My Bookstore

by Ronald Rice

  When I moved to Cambridge, our first apartment was two steps from the library’s main branch. Since we lived on a student’s budget, I resisted the bookstores in Harvard Square. Still, the waiting list at the Cambridge Public Library seemed endless, a testament to an active (and competitive) readership. I remember the thrill of the self-addressed, self-stamped postcard announcing that my request had reached the top of the queue. But I wanted to own the book, not be obliged to return it.

  Our next apartment was a manageable hike to Harvard Square. Having both jobs and brand-new bookcases to fill, we began to indulge ourselves for birthdays or the blahs. Back then, the Harvard Book Store boasted a window seat, ostensibly for children, with a sock monkey and a collection of well-thumbed Dr. Seusses. But if no kids lounged against the cushions, you could curl up with the new Anne Tyler and monitor the line for Bartley’s Burgers. We knew we’d achieved status as regulars when Frank Kramer, the owner, said hi.

  After a movie, we would head around the corner to WordsWorth Books, which stayed open until eleven. Though there was no cozy window seat—or even a single chair—no one bothered you if, sitting on the floor between aisles, you started a novel before the movie and returned to finish it afterward.

  On a rainy day, we’d wait out the weather flipping through magazines at Reading International. John, behind his desk, didn’t seem to mind our indiscriminate perusal of both People and Ploughshares. When guests appeared, Reading International was where we rendezvoused. From the large front windows, we could spot our visitors bounding down Brattle Street while we caught up on poetry and celebrity.

  Such indie havens, alas, did not survive. All too soon the volumes on the shelves thinned. The piles flattened. The once narrow aisles widened and emptied. “Oh, no,” my husband and I whispered. WordsWorth closed. Reading International became a health food shop, then an American Apparel. Barnes & Noble took over the Coop. The Harvard Book Store, its window seat sacrificed for more display, was the lone voice crying out in the increasingly book-pruned wilderness.

  Soon enough, we moved again. Though we were not far from a firehouse, a gas station, a Chinese restaurant, a psychic, a soda shop, our most valued public utility was missing; we had planted ourselves in bookstore-bereft territory. Though not for long. When, in 2004, Porter Square Books opened a five-minute walk away, we uncorked the Champagne. We cheered. We danced. “Now that we have our own literary refuge, we never again have to trudge to Harvard Square,” my friend Steve pointed out. What a plus for our neighborhood. What a boon for local writers. Our books festoon Porter Square Books’ windows. Our launches in the store’s well-lighted room are celebrated with wine and cheese. The attached café is a meeting place and community center. We bump into our neighbors in the aisles and by the latte machine. On stools tucked under counters, writers pound their laptops, revise paragraphs, share book-jacket JPEGs.

  And, oh, the staff! Knowledgeable, funny, smart, they sprint halfway across the store to find the volume that you’ve missed or to recommend a treasure you shouldn’t miss. What’s more, sometimes they take you into that back room where the galleys are stored and where, with a sweeping gesture, they pronounce the magic words Help yourself. They are our bookstore family, our private book club. Carol advises us on children’s lit; Ellen plans upcoming author appearances and joins us for her coffee break. We laugh with Josh and Gary, chat with the two Janes and Dale, gossip with Nathan. We bring children and grandchildren and houseguests. In the evenings, we attend bookstore events. Almost every night there seems to be yet another wonderful writer standing behind the podium. We arrive early, get a coffee, find a seat. Later, we skip home, enlightened, entertained, challenged, and more often than not, with a crisp, new, just-signed book under our arm. Recently, our own son traveled across the country to launch his first book inside these doors, in front of these shelves, in this place that, to all of us, feels so much like home.

  After a lonely morning of writing, I call a neighbor. “Want to take a walk?” I ask. “Sure,” she says, knowing that what I’m saying is let’s head for the bookstore.

  Porter Square Books is our Café de Flore, our Les Deux Magots. We linger at the outdoor tables. We keep our biscotti away from pristine pages. We make impulse purchases and place advance orders. The shelves and aisles, card racks, and benches are as familiar to us as our own rooms. Every so often an email pings—Haven’t seen you for a while, Ellen will point out. Nathan will write, Coming tonight? It’s going to be good.

  It is good. That Porter Square Books not only endures but also flourishes is the gift that keeps on giving. No Kindle or Amazon or national chain will ever substitute for this place where everybody knows your name. We shop local. We are local. We’re proud to call ourselves regulars.

  MAMEVE MEDWED is the author of five novels: Mail, Host Family, The End of an Error, How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved My Life, and Of Men and Their Mothers. Her essays and reviews have appeared in, among others, The New York Times, The Boston Globe, The Washington Post, Gourmet, and Redbook.

  Wendell and Florence Minor

  The Hickory Stick Bookshop, WASHINGTON DEPOT, CONNECTICUT

  Wendell’s View

  Try to imagine the perfect independent bookshop in one of the most beautiful little towns in America. Perhaps you could imagine a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover depicting a busy weekend in a small village center, and the focus in Mr. Rockwell’s composition would be people arriving at the town’s bookshop for a signing by their favorite author. That bookshop would definitely be the Hickory Stick!

  The Hickory Stick has been the center and anchor of Washington Depot, Connecticut, for more than sixty years. For all of its long history, it has had only four owners, and the current owner is the incredible Fran Keilty. If ever there was the perfect owner and book person, it is none other than Fran. In this digital age of constant change, independent bookstores across America have been challenged to adapt and remain viable for their customers. Thanks to Fran Keilty, the Hickory Stick not only continues to amaze in its ability to remain relevant, but continues to serve the community better than ever.

  These kudos may seem a bit much if you haven’t had the opportunity to visit the Hickory. As an author/illustrator team, Florence and I have done countless book signings at independent bookstores across the country. None have ever been better than those at the Hickory Stick. Fran and her wonderful staff make every effort to promote and advertise all of their author and illustrator appearances. The Litchfield Hills have been blessed with an abundance of creative talent, with writers of all stripes and numerous children’s-book authors and illustrators. And what history! Famous authors who have topped the list of signings at the Hickory are Tom Brokaw, Frank Delaney, Francine du Plessix Gray, Ann Hodgman, Ann Leary, Frank McCourt, Dani Shapiro, and Rose Styron, and the list goes on. Authors from outside Litchfield County who have done signings at the Hickory are Mary Higgins Clark, Jean Craighead George, Bruce McCall, William Martin, and Stuart Woods, to name but a few.

  Local children’s-book authors and illustrators, such as Barry Blitt, Kinuko Craft, Mercer Mayer, Marilyn Singer, Lane Smith, Nancy Tafuri, and Mo Willems, among others, have the good fortune to be represented in the Hickory’s terrific children’s-book section and have all had many well-attended, successful book signings there.

  Florence’s View

  Fran is that very rare combination of professional bookseller and warm and engaging friend who immediately makes you feel at home at the Hickory and creates an atmosphere that makes a visit to the store the kind of experience you want to repeat again and again. She and her knowledgeable and friendly staff help you find any book you are looking for, promptly order it if it is not in stock, and also recommend other books in the same vein that might be of interest.

  Her outreach in the community is widely known and respected, and Wendell and I cannot count the number of times that Fran has graciously (often with her husband, Michael Keilty) provided books for signings in con
junction with various appearances off-site: at area schools, libraries, galleries, etc. Books are obviously the mainstay, but knowing that we can find cards and gifts as well, seven days a week, is an added bonus. And at holiday time, the Hickory outdoes itself. Each December, the town of Washington designates one night as “Holiday in the Depot.” It is a festive time when all the stores remain open through the evening, providing people an opportunity to shop for the holidays while enjoying the companionship of friends and neighbors. On that evening, the Hickory Stick provides generous amounts of warmth and good cheer, serving eggnog, cookies, and music, presided over by Michael. It is a family affair and one more way in which the Hickory is an integral part of the family of Washington.

  Being in the Hickory Stick is, for me, a bit like being the proverbial kid in a candy store. I cannot begin to imagine living in a town that does not have a bookstore, and Wendell and I feel so very fortunate that, having left New York, we find ourselves living in a town that is not only uniquely beautiful but also home to the uniquely wonderful Hickory Stick, which exemplifies everything a bookstore should be… and then some.

  Our View into the Future

  We often hear the term “bricks-and-mortar stores” used as if such stores have been relegated to the dustbin of history. Who needs an old-fashioned bookshop when it’s so easy to shop in cyberspace? The more our culture becomes disconnected by the age of “instant digital communication,” the more we feel the loss of the personal, the human-contact experience. Many of us are beginning to realize what a great loss it would be not to have a place like the Hickory Stick. The use of mobile reading devices has become a fact of modern life, and they certainly have their place.

  But we believe that the book as a tactile object with beautiful graphics, binding, color, and deckle-edged paper will be with us for some time to come. A bookstore like the Hickory Stick is also a thing of beauty to behold, with its intelligent, friendly staff and a wonderful display of inviting books of all kinds. The bricks-and-mortar bookstore continues to be an irreplaceable part of what makes life better for us all. We can’t image a world without our beloved Hickory Stick.

  WENDELL MINOR has illustrated more than 50 award-winning picture books for children, including The Seashore Book by Charlotte Zolotow; numerous books about the outdoors, most recently The Eagles Are Back with Newbery Medal–winning author Jean Craighead George; and New York Times best sellers Reaching for the Moon by Buzz Aldrin and Ghost Ship by Mary Higgins Clark.

  FLORENCE MINOR is a former film editor for ABC news and the coeditor of Wendell Minor: Art for the Written Word. She currently collaborates with her husband, Wendell, on picture books, among them If You Were a Penguin, which was selected as Pennsylvania’s choice for its “One Book, Every Young Child” program in 2009, and If You Were a Panda Bear.

  WENDELL AND FLORENCE are dedicated to creating books that will entertain, teach, and inspire children. They live in Connecticut with their two cats, Sofie and Cinder, and you can visit them at www.minorart.com or at the Minor Art fan page on Facebook.

  Barry Moser

  Lemuria, JACKSON, MISSISSIPPI

  I would be most content if my children grew up to be the kind of people who think decorating consists mostly of building enough bookshelves.

  —Anna Quindlen

  A few years ago I was writing a speech and wanted to quote a line that Lt. Col. “Bull” Meacham says in the film The Great Santini. I had not read Pat Conroy’s book at that time and wanted to know that what I was about to quote was in the book, not just in the movie. Now understand that I live in one of the most bookish places in the country, home to Smith College, Amherst College, Hampshire College, Mt. Holyoke College, and the main campus of the University of Massachusetts, all within ten miles of each other. But when I started looking around the area for a copy of Conroy’s book, I couldn’t find one. Nary a single copy was in any bookstore—new or used, big box or independent—in the valley. So I decided to call John Evans. John owns one of the finest bookstores in America: Lemuria Books in Jackson, Mississippi, which specializes in books by Southern writers and all manner of things Southern. I called Johnny and asked if he had a copy. His response?

  “Yeah, Barry, sure I do. You want it in paperback, hardback, or signed first edition?”

  This kind of response you don’t get from Books-a-Million or any big-box chain bookstores, much less from an online behemoth like Amazon. This manner of service is strictly the domain of the independent bookseller.

  I’ve known Johnny for a long time now. We met at an American Booksellers Association party in Dallas, Texas, in 1983, the year my newly illustrated edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was published. He asked me to sign a poster for his daughter Saramel. I am something of a collector of names and this was a new one for me, so I signed it “For Saramel.” Johnny went his way, probably to the closest bar, as did I, probably to a different bar.

  Two years later ABA was in San Francisco and Johnny and I ran into each other again, this time on the marble staircase of one of the city’s municipal buildings. There was a big party under way and some loud jazz was playing. We had not been in contact since Dallas and when I asked about Saramel, Johnny was surprised and impressed that I remembered her name two years later. We talked for a while and during the conversation I told him, over the loud jazz, that I had just finished reading a book written by a neighbor of his, and that I felt it was one of the most influential books I’d ever read.

  “What book is that?” he asked.

  “Eudora Welty’s One Writer’s Beginnings,” I replied.

  “Oh. Oh.” Johnny said excitedly. “She’s a big fan of your work!”

  I looked behind me to see who he was talking to, certain that he surely must have been talking to somebody other than me. But he was, in fact, talking to me. I said, “What? You kidding me?”

  “No,” he said. “She loves your Huckleberry Finn. I’m going to have to get you two together. Do a project or something.”

  A year or so later I flew down to Jackson, Mississippi. True to his word, he introduced us. It was a sunny afternoon and Miss Welty welcomed us into her home with the graciousness you might imagine. We stayed a good part of the afternoon, enough time to put away a good bit of some bourbon whiskey I brought Miss Welty as a present. It was also enough time for us to lay down some preliminary plans for a collaboration: the Pennyroyal Press edition of The Robber Bridegroom, which we published in 1987.

  From then on Lemuria was always on the itinerary when I went on the road to promote a new book—that is, until my publishers stopped spending the money to send me on tour. But until that happened I always had Lemuria scheduled—and scheduled last. In case you don’t know, Johnny Evans has a soft spot for good bourbon whiskey, as do I. In fact, I am fairly sure that we might just enjoy it a tad too much, and that’s why I always want to end my travels in Jackson so that all I’ll have to do in my hurt state is to go home. Nobody wants to promote a book while nursing a two-day hangover.

  Johnny and his wife, Mel, and I became friends, good friends. I saw little Saramel grow up to be a fine young woman with a bent toward the arts, and I saw Austin, Saramel’s little brother, grow up to be a strapping young man who, with business partner Richard Patrick, makes some mighty fine (and legal) Cathead vodka over in Gluckstadt, Mississippi. That makes his daddy proud. Me too.

  John introduced me to Willie Morris, too. I think that was in 1994. And that introduction led to yet another collaboration. At that time Johnny was coaching the North Jackson Little League team. Young Austin Evans was on the team. Johnny had been after Willie for some time to write a prayer for the opening of the Little League season, but Willie had not been forthcoming, and I am fairly certain that the delay was not a result of Willie’s respect for federal laws prohibiting public displays of religion. I think it may have been that it was going to be the last season Johnny was going to be coaching, but regardless, Willie finally wrote the prayer. Johnny was very happy with it and
sent it on for me to read. I liked it too and showed it to my business partner, Jeff Dwyer, who immediately recognized it as a book for kids… or, more likely, for the parents and grandparents of Little Leaguers. We pitched the idea to Ruben Pfeffer at Harcourt Brace, and he bought it (Ruben himself was a Little League coach).

  I set about designing A Prayer for the Opening of the Little League Season and doing sketches. To do the sketches properly and accurately, I, of course, had to fly down to Jackson to attend practices and games, photographing the field, the equipment, the players, the grandparents, the coaches, the umpires, and Mr. Morris his ownself. When I got the book laid out and some of the sketches in place, it was four pages too short to make a proper thirty-two-page picture book—despite my having put in as many functional extra pages as I could think up. So I called Willie and asked him if he would be amenable to writing one more verse to take up the slack, and he said that he’d be happy to. He asked me if I had something particular in mind. I said something like: “Yeah. You know, Willie, I tried to play baseball when I was a kid. But I didn’t know that I needed glasses to see, so I never connected with a single pitch. Not one. I might have been the only kid in the history of the game who had a zero batting average.” Willie thought this was funnier than hell and thus he wrote the extra verse: