Overtaken by Bibliomania

 

I love books, I love information, and I am addicted to the excitement of words. I cannot get enough of them. I have always been like this. I remember as a child being so frustrated because I wanted to read Babar and Madeline by myself but I was too little. My father had a huge dictionary on a music stand and he would tell me to look up words just for fun.  

As customary, I learned to read and write in school along with the rest of my class. Since then, I devour books.  

Today it is much easier to read because of the internet and with rapid speed I can Google any interest and get a slew of links to click. 

I also collect books, all kinds of books. If there is a book I have read from the library and really like it, I buy it for my collection.  

This brings me to being overtaken by bibliomania. I stalked this book for at least 5 years called Scat, the Witches Cat by Geraldine Ross January 1, 1958, it is a children’s book. I searched everywhere for that book online and in stores and no one had a copy. Not even libraries.  

This book was listed on eBay for that amount of time. The price was 59.99. So, I waited and waited until there was a price drop.  

The price drop never came but someone else posted the same book on eBay for 49.99. I still waited until I didn’t. I bought the book. I don’t know much about collecting old books so when it showed up, I read it and I saw that it had children’s writing in it here and there. Now I know why this book was 10.00 less than the other one.  

I am not sorry I bought the book because it is rare and I can sell it if I want to. Owning young books or old books is a privilege and an honor especially in a world where stories zip by via the internet. Old books hold a special place in history and very important to pass on to future generations. It is my distinct privilege to hold this piece of literature and history and eventually pass it on to the public.  

Georgia P.  Oct '22

The Hunter Moon

 

The Hunter Moon is making its debut tonight as I weave my car down towards NYC along The New York State Thruway. The road is dark, and the drivers rely on the stream of head lights to show the way. The luminous red taillights snake, slither and slide along, helping to lead the procession. I have left behind Tarrytown, and Sleepy Hollow made famous by Washington Irving. Weaving through the foothills of the Catskills, apples having managed to turn my bag over, roll around in the back playing tag, happy to have escaped their enclosure. I follow the curve in the road and there it is, a panoramic view of the beautiful new bridge, illuminated by the large Hunter Moon straddling the Narrows, but exposing the critters of the forest to danger. It will be a precarious night, during which wildlife will need to move with great stealth and cunning through the woods to live till dawn.

As the bridge grows in size the road twists and turns and at times the moon disappears, although its glow is omnipresent. The moon is playing Hide and Seek, playfully disappearing until I spot it hiding behind a hill, laughing like a child at being discovered and then running away again to repeat the process.

          While driving over the bridge I look in the rearview mirror.  Is it my imagination or do I see Ichabod Crane, being pursued by The Headless Horseman running in terror along the pedestrian walkway? Up ahead on one of the rolling hills there is an apparition of sleepy Rip Van Winkle waving goodbye to me with one hand while he rubs sleep from his eyes with the other. He is recovering after a much needed rest, brought on by playing too much nine-ball and drinking from a questionable flagon of Hollands with some mischievous inebriated dwarves. I think I need some sleep myself.

Jim

Oct ‘22

My Dy Dee Doll

I’m from an era when children played with each other; when no one had a cell phone, TV or computer. Phyllis Garelick, my apartment building friend and I spent much of our time together playing “house.” We were both the momma of our individual babies, our Dy Dee Dolls. Each windowsill became the baby’s bed, fashioned with a towel for the mattress and a washcloth for the blanket.

My Dy Dee doll was my only toy. I owned no books, puzzles, games or other dolls. I was lucky to have gotten my baby doll as a birthday gift from my rich cousin. I would not be surprised to hear you ask, “Hey, what’s a Dy Dee Doll?” I was surprised I remembered what my rubber baby doll was called. I actually Googled it and learned its history. In the 1930’s The Dy Dee Doll was an invention of two businessmen. It was a huge success as a “drink and wet” doll. It had an opening in its mouth for the nipple on the bottle. A tube inside the doll reached to an opening it the doll’s buttocks (not actually the correct place for the urinating process; accuracy was not an issue.). I fed my baby doll pineapple juice so it would at least pee the correct color. 

My Dy Dee Doll was a lucky baby to belong to me. While we were too poor to afford the assortment of clothing available in the doll catalogues, my talented seamstress mother (the doll’s grandmother) made her a huge wardrobe. I cannot recall all the many items of clothing baby doll had; I can describe my favorites. Baby doll (I never named the doll) had pajamas that were the exact duplicate of the ones my mother made me. Baby doll had a maroon velvet winter coat with a real fur collar and momma made her a beautiful soft orange velvet dress, trimmed with black piping. My Dy Dee Doll had a designer original, made to order wardrobe. She had a one-of-a kind wardrobe. I was always careful when she drank and wet. “Playing house” with Phyllis Garelick was good training for my future role as a mother.

I treasured my Dy Dee Doll. In my teenage years, but unbeknownst to me, my mother gave my niece (momma’s first grandchild) my doll. In that era, children had many toys. My niece owned a sexy Barbie Doll with a full wardrobe of gowns and bathing suits. That doll even had hair that could be combed and fashioned. The old rubber Dy Dee Doll couldn’t compete. It was tossed in a heap of discarded toys. I have an intense desire to hold that doll again.

Ethyl Haber 

Pale Doom

 

Oh, perfect Hunter's Moon, your grandness signals the room, to believe in you, in all that you do, to rescue us from this gloom.
Oh, rising October Moon,
May you Enlighten us soon, as soon as can be, to help us to remember that first cosmic boom.
Oh, distant Mars, you wrestle with the stars, to shine your light, help brighten the darkest night, and to ward off a pale doom.

Call to the trumpeter,
On high see great Jupiter.
You bring battle to my space, so in your face.
So bright in the eastern sky, the apple of my eye.
As to rhyming this poem, you make me forget why.

RM, 10-21-2022.

In an attempt to honor Jupiter,
[I can think of nothing stupider.]


As a July-born moonchild, I often gaze at and reflect upon the moon's solitary life in the vast and infinite cosmos.  I follow the Moon phases and try to locate it whenever I can.

As a historian with a decent grasp of important AND mundane events and anniversaries, December brings us 50 years back to 1972. The National Aeronautics and Space Administration sent its Apollo 17 to the Moon.
It was the sixth mission to land on the Moon and to return to Earth safely.
12 men have walked on the Moon, the last, Commander Eugene Cernan, left on December 14, 1972.  The Apollo 17 mission was epic, as it conducted scores of experiments and drove a lunar rover over many miles on three lunar excursions (EVAs).
Cernan was joined on the lunar surface by Geologist Harrison Schmitt, as Command Module pilot Ronald Evans circled the Moon, waiting to again rendezvous with the Lunar Module astronauts.
Financial reconsiderations and societal malaise told Americans that the Moon was no longer a national goal, no longer a destination to cherish, embrace, learn from, mine, and colonize.
Why we didn't return is anybody's guess.
Maybe we were told not to return. We may not be alone. Ooooooooooh...

The RM archive possesses autographed photographs of the Gemini 9 mission patch, and a postcard of Eugene Cernan driving the Apollo 17 Lunar Rover.

So, this December 2022, remember our last Moon landing, a half-century ago.

Bus Ride Memories

 

I was on the bus and a family entered. The Mom and four kids, the kids were so happy and ran to the back of the bus with Mom. They all looked happy, the kids were eating candy, talking about their day in class and Mom was listening. They all looked so content and united.  

The scene reminded me of all the times I picked up my kids from the same school and I would listen to their stories and eat candy. At home they would do their homework and play games and go to bed and we would do the same thing the next day. 

I would anything to have those days back.

Georgia

For Want of a Curtain Rod

 

I needed to replace one of my kitchen curtain rods. It was decades old, and like myself, a bit worn and weary. I was going to clean it up before rehanging my freshly laundered Battenburg lace curtains.  I just had to fiddle with it and get the kinks out. Not so easy. The two pieces of the expandable rod jammed together and they became irrevocably married to each other-- of course, at a totally unusable length. Ah, well. I was going to pass Home Depot on my way to BJ’s. I did my homework and looked up the item online. I went armed with the description, SKU number, price and other good curtain rod as a sample. The computer told me there were 41 of these rods in stock at the store branch.  This was going to be quick and easy.

Well, bear with me, while I digress. When I was substitute teaching, I was amazed that so many students felt that whatever they did with school work was “Good’nough.” It worried me that these pupils would grow up to be the people who would take care of me when I became old, sick, and senile. This is a story of those “Good’nough” people who tried to find my $2.48 replacement curtain rod.

 

*****

 

I enter my local Home Depot near Aisle #6. “Where are the curtain rods?” I ask one of the friendly team members. With great confidence and a big smile, she looks it up on the smart phone that appears to be a natural extension of her hand. She looks and looks. A wrinkle develops across her otherwise smooth, youthful forehead.  Finally, she’s got it! Long pause. “Oh no. Wrong store.” She starts all over again and looks up the store we are standing in, where she has been working these many months. “Oh, that’s Aisle 35.”

 “Thank you” I say. “Where is Aisle 35? I only see Aisles 1 through 20 here.”.

“Oh, go down to Aisle 20 to the end and walk to the back. It’ll be right near there,” she instructed me brightly. So, I trek down to the far end of the store and at Aisle 20 take a right down the long aisle to the end. Hm...  Aisle 21 is right behind 20! Of course. That’s logical. I take another right past the next 33 aisles. I have walked the length of the cavernous store to almost the aisle directly behind where I had entered.  “Well, I’m getting exercise in,” I think to myself, making lemonade from a rather sour roundabout route.

Eureka! I find the area for the curtain rods. A visual tour doesn’t reward me with the rod I need. I walk back and forth three times, and then approach another friendly team member two aisles over, who points back over to where the curtain rods are located.

“I’m sure they are there, but could you come with me?” I plead. “I just can’t manage to find the them.” He walks back and forth down the aisle a few times, but doesn’t locate the right one either.

“We don’t carry them,” he shrugs.

 “Of course, you do. The computer says you have 41 in stock,” I retort.

l bend down to where there are about 6 empty slots in the display, find a partition that reads $2.48, the exact price of my item. Then I bend further to check the itty-bitty label that is flush with the floor. (Oh, my poor old aching back.) Behold: the vacant spot for my item’s SKU!

“Maybe they’re up on top ?? in the storage racks?” I ask as politely as I can. He looks up and scans the levels directly above the display.

“Nope.”

“I want to speak to a manager.”

 “OK, but you may have to wait a while.”

“Fine.”

        Luckily, a manager walks by about ten seconds later. He duplicates the already duplicated survey up and down the aisle, and declares with authority, “We don’t have any.”

“But here’s where they belong,” I protest. “And the computer says there are 41 in stock at this store.”

He checks his own computer link on his smart phone. Nods his head in confirmation. Then he grunts, and with a face of experience tells me, “Oh, you know. Those computers are often wrong.”

In the meantime, the first team member is pulling one of those big rolling staircase ladders over. He clambers up and starts examining the ceiling-high storage racks. No luck. He comes down, moves the ladder, and climbs back up again. This time he finds boxes and boxes of my rods, 3 to a box. He pulls out one box with a bit of flair and smiles broadly. He hands it to me victoriously.

 “Thank you.” “Great job.”  “Really persistent,” I say, as I throw a nod of approval to him and his manager. His reward: I just complimented him in front of his supervisor and he showed up the guy to boot.  Of course, nobody, moves to fill up the other vacant slots. Back in some buyer’s office, they must wonder why some curtain rods just never sell.

Triumphant, my booty in hand, I head for the cash registers. And lo and behold, there assisting at self-checkout, is the helpful young lady who had sent me on my lengthy excursion.

“You know, it might be helpful if you took a walk around the store and were more familiar with the layout. I had to walk the length of the store twice.” 

“Oh, I’ve never walked back there. I just work up front,” she explains to me, an obviously overdemanding shopper. “I can’t know where every little thing is. There are thousands of items.” She walks away, quite self-satisfied with her explanation and lack of knowledge. Another “Good’nough-er.”

       Now another digression. Friends and colleagues have told me:

       You know, your expectations are just too high.

        You are a dog with a bone.

        You can be right or you can be happy.

     They are right. This is who I am. A five-minute shopping trip that takes an hour is frustrating. It confirms my fears that the “Good’nough-ers” are taking over the world, but also gives me a glimmer of hope that there are the few who will see the light eventually and save us.

At this instant, as I walk into my kitchen, I am happy. The white curtains are a perfect frame for my green plants. Here, in my sunny kitchen, I am content. ‘Tis good and ‘tis enough for me.

Marsha H

Moon Moment

 

As I stare into the hovering Hunter Moon that hangs enormous in the night sky, I feel overtaken and subsumed. In an instant, its arrow of light pierces my being and fixes me to the earth. I am tethered to that white orb in the black sky.  Even though I know that my blood surges and my synapses spark, I am totally immobilized and still.  As the moon circumnavigates the planet and pulls at the oceans, it appears a stolid power in the black sky. The Hunter Moon has entranced me within his white light.

Stasis rules. The moment is pure; the light is pure. Nothing shatters or shudders. No cloud moves to foreshadow a next moment. All stimuli cease. On earth there are no fast-moving fires, no overflowing floods, no external disorders, or internal conflicts.  In myself, I feel neither sorrow nor joy, neither regret nor satisfaction. The silent, sanctified light cleanses and purifies. My body, held fast to earth, is yet appended to the moon. I am a moment of light, stretched for eons, and stuck for an instant in time. My being is held balanced within a note of eternity. I thank the moon that blesses me with a moment of clear, unadulterated nothingness.

Marsha H.  10/15/22