Here's a thought for last-minute gift-giving for the book lover: it doesn't require shopping or wrapping or shipping, and it's right there at your fingertips. It's a gift of time and attention, and the recipients are not just people you care for but books that need care.
You may know someone whose books and shelves would benefit from a simple dusting. Whether that someone never thinks about it or never gets around to it, books deserve this most basic courtesy. And it's a courtesy that benefits the spaces those books live in, and everyone else who lives there, too. Maybe a friend or family member has spoken about wanting to reorganize their books, but can't decide on strict alphabetical order by author or shelving by topic. Offer to help with the tasks and decisions, or to undertake them on your own. Chances are your offer will be considered unusual if not outright unique. Revel in it! The work can be done at a leisurely pace, perhaps an hour or so every second Thursday evening or whatever suits all concerned. It's a grand opportunity for coffee and pastry or wine and cheese, catching up on the latest scuttlebutt or just shooting the breeze.
Can't imagine making such an offer? Have you ever walked a friend's dog? Gotten the mail or some groceries for a neighbor? Then helping someone take care of their books should be in your repertoire. It may take a little longer than those other acts of kindness, but since when does friendship come with a stopwatch?
It's a gift you can give yourself, too. And don't forget to reward yourself with a big bag of new books.
Showing posts with label book care. Show all posts
Showing posts with label book care. Show all posts
Friday, December 11, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
A Found Book Joins the Family
Early one morning a few weeks ago, Phoebe and I were strolling home from the park when the keener of our noses demanded that we pause and investigate. Of the two of us, I'm the one who can read, but I would have missed the handwritten sign affixed to a battered carton. Was it scents from the shuttered restaurant that attracted Phoebe, or did she sense something different, smells arrayed for hands-on perusal? Did Phoebe, with her dog's wisdom, know that she was pointing me toward something I would enjoy?
"Help Yourself!" said the sign, and in the carton, like an untossed salad seasoned with some fairly strident condiments, were heaped cookbooks of all kinds.
I never met a cookbook I didn't like. I've been known to read cookbooks as if they were novels. What a cast of characters, and just wait until that stirring plot thickens! The villainous steak, the heroic leafy greens, the valorous legumes, the witty herbs and spices... But I digress. I fell for pure romance, and adopted Maida Heatter's Book of Great Chocolate Desserts.
The book wasn't in bad condition. Some rubbing alcohol on a clean, lint-free cloth refreshed the laminate exterior. The edges gave up some residue. The pages were reasonably clean. I was already imagining how good some of those cakes and pasties would smell as they baked and cooled when I noticed that the book itself could be smelled, unappetizingly, clear across the room. From that moment until today, the book has been recovering, steeped in the savory scent brew in the carton in my office, my faithful colleague Buzet, who by making books smell better has much in common with restaurateurs and chefs: what smells good piques our appetites, for eating, reading, and cooking. That book now smells tasty, like a good cookbook should.
Thank you, kind soul who discarded a book I will care for and use. And thank you, Phoebe. You won't be sampling any of those recipes: consuming chocolate is my job. Home baking for you, dear dog, means only whole grains, and I know you wouldn't want it any other way!
"Help Yourself!" said the sign, and in the carton, like an untossed salad seasoned with some fairly strident condiments, were heaped cookbooks of all kinds.
I never met a cookbook I didn't like. I've been known to read cookbooks as if they were novels. What a cast of characters, and just wait until that stirring plot thickens! The villainous steak, the heroic leafy greens, the valorous legumes, the witty herbs and spices... But I digress. I fell for pure romance, and adopted Maida Heatter's Book of Great Chocolate Desserts.
The book wasn't in bad condition. Some rubbing alcohol on a clean, lint-free cloth refreshed the laminate exterior. The edges gave up some residue. The pages were reasonably clean. I was already imagining how good some of those cakes and pasties would smell as they baked and cooled when I noticed that the book itself could be smelled, unappetizingly, clear across the room. From that moment until today, the book has been recovering, steeped in the savory scent brew in the carton in my office, my faithful colleague Buzet, who by making books smell better has much in common with restaurateurs and chefs: what smells good piques our appetites, for eating, reading, and cooking. That book now smells tasty, like a good cookbook should.
Thank you, kind soul who discarded a book I will care for and use. And thank you, Phoebe. You won't be sampling any of those recipes: consuming chocolate is my job. Home baking for you, dear dog, means only whole grains, and I know you wouldn't want it any other way!
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Socks Appeal
By the time Phoebe and I reached the park last Sunday morning, our seven book-and-sock encounters had taken on the aura of minor if not yet forgettable fable. At least that was their effect on me. Wiser than I, Phoebe turned her attention, and mine, to the squirrels. Our neighborhood eastern grays rewarded us with more eager interaction than we had elicited earlier from mere bipeds; Phoebe was entertained, and I was saved from disappointment. It was a delightful long walk. And by the time we turned for home, I knew that my passion for books might excuse my pelting leash- and coffee-toting passersby with questions about their personal libraries when they wanted to empty their pets and fill themselves with caffeine. What was inexcusable was the hour; next time I query dog walkers about their book care habits, it will be much later in the day.
That conclusion reached me, as if from another world, just as Phoebe and I reached an intersection and a red light. While we waited to cross, a woman and a terrier joined us. We had met earlier. We greeted each other again. I didn't say a word about books.
We were patting each other's dogs when the woman said, "Tell me again how you dust a book with a sock."
My surprise I suppressed; the fable might yet produce a moral and a convert. So as Phoebe and the terrier nuzzled and wagged, I launched into my dusting speech and pantomime. I slipped an old sock over one hand, pulling a book from a shelf and opening it, holding the text block, wiping the top edge gently and in one direction, careful of a dust jacket's position, and was about to discuss the merits of removing the jacket for thorough cleaning of the book's entire being and what care the jacket might need when the woman gestured to her dog.
"That sounds like the way I brush her. She loves it."
"Books love it, too," I proclaimed. "The cleaner they are, the longer they last." A terrible generality for a Sunday morning on a street corner, but I had an audience, and the dogs were still content with each other's company. We let the traffic light change more than once, and talked more about taking care of books and dogs. The woman confided that bathing her dog had been something she once dreaded; now she looks forward to it. And she does have some books that mean a lot to her, and maybe she should give this idea of dusting them some thought, and maybe even a try. I suggested that it's one of those things that's worse to contemplate than undertake. "Go home and dust two books," I urged.
"Three," she countered, and I think I heard a lovely little flare of defiance. I had underestimated her resolve. We parted, when the dogs permitted, as if we had crossed something more expansive than York Avenue.
Of the other people I accosted last weekend, I can report only that Phoebe and I have seen all six of them and their dogs in the days since, and no one crossed the street when they saw us coming. That's all the encouragement I need to try again.
That conclusion reached me, as if from another world, just as Phoebe and I reached an intersection and a red light. While we waited to cross, a woman and a terrier joined us. We had met earlier. We greeted each other again. I didn't say a word about books.
We were patting each other's dogs when the woman said, "Tell me again how you dust a book with a sock."
My surprise I suppressed; the fable might yet produce a moral and a convert. So as Phoebe and the terrier nuzzled and wagged, I launched into my dusting speech and pantomime. I slipped an old sock over one hand, pulling a book from a shelf and opening it, holding the text block, wiping the top edge gently and in one direction, careful of a dust jacket's position, and was about to discuss the merits of removing the jacket for thorough cleaning of the book's entire being and what care the jacket might need when the woman gestured to her dog.
"That sounds like the way I brush her. She loves it."
"Books love it, too," I proclaimed. "The cleaner they are, the longer they last." A terrible generality for a Sunday morning on a street corner, but I had an audience, and the dogs were still content with each other's company. We let the traffic light change more than once, and talked more about taking care of books and dogs. The woman confided that bathing her dog had been something she once dreaded; now she looks forward to it. And she does have some books that mean a lot to her, and maybe she should give this idea of dusting them some thought, and maybe even a try. I suggested that it's one of those things that's worse to contemplate than undertake. "Go home and dust two books," I urged.
"Three," she countered, and I think I heard a lovely little flare of defiance. I had underestimated her resolve. We parted, when the dogs permitted, as if we had crossed something more expansive than York Avenue.
Of the other people I accosted last weekend, I can report only that Phoebe and I have seen all six of them and their dogs in the days since, and no one crossed the street when they saw us coming. That's all the encouragement I need to try again.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
All About Buzet
Our days among books begin with long walks. It wasn't long after dawn today when Phoebe and I were bound for Carl Schurz Park for exercise, a long stroll along the East River, squirrel patrol (Phoebe is emphatically pro-rodent, a happy pathology we share), and some social petworking (even dogs with a presence on the Internet enjoy personal encounters). About an hour and almost two miles later, we were back among our books, Phoebe curled up in bed beneath my desk, where I set to work.
On our walk we had reviewed our plans for the day. Top of the list was to check in with our colleague Buzet. We consult with Buzet almost every day. We couldn't run a bookshop or maintain our personal library without Buzet.
Buzet is indispensable to us, and always nearby. Phoebe's official book business perch is beneath one desk; Buzet's, under another. We're a happy family business.
Buzet and Phoebe have more in common than workday propinquity. Both came to me by wonderful chance, and when I needed them desperately. I have Dachshund Rescue to thank for Phoebe, and a generous man at a nearby wine shop for Buzet's presence on the team.
Phoebe came from Brooklyn; Buzet, all the way from France, from the historic Lot et Garonne region of the scenic southwest, courtesy of Les Vignerons de Buzet.
I won't pretend that Buzet is not a carton, composed of strong cardboard with a discreet marbleized effect to a pale exterior, with more height than width, with a prominent coat of arms that still catches my eye every day, just as it did one fateful afternoon, about a week before I met Phoebe. "Recycling?" I asked, and pointed to Buzet, whose trajectory toward a heap of cartons undergoing disassembly halted, then reversed. "This is one great carton," said the man at the wine shop. I thanked him, and held out my arms to Buzet as I would just days later to Phoebe.
Buzet cuts a handsome figure under his desk. Buzet may indeed be a carton, but he is not idle.
I admit it: I think of Buzet as a guy. He does some of the heavy lifting at Dog Lovers Bookshop; he takes a load off my mind by improving the condition of inventory, which in turn contributes to customer satisfaction. Buzet does something I can't do without help. He destinks books. That's why most mornings Phoebe and I visit with Buzet and the fine old books in his care.
This morning we opened his top flaps, still sturdy after almost four years, folded open one of the archival-quality plastic bags inside, and extracted a book that has spent seven days confined with a solid air freshener. I closed Buzet, with thanks for his help, and Phoebe's, for she had come to my side to watch, her nose agile and eager. I opened the book, poked my nose into the gutter, and sensed improvement. So today I didn't return the book to the bag and the carton. I set the book open on a bookstand, and we got on with our day.
After Phoebe's midafternoon walk, it was time to sniff that book again.
The hours and a pleasant breeze through open windows have dissipated the air freshener's aroma. When I poke my nose into the book's gutter this time, I smell nothing offensive; a week ago, my eyes crossed, and Phoebe left the room. The book will stand where it is overnight. There will be another sniff test tomorrow. Chances are, the book will be refreshed, ready for a new home. If the awful musty smell has begun to recur, back the book will go, and Buzet will shelter it until we get lasting improvement. It's a method I've used for more than a decade; it has yet to fail.
Everyone who has books that smell bad can have a Buzet. It can, of course, be a receptacle without a name. In brief, it should be clean, dry, close-fitting if not necessarily airtight, as commodious as your smelly books require to be housed comfortably. A solid air freshener is just one of the scent-affecters that can do the job. It's a low-tech, low-cost, environmentally acceptable method. Add patience, and it works. It's evidence that technique need not be an obstacle to giving books basic care, and destinking is just one of the basics. It's certainly my pets' peeve because I've noticed over the years how dogs often react to books that smell bad. If you don't destink your books for yourself, do it for your animal friends.
The main obstacle to most book care, I'm convinced, is attitude. "I don't know how" and "I don't have time" can be rendered meaningless.
Before I learned technique, I learned attitude. Without an attitude that encouraged ("I can do this!") and focused on results ("what an improvement!"), for me the constant need to help books smell better would become onerous, at best a bore. Personifying a carton helps me follow through with a task that might otherwise never get crossed off book life's endless to-do list.
Maybe I'll go out and buy a bottle of Buzet's wine. A toast in his honor, and to all life's helpful cartons, sounds like a very good idea.
Next time: My Sock Drawer and Yours: The Book Connection
On our walk we had reviewed our plans for the day. Top of the list was to check in with our colleague Buzet. We consult with Buzet almost every day. We couldn't run a bookshop or maintain our personal library without Buzet.
Buzet is indispensable to us, and always nearby. Phoebe's official book business perch is beneath one desk; Buzet's, under another. We're a happy family business.
Buzet and Phoebe have more in common than workday propinquity. Both came to me by wonderful chance, and when I needed them desperately. I have Dachshund Rescue to thank for Phoebe, and a generous man at a nearby wine shop for Buzet's presence on the team.
Phoebe came from Brooklyn; Buzet, all the way from France, from the historic Lot et Garonne region of the scenic southwest, courtesy of Les Vignerons de Buzet.
I won't pretend that Buzet is not a carton, composed of strong cardboard with a discreet marbleized effect to a pale exterior, with more height than width, with a prominent coat of arms that still catches my eye every day, just as it did one fateful afternoon, about a week before I met Phoebe. "Recycling?" I asked, and pointed to Buzet, whose trajectory toward a heap of cartons undergoing disassembly halted, then reversed. "This is one great carton," said the man at the wine shop. I thanked him, and held out my arms to Buzet as I would just days later to Phoebe.
Buzet cuts a handsome figure under his desk. Buzet may indeed be a carton, but he is not idle.
I admit it: I think of Buzet as a guy. He does some of the heavy lifting at Dog Lovers Bookshop; he takes a load off my mind by improving the condition of inventory, which in turn contributes to customer satisfaction. Buzet does something I can't do without help. He destinks books. That's why most mornings Phoebe and I visit with Buzet and the fine old books in his care.
This morning we opened his top flaps, still sturdy after almost four years, folded open one of the archival-quality plastic bags inside, and extracted a book that has spent seven days confined with a solid air freshener. I closed Buzet, with thanks for his help, and Phoebe's, for she had come to my side to watch, her nose agile and eager. I opened the book, poked my nose into the gutter, and sensed improvement. So today I didn't return the book to the bag and the carton. I set the book open on a bookstand, and we got on with our day.
After Phoebe's midafternoon walk, it was time to sniff that book again.
The hours and a pleasant breeze through open windows have dissipated the air freshener's aroma. When I poke my nose into the book's gutter this time, I smell nothing offensive; a week ago, my eyes crossed, and Phoebe left the room. The book will stand where it is overnight. There will be another sniff test tomorrow. Chances are, the book will be refreshed, ready for a new home. If the awful musty smell has begun to recur, back the book will go, and Buzet will shelter it until we get lasting improvement. It's a method I've used for more than a decade; it has yet to fail.
Everyone who has books that smell bad can have a Buzet. It can, of course, be a receptacle without a name. In brief, it should be clean, dry, close-fitting if not necessarily airtight, as commodious as your smelly books require to be housed comfortably. A solid air freshener is just one of the scent-affecters that can do the job. It's a low-tech, low-cost, environmentally acceptable method. Add patience, and it works. It's evidence that technique need not be an obstacle to giving books basic care, and destinking is just one of the basics. It's certainly my pets' peeve because I've noticed over the years how dogs often react to books that smell bad. If you don't destink your books for yourself, do it for your animal friends.
The main obstacle to most book care, I'm convinced, is attitude. "I don't know how" and "I don't have time" can be rendered meaningless.
Before I learned technique, I learned attitude. Without an attitude that encouraged ("I can do this!") and focused on results ("what an improvement!"), for me the constant need to help books smell better would become onerous, at best a bore. Personifying a carton helps me follow through with a task that might otherwise never get crossed off book life's endless to-do list.
Maybe I'll go out and buy a bottle of Buzet's wine. A toast in his honor, and to all life's helpful cartons, sounds like a very good idea.
Next time: My Sock Drawer and Yours: The Book Connection
Thursday, July 23, 2009
A Head, a Tail, and a Spine
Books and dogs have so much in common. To start, just consider their physical form: A dog has a head, a tail, and a spine, and so does a book. That a book needs routine care may not be as obvious.
Dogs, of course, usually participate in their own care; they can all, to some extent, groom themselves. But books can't groom themselves; they need us: our intervention, our good intentions turned into actions. It was from a lifetime of caring for dogs that I learned how to take care of books. Sounds like just another chore, doesn't it? I think of it as a mission. You give the dog you love the best possible care, don't you? Learn to give the books you love a little attention, too, and they'll be better companions, whether they merely grace your shelves or curl up with you for a good read.
I know I'm not alone in equating books and dogs with happiness.
I've always been most content as a reader with a dog nestled under my arm; dogs, I believe, enhance my comprehension, and when a dog like my dear Phoebe enjoys being read to, the experiences is even more pleasant. As a writer, I've always done my best work with a dog at my feet. When I'm selling books, I'm at my most competent with a dog at my side. And when I'm cleaning and repairing a book that's had a bad accident, or suffers from age-related infirmities or neglect, it's the patience dogs have taught me that promotes a steady hand and positive results.
I think there's inspiration in books and dogs, considered as a unity, that deserves more credit. I know I rely on it daily.
In future posts (at least once a week), I'll tell you why I rely on that inspiration, with examples and ideas and dreams of a better world for books as well as dogs; practical advice on what you can do for books in your home, business, and community; and stories of the dogs with whom I've shared the realm of books. I'll report on my upcoming book (a sequel to The Care and Feeding of Books Old and New: A Simple Repair Manual for Book Lovers) and other publications. And I'll share some of Phoebe's adventures, with highlights from a bookshop staff dog's daily journal.
Next time: All About Buzet
Dogs, of course, usually participate in their own care; they can all, to some extent, groom themselves. But books can't groom themselves; they need us: our intervention, our good intentions turned into actions. It was from a lifetime of caring for dogs that I learned how to take care of books. Sounds like just another chore, doesn't it? I think of it as a mission. You give the dog you love the best possible care, don't you? Learn to give the books you love a little attention, too, and they'll be better companions, whether they merely grace your shelves or curl up with you for a good read.
I know I'm not alone in equating books and dogs with happiness.
I've always been most content as a reader with a dog nestled under my arm; dogs, I believe, enhance my comprehension, and when a dog like my dear Phoebe enjoys being read to, the experiences is even more pleasant. As a writer, I've always done my best work with a dog at my feet. When I'm selling books, I'm at my most competent with a dog at my side. And when I'm cleaning and repairing a book that's had a bad accident, or suffers from age-related infirmities or neglect, it's the patience dogs have taught me that promotes a steady hand and positive results.
I think there's inspiration in books and dogs, considered as a unity, that deserves more credit. I know I rely on it daily.
In future posts (at least once a week), I'll tell you why I rely on that inspiration, with examples and ideas and dreams of a better world for books as well as dogs; practical advice on what you can do for books in your home, business, and community; and stories of the dogs with whom I've shared the realm of books. I'll report on my upcoming book (a sequel to The Care and Feeding of Books Old and New: A Simple Repair Manual for Book Lovers) and other publications. And I'll share some of Phoebe's adventures, with highlights from a bookshop staff dog's daily journal.
Next time: All About Buzet
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