Busman's Holiday, Part 4: Mesa Verde

When I was a kid, it seemed that all the kids in my class got to a) eat enchiladas every Wednesday at the S-Site cafeteria and b) go to Mesa Verde National Park. The Hansons seemed to go regularly, and the kids at school would say, "Oh, we went to Mesa Verde for the weekend." "We camped at Mesa Verde." "We always go to Mesa Verde."

I never ate at the S-Site Cafeteria until I a team leader at the lab, and I had never been to Mesa Verde. But on our way back home from Salt Lake City, we stopped and visited Mesa Verde National Park. Woo-HOO!

The Spruce Tree House is visible from the visitors' center, and you can tour the ruins without a guide.

The Cliff Palace, on the other hand, is off limits unless you have a ticket for a guided tour with a ranger.

People tossed coins onto a ledge by the Cliff Palace. Maybe they were making wishes.

"I wish I will stay on solid ground and not fall into the canyon."

It was hard to bring in the groceries at the Cliff Palace.

You can see the results of two lightning-caused fires from 2000.

I just liked this.

Nature bats last.

Busman's Holiday, Part 3: Southern Utah

John Steinbeck, in Travels with Charley, said that Yellowstone National Park is "a wonderland of nature gone nuts." So is southern Utah. Click on an image to enlarge it.

Church Rock, north of Monticello, Utah, features three divisions of Entrada sandstone: the uppermost Moab tongue caps a thick Slickrock member, with the Dewey Bridge member as the base.

We spent a day at Arches National Park. According to an "artist in the park," whom Michele characterized as "a bumptious lass," a photograph of the Three Gossips is a requirement of all who enter. We did not want to be arrested or sent home, so we took a picture.

Michele and Frankey enjoyed the scenery.

Here's an arch in the making.

A balanced rock.

Sandstone formations with the La Sal Mountains in the background.

A Shoe and Kev Special.

One of more than 2000 arches in the park.

More arches. Click to enlarge and see the people.

Delicate Arch is the most famous formation in the park. We couldn't go on the trail to it with Frankey, so we just enjoyed the view from below.

A cliff wall and desert varnish at Park Avenue.

Busman's Holiday, Part 2: Traveling with Frankey

Traveling with Frankey can be fraught with excitement. She's an enthusiastic, bouncing passenger. She can lower the rear windows by stepping on the window buttons, which is a real heart-stopper if you're driving over Glorieta Pass at 75 mph. She can also activate the hazard lights when you drive down Central Avenue; the flashing lights tend to alarm the pedestrians and alert members of the LAPD, who eat downtown to sustain the slender thread of life. And she can knock the car out of gear when you're backing out of the driveway.

However, having finally shed the shackles of reason, we decided that it would be a good idea to take her on the road trip to Utah. To keep her safe in the back seat, I bought her a harness that buckles around her; just feed the seatbelt through a loop on the harness and latch it, and Frankey is confined to the back seat but can still see out the windows and comment on what's going on in the front seat. She rode in it very nicely from the pet store to home, a distance of a good 2 miles.

When we set out for Utah, we didn't use the harness. In Española, she decided that sitting on Michele's lap would afford her a better view, not to mention a closer barking proximity to large trucks and motorcycles, all drivers of which are known to be packing heat. Once we reached highway speeds on the way to Chama, she calmed down, things were peaceful once again, and our ears stopped ringing. Until a motorcyclist appeared behind us and followed us into Abiquiu. Frankey stood on the back seat and barked through the rear window until the cyclist passed us.

Dogs prefer to ride shotgun.

When we got to Chama and switched drivers, I told Michele that for safety's sake and the sake of our sanity and hearing, I was going to put Frankey in the harness. As Michele pulled out of the parking lot at the visitors center and headed west toward Pagosa Springs, Frankey joined me in the front seat. Our little Houdoggi had slipped out of the harness within seconds.

From then on, she was free to move about the cabin. She was pretty quiet on the highways, but whenever we slowed to go through a town, she came into the front seat and sat on the passenger, or stood on the center console, one foot on the driver's shoulder, and peered intently ahead. When we left Cortez, Colorado, on the way home, she fell asleep with her head on Michele's shoulder. That was really cute.

A travel break at Dove Creek, the Bean Capital of Colorado

We took nice walks every morning and evening, and most of the shops we visited were dog friendly. Maria's Bookshop in Durango had cookies for their dog visitors, and Frankey got lots of pets from the staff of The King's English in Salt Lake City.

Frankey enjoyed the broad streets and sidewalks of Salt Lake City and the grassy spots around downtown. She didn't bark at the trucks on the street—unless they were near our hotel, in which case they were intruders and needed to be warned off. She barked at only one person, a street guy who was teasing her.

Frankey liked the pet-friendly accommodations we booked. The Doubletree in Durango provides a water dish, mat, and bag of dog cookies, and the staff of the Hotel Monaco in Salt Lake City always greeted her warmly after our jaunts around town. She didn't seem to be bothered by noises outside and slept peacefully on her blankie every night.

The view from our room in Durango

Ike had always disliked elevators, but Frankey didn't mind them. We were on the 11th floor of the Hotel Monaco, and Frankey always stepped into the "zoom room" with no hesitation. When we got to our floor, she marched right down the hall to our room.

Frankey at the Hotel Monaco after a day of urban hiking

We visited Arches and Mesa Verde National Parks and obeyed the pet rules: dog on leash, clean up wastes, and go only where a car can go. Frankey really liked all the new smells, and we didn't feel constrained at all.

Mom iz not constrained. Mommie Shelbert iz not constrained. I iz constrained.

Now that we all understand how we travel, what we like to do, and where we like to sit, the three of us will take another road trip.

Busman's holiday: part 1

Every year we go to the annual conference of the Mountains and Plains Independent Booksellers Association and get together with our fellow booksellers to discuss business, exchange ideas, learn what's hot, and talk books. Every year we say that we're going to visit our colleagues' stores. And this year we did.

Last week Michele, Frankey, and I went on a busman's holiday to southern Colorado and Utah to visit Maria's Bookshop in Durango, Colorado; Arches Book Company in Moab, Utah; and Sam Weller's Bookstore, The King's English Bookshop, and Ken Sanders Rare Books in Salt Lake City, Utah.

The wonderful thing about independent bookstores is that they reflect the spirit and interests of their area. You won't see the homogenized, strip-mined selections that you find in the big chains. Instead, you'll find a carefully curated selection of general books and specialties, and attentive staff members who actually read. And you'll probably come home with a carload of books you didn't know about that some passionate booksellers recommended to you. (So Sophie was resting on the axle on the way home. Big deal. That's why we got the heavy-duty suspension.)

Maria's, for example, features books on railroadiana and regional archaeology, history, and culture. If you want everything Edward Abbey, guides to the gnarly activities in southeastern Utah, geology of the Colorado Plateau, and Native cultures, the Arches Book Company is your store. Sam Weller's has purt neart everything; Shoe and Kev would love the bottom floor, which is filled with maps and geology books, including rare and out-of-print books. You want Mormon history? They have more Mormon history than I ever imagined. The King's English is passionate about their local and regional authors. At Anne's recommendation, I got a copy of Curious Masonry: Three Translations from the Anglo-Saxon by Christopher Patton; it's a gorgeous little book with an embossed cover and the text, in Anglo-Saxon and modern English on facing pages, printed on laid paper. And at Ken Sanders Rare Books, I unearthed a first edition of Witter Bynner's Grenstone Poems with his bookplate, which was designed by Kahlil Gibran.

Coming next: Traveling with Frankey, or How Did She Slip out of Her Harness? I Thought She Was Fastened to the Seatbelt

"That is not what I meant at all. / That is not it, at all."

When I was teaching, I assigned a weekly essay on a specific topic in each of my classes, and the most common complaint from the students was, "I can't think of anything to write about!"

I'd suggest A. "No," the student would say, "I don't know anything about A."

How about B? "No, I hate B."

C? "I've written about C a million times. I'm bored with C."

After about 15 minutes of offering suggestions that the student dismissed, I'd give up. The lack of a subject for writing then became my problem, because I wasn't creative enough to think of a perfect, interesting, inspiring subject for the kid.

And so it is with bookselling. Only worse. Instead of a single topic in expository writing, I'm faced with millions of books--and the loonies.

Earlier this week a customer came in and bought a book. Before she left, she told the staffer that she wanted to talk with the owner.

"Hi, I'm P-doobie, the owner," I said. "How may I help you?"

"Do you read U. S. News and World Report?" she asked. I told her I didn't. "Well, you should," she replied. I asked her why. "I'm not going to tell you, because you should already know. You should just buy a copy and find out." I thanked her warmly for the tip and started to go back to the office. She said, "You should read it because it has those lists of books."

I turned back. "A best-seller list?"

"Yes. You should have a best-seller list." She was standing in front of the best-seller shelves.

I said, "We do have a best-seller list, and it's published every Thursday in the Monitor. And here," I said gesturing to the books, "are the best-sellers in independent bookstores throughout the country."

She said, "I know that. I don't like those books [gesturing at the shelves], and there's nothing on the Monitor list that I want to read. Too sciencey."

"We also publish a monthly best-seller list in our email newsletter. Would you like to subscribe?" I asked.

"No," she said. "I hate email, and I don't want your list. I want a list like the one in U. S. News and World Report."

"What makes it different and special to you?" I asked.

"I'm not going to tell you. You should just buy a copy and find out for yourself."

I thanked her again and turned to head back to the office.

"It has a list of books and one line about each one."

I returned to the counter and said, "When someone on our staff reads a book they like, they write a note about it and put the note in the book. See?" I showed her many of the best-sellers and all the staff-picks section with shelf-talkers.

"I don't want to read those," she said. "They're too long. I don't want to read a lot."

"'Looks like war, Miss Scarlett.' 'Fiddle-dee-dee!' 'BOOM!' Now this is Gone with the Wind as it should have been written!"

Ina—and a new loonie!

Ina came in recently to announce that due to popular demand she is working on a sequel to her most popular novel. This time, she said, she's going to include epigraphs for each chapter not only from her favorite author but also from contemporary authors. But there's a problem. She doesn't know whether she has to get permission from the authors to include quotations from their books in her book. "Will you research copyright law for me and let me know what I can and can't quote?" she asked. I said, "No."

She is also shopping around for a producer for a film version of her most popular novel and has posted fliers with those little tabs with her phone number on them. I don't think that most film producers go looking in the local bank for ideas, but you never know.

*****

Pierce, a new loonie, is a playwright I've mentioned before and a major pinch-penny. He called to ask whether there were any books of humor, jokes, or anecdotes about things nuclear or atomic. I scrounged around and told him that most of what I found was political cartoons and The Far Side, but there didn't seem to be any specific book devoted specifically to atomic yocks. (I half-expected him to say, "Will you write one for me?") I suggested that he go online and do a Google search. He said that he already done that and got hundred of thousands of results, but he didn't want to sift through them, nor did he want to browse through books in search of atomic prosechuckles. And, he said, he certainly doesn't want to pay anyone do it for him. It appears that his project may die aborning.

The escape of Prince the Bulldog

When we were kids, a family (let's call them the Smiths) moved into the quad across the street. Rumor had it that they chose the unit because it was next to the canyon, where they could let their vicious German Shepherd dogs run loose. The rumor proved groundless, and the dogs remained in the yard.

There were three kids, all of playmate age, so that was cool. The father was a mostly quiet man. The mother was more flamboyant, wearing a down parka even in the summer, sporting a hairstyle that should have been hanging from an Indian's belt, and favoring virulent shades of lipstick, which she applied by the impasto technique so that her lips always looked like a crimson sectional sofa.

After a few years they got a bulldog, which they named Prince. Prince used the front yard, because, Mrs. Smith said, he would attack the other dogs in the back yard and slaughter them. In addition to his purported killer instinct, Prince had another quirk: he would not, as Mom used to say, "do him's numbers" unless someone were there with him to encourage him while he piddled.

It was no trouble to attend to Prince when the family was home, but what with jobs and school, the family was away from home for six or eight hours at a time. We read the stories of John Wayne and Elvis Presley having 40-60 pounds of impacted fecal matter in their colons at their deaths. Although these stories are only rumors, they are nevertheless cautionary tales: colorectal health is as important to dogs as it is to humans. And so Mrs. Smith's father was enlisted to doggysit Prince during the day and make sure he did him's numbers.

Thus it was that on the afternoon of September 29, 1981, while I was living with Mom and searching for a job, I heard a thin, high voice crying, ^{"Pree-ince! Pree-ince!"} Perhaps the grandfather left the gate open. Perhaps the screen didn't close securely. Maybe the grandfather looked the other way. But the truth was inescapable: Prince had hightailed it.

I went outside to pretend to read.

Soon Mrs. Smith roared to the curb in a spray of gravel and raced into the house. From the lawn, where I was "reading," I could hear her muffled sobs. And then the screen door slammed, and Mrs. Smith strode up the service road toward Burnt Mountain, followed by her father, who called, ^{"Pree-ince! Pree-ince!"} Mrs. Smith's sobs were no longer muffled but deep, throaty, throbbing, like "Vesti la giubba" sung by a Russian liturgical bass. "We have to find him before nightfall," she wept. "Oh, I feel so helpless!" ^{"Pree-ince! Pree-ince!"}

After a brief, fruitless search of the woods, she cantered back down the service road, plunged into the house and called the cops. Then she slammed back outside, and she and her father continued calling the dog. "Here, Baby Bull! Come here, baby!" ^{"Pree-ince! Pree-ince!"}

The phone rang! Mrs. Smith hurled herself back into the house. Apparently she had some good tidings from Los Alamos's Finest. She and her father jumped into the car and drove down the street calling the dog. "Here, Baby Bull! Come here, baby!" ^{"Pree-ince! Pree-ince!"}

After a few minutes, they pulled onto the parking pad. Prince, who had apparently been visiting a friend down on 47th Street, was in the back seat. From inside the car, the guilt and recrimination began. What if Prince had been hit by a car? What if he were stolen? What if he attacked someone? What if he killed that dog he was playing with? What if Pete from the Pound had caught him? What if, God forbid, the coyotes or bears— No. It was too horrible to contemplate.

Mrs. Smith and her father got out of the car, and she began crying again. "I'm sick about all this! I'm just sick! I could have had a heart attack if anything happened to Baby Bull," she told her father. "Oh, this was a near-terrible tragedy!"

Her father offered a solution to prevent another near-terrible tragedy: ^{"Let's lock Pree-ince in the bedroom whenever I have to leave the house. It's better to have a messy floor than a missing dog."}

Mrs. Smith agreed. But it was time to get Prince back into the house. "Make sure his collar is tight," she told her father. "We don't want it to slip off." The father reached into the back seat to extract the dog. ^{"He won't come out! Pree-ince! Pree-ince! Come out!"}

Mrs. Smith roared, "Well, grab his collar and drag the little son-of-a-bitch out!"