope so. I credit the Kingsolver/Hopp family – their experiences eating only local foods for one year recorded in a book for the rest of us is invaluable. That is truly the power of a good book.

Public Displays of Affection at Beagle Books

Have you heard that there’s been a sharp increase of public displays of affection at Beagle Books? Well, it just so happens that it’s true. Don’t be surprised during your next visit if you either witness a hugging or you yourself are the target of a hugging. This is the time of year when we are reunited with so many dear people we lose every winter. Many of our customers of course head south to Arizona or Florida, but the largest migration, believe it or not, comes from Nebraska. (Being raised in Oklahoma, this has taken some adjustment for me to be polite to Corn Huskers – there is a serious football rivalry between Nebraska and Oklahoma). I picture Nebraska in the summer as a sort of empty landscape with the sound of crickets chirping (which of course begs the question, if no self-centered person is around to hear the crickets chirp, do they still chirp?) Once upon a time, it was my understanding that hugs between retail workers and customers was only marginally acceptable. Now I’ve decided that what the public really wants in an independent bookstore is passionate, caring, interesting (even eccentric) booksellers. Why else are we able to get away with wearing funky socks and dangly earrings? Really, hugging has re-gained acceptance. In some cases, I daresay it would be rude were I not to greet a customer who’s been gone for many months with a hug. So come on in, get your books, cards, music, and of course, hugs.

Weakness?

So often I hear customers in the bookstore say, “Oh, books are my WEAKNESS!” What? Weakness? If you mean that our selection, knowledge, and passion makes you weak in the knees, then THANK YOU! If you mean that indulging in books is somehow bad, like eating too much sugar or drinking too much alcohol, then, I don’t get it. With our children, we do all we can to encourage them to read. It’s unheard of for a library (school or public) to not have incentives for kids to read through reading programs. We know that the more our kids read, the better prepared for life they are. Not only does it help on their path of their studies: the more a person reads, the more his/her comprehension expands; the more a person reads, the faster s/he reads which aids in test taking; but it a great source of entertainment. Reading isn’t just for kids though, it’s good for all of us. Sometimes I hear customers say, “I just don’t know what to do with books after I’ve read them.” Here’s a few ideas for the books you’re not going to shelve at home and treasure forever: re-gift them (aka give them away to people who will enjoy them), donate them to your local library or women’s shelter, or trade them in at a bookstore which sells used books (like Beagle Books or Sister Wolf, for example!). If indulging in an activity that keeps one’s mind active, is enjoyable, models desired activity to others, and has the potential to engage one in meaningful discourse makes one a weakling, then be weak, I dare you.

Thanks to Second Graders!

My daughter's second grade class added 19 leaves to our Poet Tree with their favorite poems! In thanks, I wrote them this silly poem:

Mrs. Thompson’s Second Grade Parade
Dressed like President Abe is Gabe!
On a ball, Alyson is balancin’
Cole calls, “She’s on a roll!”
Two girls juggle: Bryanna with bananas and Kaia with papaya
Chance does a dance
In a clown car, Devan and Kevin are revvin’
Morgan plays the organ
“Let’s sing,” Megan’s beggin’
Cora wears flora
Chase runs a race
Luke’s dressed like a duke
Here comes lively Ivy
Dressed as the invisible man is Liam – see him?
Running a bit late is great Nate
Logan’s dressed as Hulk Hogan
Marching with honor is Connor
At the end, Kolin is stallin’

Megan's Favorite Poem

The poem below is my eight year old daughter's favorite poem, as of late.

Fleas
Adam had 'em

It's Poetry Month!

In honor of poetry month, today I'm blogging a poem I recently wrote.

One Birthday

I was an only child who wanted one thing on her birthday:
A one-wheeled cycle
Over and over I told my parents in the weeks before my day –
I want this one thing
Only this one thing
When my morning came,
My eyes opened to see:
One black seat atop a smooth, shiny, silver pipe that divided in two over a single wheel
The tire swelled with one fat, fresh tire
Silver spokes like shiny pick-up sticks scattered in one perfect fan
From the center of the wheel came two black pedals
It was Sunday morning and we’d be heading to church
But first, a test ride on the driveway
With one hand on the parked car,
I steadied myself atop the unicycle
I knew all about balancing side to side
Years of bike-riding taught me that
But this required forward and backward balance as well
I pitched forward, overcompensated
Fell back, caught my balance before my backside could meet concrete
Slowly I got the feel of it
Leaning forward made me go faster
Back, slower
Cracks were more easily traveled with greater speed
The driveway’s dip to the road was the first true obstacle to master
After church and in the time that followed, I practiced
Eventually I could ride into the street
The next challenge was to turn a corner
Then more obstacles: hills, rocks, sand, looking up
The one obstacle that could never be mastered: unending endurance
The unicycle had no brakes
To stop pedaling meant to stop.

Happy Spring!

Ah, here comes April: the month of hope in Minnesota. To be honest, since we had three blizzards in April two springs ago, I try to keep my hopes of spring in check now. I refuse to put away my winter boots until May 1. Nonetheless, my family took advantage of the day last Sunday and decided to check out the Heartland Trail. Tom and I strapped on our rollerblades while Megan climbed aboard her trusty purple, princess bike. We rolled to Heartland Park, where Megan befriended a toddler on the playground equipment. Tom and I rested on a picnic bench and ambled towards the river. I saw two swans come down for a spectacular, high-splashing landing in the river. The sight of swans always provides such a mix of feelings for me. They are incredibly beautiful creatures. My grandmother loved them and decorated her home with swans before she died. On the other hand, swans are mean buggers. For a time, I volunteered at the Raptor Center in St. Paul and even though swans are not raptors, swans in need of rehab ended up at the Raptor Center because no one else would take them. If a person dared to enter the swan room, a sheet of protective plywood over the legs was necessary to avoid having one’s legs destroyed by a swan swinging its long, graceful neck in order to use its bill as a weapon. Also, the swans would hiss. Once on vacation in Europe, Tom and I watched a swan attempt to take a nearby baby duck for lunch. Fortunately, the mama duck was a fast rescuer. Still, watching swans from a distance is a beautiful sight. I marvel to see swans in northern Minnesota. They seem like the sort of creatures that only grace fairy tales and sophisticated, romantic places (maybe I underestimate my homeland). As we rolled home again, my breathing became a bit shallow while the tissue-formerly-known-as-muscle in my back began wailing. Still, spring IS coming and there is nothing like spring in Minnesota. I’m convinced Minnesotans are more appreciative than anyone else when winter ends and we are once again blessed with opportunities to play outside without packing on three layers of clothes. Happy Spring!

Here's to Ms. Z!

At Christmas, I often give my mom copies of poems I’ve written over the past year. This past Christmas, I went to the computer to compile the last year’s worth of poems. I found…..three. Yes, three, and two had been written in January, nearly a year earlier. Oh…. So maybe I’d been suffering from the dreaded WB (writer’s block)? Well, no, I mean, you have to be aware you’re suffering to actually suffer, right? It’s not as if I’d been staring at a blank page, waiting for an idea to strike. I just hadn’t bothered to come to the page. This had been rumbling around in my head since last December. What to do, what to do…. Then I heard that poet LouAnn Shepard Muhm would be offering a free class at the library – two sessions of two hours each. I’ve never been able to attend of LouAnn’s workshops in the past because of schedule conflicts. I checked THE MOM CALENDAR: my husband would be home those evenings, no dance practice, no piano lesson, no play practice, no meetings. Hmm. What the heck, so I went to the first class last Thursday. As expected, LouAnn was great: she had us do an exercise I’d never done, she had handouts, quotes, poems, the works. She asked us to write some poetry over the next week to share at the next class. She recommended some possible topics for writing, including, “Write about a teacher you had, either loved or hated. Of course, it’s easier to write about one you hated….” And I heard a voice in my head cry, “HA! You never had Z!!” Where did that come from? I hadn’t thought about Ms. Z in quite some time, but I went home and poured my memories onto the page. I wrote a draft of a poem. (Finally!) And oh, I felt all the suffering of months of not writing poetry flow away from me (I guess one can ignorantly suffer, who knew). The next day, I couldn’t help myself, I googled Ms. Z’s first and last name along with the school where I attended kindergarten and the city and state of that school. My first hit came up with a catholic church. Hmm, ok, I’ll go there, I thought. Once I clicked on the link, I found Z’s name in the text as the founder/director of a Montessori school. Next I visited that school’s website and wouldn’t you know, there was an email address listed for Ms. Z. I wrote her a short email asking if she taught kindergarten at the school where I attended. Then I checked my email approximately every five minutes for the rest of the day. With no reply in my inbox, I complained on Facebook, I twitched, I sighed, I waited. Before I went home for the weekend, I checked my email one last time: nothing from Z. Rats. Oh well. Monday morning, when I first arrived at the bookstore, I checked email. (Believe it or not, my family does not have internet at home). She replied! She wrote back! I couldn’t believe it! But wait, maybe it was just a reply saying, “No, that’s not me, sorry.” I opened the email and read: Jennifer, Of course I know who you are! How are you? ... I can still see your little head of when you were five! What do you do for Beagle Books?.......
WOW!! To be honest, it didn’t really matter to me if she remembered me (although, as a friend of mine said to me, “How could she could forget a 5-year old who sometimes called herself Color, was incredibly messy, and was Alkash’s girlfriend?” Ok, fair enough). I wanted to reach out to her and tell her, you mattered to me, I remember you and you were one amazing teacher. Ms. Z used to leave the room when it was time for our music lesson to fetch her “twin sister”, Judy Jupiter. I was absolutely convinced that Ms. Z and Judy Jupiter were two entirely different people. I don’t remember a lot of the particular activities we did, but I remember how much fun school and learning and reading were. This is, of course, what the very best teachers do. As it turns out, Ms. Z was only at that school for two years. I was only there for one year. I’m so very grateful we had a year together. With pen raised, I say, “Here’s to Ms. Z!”

Message from the Universe

For a while, it seemed every book I read had a similar thread, whether I read juvenile or adult books. I read the Ink- books by Cornelia Funke, The Book of Air and Shadows by Michael Gruber, People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks. For those of you unfamiliar with these titles, the thread is bookbinding. I wasn’t looking for books that included bookbinding in them, they just kept showing up. At the Renaissance Festival last summer, I noticed there was a bookbinding school booth (unfortunately, it was closed when we stumbled upon it). Recently, a customer came into Beagle Books and ordered a book on the art of bookbinding. When the book came in, I called the customer to let him know the book was in and he told me, “You know, I’m going out of town for two weeks. I’ll pick it up when I get back, but you should look at it while I’m gone.” Before the universe began dropping bookbinding equipment on my head, I decided to pay attention to the message. I spent some time at the library researching. The Loft in Minneapolis of course has courses on bookbinding, but Minneapolis is 200 miles from my home and I really hoped to find something closer. Maybe there would be something offered in connection with Bemidji State University? (Bemidji is about 40 miles from me). No luck there. I kept looking and found there’s a bookbindery in Detroit Lakes, about 50 miles from my home. No website or email (does anyone do business without a website these days?), but there was a phone number. So I called. Someone answered. It was a bookbinder. His name is David. And yes, he would be willing to meet with me and if I was still interested, he would teach me his craft. Wow! We picked a day to meet and I waited for the day to arrive. At first, I waited with great anticipation. Then I began to wait with great anxiety. What if the bookbinder did shoddy work? What if he didn’t like me? What if I didn’t like him? I decided to bring along a friend of mine who is remarkably (sometimes frighteningly) good at reading people. This friend is my husband, Tom. So last Saturday, we drove over to Detroit Lakes, found the bookbindery and entered the building. Inside we discovered something that felt akin to magic. Papers, leather scraps, type, machinery. I felt a little bit like I did in wood shop class in junior high, fascinated by the materials and equipment, but a bit shy to step up and demand my share of time with the equipment. But this wasn’t 7th grade with a room full of 7th grade boys. This was an opportunity to be led, one on one, by a gentle man eager to pass on his knowledge. David is 82 years old and he’s nearly ready to be done with his career as a bookbinder. I think he’s just as excited to have a student as I am to be his student. When we left, I fought off the urge to hug David goodbye. Now I just have to figure out how to pay David. There are scholarships and grants available for artists that I have to explore. Some of my friends and family members (bless their hearts!) have opened their wallets and said to me, “You have to do this.” I hope I don’t have to cash their checks, I hope I can get a scholarship, but it’s wonderful to know I have their support. Now that I’m over my fears about meeting David, I’ve moved on to fears about my abilities. But the universe has better things to do than send me messages to learn bookbinding only to chuckle at my expense, right? Bookbinding journey, here I come!

Certified Mold Remediation

The other day, while on the highway, I took notice of a company’s work van. On the outside were listed the company’s services, including “Certified Mold Remediation”. To which I thought…………..What? Ok, it’s probably mold removal, I thought, but “certified mold remediation”? Come on. It’s true that the American version of the English language has undergone some major reconstruction in the last few years (few meaning anywhere from three to fifty, take your pick). In a lot of cases, this has been helpful. When a person is described as Native American, rather than Indian, I find this helpful. (Let’s leave the term Indian to persons from India, makes more sense to me). But back to “certified mold remediation”. I couldn’t help but break it down – won’t you walk with me through it? Certified. Easy enough, certified means some sort of paid training led to a piece of paper with the word “certified” on it and a signature (and maybe even an embossed seal). The consumer of the certified service can be assured the service will be performed to a high standard (or something like that). Certified is good. Mold. Unfortunately, we all know what mold is – fuzzy, green or blue or white or black, smelly growth on unclean surfaces (although admittedly, from a distance can be sort of pretty). Mold is, to be both concise and precise, bad. Remediation. This is a word that requires more work. It begins with a prefix, re-, which means again. Mediation is a word that means a session devoted to mediating (the present participle of to mediate) between two parties has occurred, and mediate means to find the agreeable middle between two or more parties (definitions provide by Jen’s Dictionary, which could someday be certified, stay tuned). So, remediation is the repeat of a session to find middle ground between two or more parties. All together now – Certified Mold Remediation is a repeated, high quality session of finding middle ground between mold and …. something or someone else. What kind of facilitator holds these sessions? How does the session go? In my mind, I hear something ridiculous, along the lines of, “Dave, Mold feels it has a right to a warm, nurturing environment where it has the freedom to grow. And Mold, I think it’s important to understand Dave’s sensitivities and his need for smooth, clean surfaces.” At this point, the mold rises out its chair, furious, and I wonder, where is my audio book and how did my brain get here? In case you’re wondering, here’s a definition I found on wikipedia definition : Mold remediation is the process of removal and/or cleanup of mold from an indoor environment. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mold_remediation)
Just like I thought. Go figure.

Perspective

In the 1993 movie, Indian Summer, a group of childhood friends, now adults, revisit their old summer camp. One of the characters, played by Kevin Pollack, can’t get over how “tiny” everything looks to his now adult eyes. In one scene, he keeps repeating “Everything’s so tiny. Tiny, tiny, tiny!” The other characters ignore him until it’s clear he’s not going to quit talking about it. Someone finally says to him, “Look, everything’s the same size. YOU’RE bigger.” It’s true, our perspective changes. Knowing this, I often pause before deciding to revisit things from my childhood. I want my cherished childhood memories to stay cherished. So, when my eight year old daughter Megan and I were recently at the library perusing the audio books, I felt surprise, delight, and then apprehension when I saw Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle on the shelf. I loved the Piggle-Wiggle books as a kid! Four Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle books were written by Betty MacDonald before she died in 1958. When I realized as a child that the author was already dead (and not just dead, but really dead – I mean, good grief, my parents were children in the 1950s and she had lived her whole life and died? It was incomprehensible), I was sad, to say the least. So I read the four Piggle-Wiggles many times. To those of you unfamiliar with Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle, the heroine is a widowed, older woman who loves children, lives in an upside down house (except for the bathroom and kitchen, of course) and has countless “cures” for childhood ailments, such as taking tiny bites of food, being a bully, whispering all the time, that kind of thing. Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle’s cures are based on the theory that immersing a child in the unwanted behavior s/he indulges in will rid the child of the behavior. For example, one of my favorite tales was about a girl who refused to bathe. At Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle’s instruction, the girl’s parents allow the girl to no longer bathe. When a layer of dirt covers the girl’s body, her parents tucked tiny radish seeds into the dirt. Once the seeds sprouted, the girl was mortified. She voluntarily scrubbed herself clean that day and every day after. On the day that Megan and I stood in the children’s audio books section at the library, I was torn – sort of, well ok, I couldn’t wait to read Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle again and I prayed with all my might that I still like the stories. As we began to listen to the book, I noticed things I had never noticed as a child. Every child in the book comes from a two-parent home consisting of the child’s biological mother and biological father. Every father has a day job to which he goes every week day and returns home in the evening. Every mother stays home and works as a housewife (or Home Economics Engineer, as we might say today). Every family is, as far as I can tell, Caucasian. Every family has two to four children. I’m tempted to scoff at this, but I began to wonder, did the author really intentionally discriminate, or was that just her worldview? After all, she never lived to hear the “I Have a Dream” speech, the skyrocketing of the divorce rate, or the airing of problems like abuse. I couldn’t resist finding out more about MacDonald, so I did a little searching. As it turns out, Betty MacDonald herself divorced her first husband (and it seems Husband #1 did not live the traditional life, his life ended in 1951 when he was stabbed, yes stabbed, to death). Following her divorce, MacDonald spent nearly a decade struggling as a single mother. During that decade, she spent almost a year at a sanitarium receiving treatment for tuberculosis. While MacDonald did re-marry and settle into a more comfortable lifestyle, she was not done squaring off with hardship. She died at the age of 49 of cancer. So, this knowledge of course changes my view of Betty MacDonald. Maybe the Piggle-Wiggle books were served as a sort of escapist fantasy. Maybe the idea of being able to fix a problem in a chapter appealed to MacDonald. I guess only MacDonald knows and I won’t get the opportunity to chat with her anytime soon (provided I live a good, long life). Maybe someone should say to me, “The stories are the same, YOU’RE different.” One last thing, as I was working on this entry, I had the good fortune of being directed to another blog entry by childrens author Laurel Snyder. In Snyder’s entry, Snyder imagines the the last unwritten chapter of Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle. It’s hysterical, and I insist you check it out:
http://laurelsnyder.com/2010/01/02/the-last-days-of-mrs-piggle-wiggle/
And special thanks to Kurtis Scaletta (who directed me to Laurel Snyder’s blog) for knowing every one and every thing and his willingness to share.

Cindie's Stand

Beagle Books is a small bookstore and we tend not to carry a lot of hardcover books. To be honest, it’s often a great relief when a customer buys the one copy of a hardcover we’re carrying. The other day, a cherished Beagle customer complained that she did not like a book she recently read. When I heard which book it was, my heart sank – not because she bought a book she didn’t like (the reality is, that just happens sometimes) but because it was Beagle bookseller Cindie’s favorite book of 2009: Valeria’s Last Stand by Marc Fitten. Valeria is the author’s first novel. The author is from New York and no one in northern Minnesota (or at least very few) had ever heard of him. After Cindie read it, she raved about it to countless customers. She was able to sell a hardcover book of an author that our customers had never heard of and after reading it, customers would make a point to come back to the bookstore to thank Cindie for it. At one point, tired of ordering 1-2 copies of the book from a wholesaler, I called the publisher and asked for a case of books. When they arrived, I panicked, thinking, what if everyone in this area who’s going to buy this book already bought it? The case was gone in less than a month. To date, Cindie has sold FIFTY copies of this book! To a bigger bookstore in a bigger community, this number is nothing special, but for a store who is thankful to sell ONE copy of a hardcover, fifty is phenomenal. Even though it’s silly, I couldn’t help but feel protective of Cindie, “What do you MEAN you don’t like this book?? The other 49 people who read it LOVED it!!” Cindie didn’t write the book, edit the book, or have anything to do with its production. The author isn’t a friend or family member of hers, but still, her heart is invested in it, and I care about that. Cindie is so passionate about good books and is able to share that with our customers and most of the time, our customers are richly rewarded for heeding Cindie’s book advice. Cindie’s been working at Beagle for a number of years – she knows that not everyone shares her taste in books, or someone was in the wrong mood for a book, or a number of other factors may have come into play to prevent a person’s enjoyment of a book, but still— Despite all this, I have to admit, it is not a failure to have hit the mark 49/50 times. If bookselling were a class, 98% is not only an A, it’s practically perfect, so to Cindie, I say, BRAVO!!

Parker

From: http://www.parkrapidsdowntown.com/
Parker Meltdown Contest
Parker, the mascot for the downtown construction project this summer, went ice fishing this week and fell in the Fish Hook River. He's frozen like a giant ice cube so we took him to Pioneer Park. When will he melt? Your guess is as good as ours. For $1 a guess, you can enter the Parker Meltdown Contest. Tickets are on sale at the Park Rapids Lakes Area Chamber of Commerce, Citizens National Bank, Northwoods Bank of Park Rapids, State Bank, Bogey's, Royal Bar and Park Rapids American Legion. Check out Parker loves Park Rapids on Facebook.

Bonk!

As humans, we are complex creatures. A friend tells you she doesn’t like contemporary art and then you run into her at an art museum premiering the contemporary work of Pick-An-Artist. “Well, this artist is the exception,” she explains to you. We are riddled with such declarations and exceptions. We are ever-changing, which makes us interesting. Some of our preferences can be influenced. A political candidate becomes likeable after a persuasive conversation with someone. Other preferences cannot be argued. I don’t like mint. We could carry on a conversation about the pros and cons of mint, but really, there is no persuading me that mint is a likeable flavor. Truly, there is no accounting for taste. Nonetheless, give it seven years, and who knows, perhaps peppermint bon bon will be my favorite ice cream flavor. We know this about ourselves. There is no person on this Earth with whom we share the same opinion of everything. Thank goodness. I know this, and yet, when I am asked for a book recommendation, I feel a slight sense of panic when a customer leaves Beagle Books with a copy of one of my favorite titles in their possession. We all like a variety of books. So, why am I afraid to tell you that I LOVE the book Bonk by Mary Roach? It’s well-written and well-researched, and so, so funny. The author used to write a humor column for Reader’s Digest. She’s written several books, including a bestseller titled Stiff, a book about, well, the dead. So when you come to me and say, “I loved your recommendations of Mudbound, Moonflower Vine, Charlatan, So Brave, Guernsey, and Remedies, what else do you suggest?”, why do I never hand you a copy of Bonk and say, “Here, I loved this book.” True to the Scandinavian reserve of my fellow Minnesotans, I’m guessing it’s because I’m embarrassed by the book’s subject matter: sex. I have finally braved to put a copy of my Staff Picks shelf, but you’re on your own to find it. And who knows, maybe you’ll suspect it was placed there by mistake. To be honest, this blog entry is probably as close as I’ll come to suggesting this title to anyone. (Sorry, Mary Roach.) I do in fact love this book, it’s not on my Staff Picks shelf by mistake, but just don’t, you know, tell anyone.