Jack is a regular (but he wears a flat cap) so of course we were startled, and asked in unison, “WHO?”

Eulis was a Korean War Veteran, a long haul truck driver (as was his son after him) a loving husband and an attentive father. He made trips with his son John until about 3 months before the last stroke laid him low. Eulis was the only guy I ever knew who swore coffee tasted different in Styrofoam cups than in ceramic mugs.

Over the years Eulis never said much to me beyond, “Waaalll, there she is; how’s Mrs. Jack today?” Sometimes he’d say, “You know, your husband’s a fine man, Missy, a fine man.” And I’d smile and agree.

Naturally, Jack loved Eulis.

Through the years of measuring out our lives with Mutual coffee spoons, we watched Eulis walk tall and proud, then with a hearing aid, then a cane, and finally a slow, booth-to-booth shuffle, stopping to regain his balance with a hand clamped to each seat back.

His wife Annie was brilliant. “That the best you can do?” she’d goad him when he slumped or rested over-long. Annie used to be a nurse. She’d been married to Eulis many years, and she knew how to keep him standing to the very end. He was a proud man.

And a fixture to us, here in the community. Eulis was as much a part of Mutual mornings as the chipped ceramic mugs he drank from. His cap with the “Korean Veteran” lettering. His wire frame glasses. His quiet, tall presence.

About two months ago a mutual (Mutual) acquaintance came by the shop and said, “Wendy, you know who’d make a really good book? Eulis. He’s got some life story. And he’s such a nice guy. You should go talk to him. I think he’d do it.”

“Sure,” I said, my mind going to the slow shuffle I’d last seen him doing. Step. Hand clamp. Rest. Shift. Step. Annie behind him all the way, holding him up with her careful, aimed teasing. I resolved to find time soon.

There’s an African proverb that says, “When an old person dies, a library burns.”

In his obituary, Eulis made all his fellow coffee drinkers from the Mutual honorary pallbearers.

It’s funny how connections can get made across time and distance.

When I was attending primary school, back in the 1950s in Dunfermline, Scotland, one of my best friends was Manuel Charlton. We stayed in touch off and on over the next twenty years or so as he developed his musical skills and began playing with a rock band called the Shadettes that played regularly in the local dance halls. They never recorded, I don’t think, and were rarely commented on in the music press – just an anonymous small town band playing covers of current hits.

Then they changed their name to Nazareth (named for the opening line of ‘The Weight’ by The Band) and almost immediately were signed by a major recording label. One of their early singles was ‘Love Hurts’ and this was a massive world-wide hit for them. These four guys from Dunfermline went on to record numerous albums and hit singles.

Just a couple of years ago my good friend and marvelous fiddle player Pete Clark was invited to join them on stage for a celebration concert in the original Carnegie Hall in Dunfermline (birthplace of Andrew Carnegie) – it shouldn’t have worked, but it did. Pete wove seamlessly into their best known hits and cavorted around the stage as if born to the life!

Just a few years earlier I was being interviewed on radio in Slovakia and the record played immediately before (completely by coincidence) was ‘Love Hurts’ by Nazareth.

Back to the point – one of our most loyal customers here in the bookstore is a guy who is seriously into rock music and I was able to bring him from Scotland a signed copy of a poster for the concert that Pete took part in. When Wendy and I , as we often do, visited Mackay’s bookstore in Knoxville this last Sunday (whenever we visit with her parents we head to Mackay’s afterwards), I headed upstairs to their music department. There, in the LP section, staring me in the face, was Manny Charlton – for a dollar fifty!

I immediately thought of ‘the loyal customer’ and handed it over to him this morning – to his great delight.

So, Manny Charlton – although we haven’t spoken in a long time, we continue to connect and you continue to bring great pleasure to your fans.

Manny in full flow.

Since we were driving up on a beautiful Spring day and had “all the time in the world” Jack and I did what fools do: turned off our GPS and started back-roading. At 8 pm, twenty miles off target, we left the Blue Ridge Parkway via a dirt road I am pretty sure was an irrigation service track for someone’s cow pasture. (We rehooked the gate after we went through.)

Carolyn and her husband live in a community of DC refugees. The book club’s women were either retired from work in Fairfax or Richmond, or keeping gracious, spacious homes open for men still making the daily commute. Those of you who do author events will recognize the underlying intimidation factor: that gig where, as you stand to speak, you realize the people sitting in the front row could pool their changepurse contents and buy your car.

But they asked such insightful questions amid repeated offers of “Would you like a cup of coffee/tea/juice/wine” so often, we had a great time. One of the attending clubs was called “Needs and Deeds.” They support causes they feel need quiet yet swift attention, donating their own discretionary income but also holding fundraisers, often involving books or handmade items.

The night before the club meeting, we took to our hostess Carolyn right away; she’s the kind of woman who opens her arms and the world walks into them. She cooks and makes things better, maintains graciousness with an effortless grace. She has magnolia-blossom white hair and blue eyes that, when you look in, are just looking for ways to make your day better.

Here’s the kicker, though: as Carolyn was making us a breakfast of fresh ground coffee, cheddar scrambled eggs, homemade bread and jam, and fresh raspberries, we started talking about a book idea I’d been kicking around: “Invisible? the lives of American women after 5o.”

I didn’t bring it up, though; Carolyn did. She was trying to write her family history for the publishing market, and thinking of going back to school. Among other things, she said, she wanted her three daughters to be “proud of her,” to feel that she had “done something with her life.”

I looked at the spacious home full of grandchild spaces, the tended garden, the bread, the dogs – one of whom was a Hurricane Katrina rescue. “Done something?” I repeated.

“Well, I mean, yes, I used to work in a bookstore,” Carolyn said, bunching eggs with her spatula. “In your book, you talk about dreams, living a real life. And my life…”

“Your book club is called ‘Needs and Deeds,’ right?” I asked, blinking.

She smiled. “I know. But I want my daughters to know I was a real person.”

We talked a long time that morning about what a “real person” meant for women with white hair in America, swapping stories, and having some good laughs near tear territory.

And Carolyn, if ever there were a real person, hands and ears and eyes tuned to what’s going on around them, it is you. Whether the outside forces of American society see it or not, you are not invisible, but radiantly transparent. Different thing. God Bless You for it.

It all seems a bit artificial to me. Take that kinship system of who has to buy presents for whom: we canines have instincts for a reason, and we’re not much bothered about the rules beyond that. You either smell good or you don’t; you wag your tail and are friendly, or you’re a growler. Blood doesn’t matter–unless it’s about to get spilled.

But then, I’m a dog, not a human, so maybe I haven’t got enough of that “schooling” stuff.

That’s the other part of the “graduation” ritual that strikes me as odd. I understand that the human puppies have done something that took a lot of time and was quite expensive, but we canines know that it takes a whole lifetime to absorb the learning that goes with being alive. In my experience, those that don’t keep learning get run over on the highway. Or left behind in a move. You gotta stay ahead of those noises you hear in the distance, y’know? Ears up, nose into the wind.

There’s another part of the ritual I don’t get. We bitches love our babies all the time; they get licks and snuggles and we sing them lullabies when nobody’s around. I know humans love their puppies too, but they seem to wait for special occasions to say so. Every day alive is a special occasion for us. We call it “every dog has his day.”

Then there’s that weird thing humans do where they run around each other–or run away from each other–looking for love. In my experience, love comes when you’re sitting down minding your own business. Someone scratches you behind the ears, you look into each others’ eyes, and you got a home. Just don’t go messing it up by barking when a little kiss will do the trick.

And one last thing. There are no books that will stuff into a pup’s head in one sitting all the things they haven’t got by now. In our world, we say “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” The time to tell ‘em what they need to hear is all those years you’ve got ‘em around the food bowl – kitchen table, I think y’all call it. Those toss-off evenings that tick by one by one, racing past ’cause you’ve got places to go: THOSE are the nights that count. Once they get old enough to go out on their own, they aren’t gonna listen any more. So get their ears full while they’re still wet behind ‘em.

That’s what I’d say if humans could hear me. But y’know, they usually can’t, so never mind. And to all you puppies out there leaving the school, here’s my advice: keep your ears up, scratch when it itches, stick with the love you find, and don’t get run over.

“Oh, what’d she order?” Ted asked, and Jack suddenly straightened.

“Can’t find it, sorry, must not be here yet,” my husband said. Ted shrugged. We ordered a Mother’s Day gift for his mom.

“I know she comes in here all the time,” Ted said, “so don’t mention I got this for her. It’s gonna be a real surprise.”

We swore ourselves to solemn secrecy, and Ted departed. No sooner was he off the porch than Jack sat down with a loud “WHEW.” He looked positively green.

“You okay?” I asked, and Jack pointed to the hold shelf.

“It’s there, what she ordered,” Jack said. “But I just remembered as I was about to pick it up and hand it to him that she told me it was his birthday gift.”

Close call, that. Sometimes it carries to full conclusion. Last winter a brother-sister duo browsed Christian non-fiction. He opened a book, frowned, and walked to her. “I gave you this for Christmas in 2008,” he said in the tones of a Methodist Minister opening a funeral. “See the inscription?”

With a weak grin, his sister offered to buy it back for him. He continued to frown and she continued talking faster and higher, but I could see a twinkle forming in the corners of his smile. Finally, his sister burst out, hands on hips, “Ok, Mr. Theology, admit it. It was a dumb, boring book, and that’s why you gave it to me after you read it first, because you didn’t want it.”

The brother burst out laughing and returned the book to the (bargain) shelf.

Such are the days and ways of a small town bookstore. We know who’s buying what, why, for whom. And we never tell – at least when we think fast enough.

Sometimes we all need a little escapism, and they keep describing some crossbow tough guy Daryl who’s actually a sensitive caring soul; he seems to be doing the trick for them.

Yet bibliophiles are not so different. Those of you who read this blog regularly will know that Jack and I are bemused by customers who simultaneously buy Christian romances and Patricia Cornwells, but we also get it. As a friend who works with criminal court cases involving the abuse of children once said, “If I can read something worse than what I see every day, it reminds me there’s still room to look down.”

In fact, friends addicted to “Walking Dead” run heavily to academics working with the next generation of students. Perhaps we’ll stop that line of speculation now. But the fact remains that people enjoy reading about the train wrecks of others, mostly because we like to remind ourselves that things could be worse than we know they are. Gives us hope. Or cynical laughter.

Sometimes, in the dark spots, those two things aren’t that different, y’know?

We greet a lot of female customers sporting casual business attire and sensible, low-maintenance haircuts, who come into our bookshop and smile at us without saying much. They browse for 20 minutes, and leave with nine Ann Rules and a Karen Kingsbury. We know from previous conversations what kinds of jobs they do. Bless them for it, and we will keep stocking the shelves with those nasty paperbacks full of train wrecks that reassure them there’s still room to drop.

Is it reassuring? Well, maybe it’s like comfort food. A Kraft Mac and Cheese box supper served warm on a plate might have repercussions later, but it feels good going down. And it gives us the strength to get out there and do what must be done.

Go, girls. We’re rooting for you. Karen Slaughter and Dean Koontz will be waiting when you need them.

It’s not surprising that many bookstore customers, on hearing my accent ask where I’m from, and then talk of their own family connections back to Scotland or Ireland. This area of Southern Appalachia has strong ‘Scotch-Irish’ antecedents. Frequently these conversations will drift around to the difference between perceptions and the reality of Scotland from an American point of view. Most Americans have an image of Scotland derived from movies like ‘Braveheart’ or ‘Brigadoon’ (Vincent Minnelli famously toured Scotland looking for suitable places to make ‘Brigadoon’ but eventually made it in Hollywood because he couldn’t find anywhere in Scotland that looked ‘Scottish’ enough!).

These conversations will often move on to questions about the real Scotland and how it fits into the modern world and global economy. Of course perceptions aren’t helped by confusion over what Scotland actually is in relation to – The U.K., Great Britain, The British Isles or even ‘England’.

In case you, dear reader, also find that confusing – hold on tight, and here we go -

The British Isles is a geographic description that covers Great Britain and the complete island of Ireland.

Great Britain is the union of two nations – England/Wales and Scotland (Wales was never a separate nation, sadly – it’s a Principality of England).

The island of Ireland is split into the independent Republic of Ireland and the much smaller province of Northern Ireland.

Great Britain plus Northern Ireland makes up the U.K. (The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, to give it its full name).

Got all that?

Finally I will often mention that in September 2014 there will be a referendum in Scotland on the restoration of the country to independent status again. Supporters call it ‘independence’ while opponents call it ‘separation’ – ah! The power of words!!

Talking of words, Wendy and I recently saw this sign on Interstate 77 just north of the NC line. We thought some of our Scottish friends might see the significance -

Shurely shome shignificance (as Sir Sean Connery would Shurely Shay)

“Let’s Talk” is our monthly discussion group (first Thursday each month) and any participant can nominate a subject to discuss, which must be just one or two words. Our good friend Tony, the local Presbyterian Minister, came up with the idea of the event  and is our fair and impartial moderator. We generally have between eight and twelve regular attendees and the only rule is that everyone’s views must be given respect. Subjects have ranged from ‘citizenship’ to ‘karma’ and even included–thanks to shop-sitter Andrew–”nose picking” (which led to a surprisingly insightful discussion on social taboos).

It’s fascinating to watch how the regulars position themselves at this. Um, that’s not a reference to nose picking.

Those who have read Wendy’s book may be surprised to learn that, while I delight in discussion and am likely to be found at the center of the debate, jousting merrily with my rhetorical lance, Wendy sits, small and quiet, crocheting in an armchair, just taking it all in. She says she isn’t much of a debater. Hmmm….

We’re not the only ones who stick to a pattern. Among our regulars are two village elders; let’s call them George and Gina. George is the archetypal curmudgeon. He has perfected opening his mouth exactly 20 minutes before the group’s 8:30 pm finish, lobbing his always-controversial views with maximum incendiary effect.  By contrast, Gina is our classic local grand-dame: quiet but determined, she is also known for waiting until late-on to offer her sensible, well-reasoned input.

Watching the interplay between these great characters is always an evening highlight. How does one get in the last word without getting left out entirely? Perhaps this explains why lately they have been vying with each other to get their thoughts in first–they want to be behind everyone else, yet ahead of each other.

The results are … hysterical. Gina clears her throat, and George starts talking. Gina waits, looking smug, as George, realizing he’s been tricked into starting early, winds to a disgruntled halt–and Gina gets in the last word. Next month, George will clear his throat, Gina waits, thinking she knows this trick. But then George not only says his piece, but filibusters, and just as he ends, the clock strikes time. Tony, a popular preacher in town because he knows the value of clock-watching, gets as much a kick out of the proceedings as we do, but he doesn’t let things drag on.

When people ask me what I like best about the bookstore I usually answer “the customers”. George and Gina, bless them (not their hearts, them!) are two reasons why.

This week, returning from Istanbul and diving into wrapping up the semester at the college, I have logged less than three hours working in the bookstore. My loving spouse has been carrying the place solo as I careen from car to class to meeting to car, stopping only to fling my body horizontal in a darkened room for five hours at a time.

Yeah, it’s a first world problem. I’m playing catchup partly because I got to spend twelve days meandering the streets of Old and New Istanbul, hand in hand with my beloved. And when we got home, shopsitters Mark and Sally had left the place immaculate and organized.

That was Monday…. by Tuesday evening 12 big boxes of trade-ins sat on our bookshop floor. Clearly, some customers had been waiting for us to return.

My amazing husband was on his hands and knees in the back of the store last night, triaging the last of the paperbacks. I patted him on the shoulder as I raced past. Modern marriages are wonderful things.

And yet, in the midst of the chaos, beneath the burden of all that must  be done, there is a weight that doesn’t so much push down as hold up.

Wednesday past, as I turned out the light much later than I wanted to in preparation for climbing the stairs to bed, I stood for a few moments in our dark, calm bookstore. The walls were lined with books, silent sentinels of so many lives. Testimony that many had gone before, and survived, thrived, even recorded their journeys.

And I breathed. That smell, that lovely smell of dust and ideas–and lemon scent; our cleaner Heather is amazing–worked its way into my rapid-fire lungs. And I slowed down a little.

Just for three minutes, I stood, breathing. Just breathing. This too shall pass, this present cloud of bustle. Busy ends of the semester will return to summer beach readers and long, leisurely glasses of iced tea–or cups of hot tea–with customers who are friends, stopping by to ask about titles, offer reviews, show us their child’s report card.

It’s a good thing to have the weight of books in one’s life. Then I climbed the stairs to the bedroom, where on the left side of the bed a lump lay. The other anchor to my life, Jack, snored softly. Just breathing.

Fast food, furious grading, fast driving, faster meetings and all, I have the most wonderful life.

One of the areas of contention between Wendy and me regarding the bookstore is the thorny issue of ‘tidiness’ and cleanliness. To explain further – I favor the Aladdin’s Cave model of used bookstore, while Wendy would rather everyone be able to find any book easily through rigorous alphabetizing and categorizing. In addition, I have no sense of smell, so tracking down elusive cat pee is next to impossible for me.

I’m not oblivious to the delights of a clean and tidy store and I do get a satisfying feeling when it gives out that general ambience. I’d even admit to really appreciating visits to other bookstores that achieve that kind of slick well organized look. So, what to do?

The cleanliness and cat-pee problem is ably dealt with by our ‘wonder-woman’ Heather every Monday and even I appreciate the difference after she is finished.

However our other big problem is not having anywhere to easily store large donations of books when they appear by the box-load. A couple of bags is one thing, but eight or ten large boxes is something else and we can’t let them clutter up floor space. Sorting out the acceptable from the non-acceptable usually results in at least a couple of boxes of ‘throwaways’ and they need to go somewhere – at least temporarily. Up to now that has been the garage, but that has now been taken over by (horrors) a car!

MidGe in the garage.

To the point -

Two of our good friends, (mother and son), who are regular attenders at our various evening events, brought us ten large boxes of books just the other night. Another gripe – books are heavy, so shifting large boxes is back-breaking work. Luckily their taste in reading is eclectic so at least the collection can be spread pretty evenly throughout the store. While the needlework gang were busy setting the world to rights last night I made a start and, sure enough, out of the ten boxes I rapidly identified two boxes worth of ‘throwaways’ (actually three liftable boxes).

We absolutely hate throwing away books and will even turn them into planters or hand-bags and purses to avoid that terrible fate, but sometimes it just has to be done (I think the reason the garage filled up with books is for just that reason).

Today is garbage day and I have a heavy heart – not only because the erstwhile contents of the garage wait at the curbside, but there are three boxes sitting forlornly waiting the same fate.

Mea Culpa!