Friday was my last day at home until Thanksgiving break. I had not seen my father all week. The Hall of Fame ate him and I was busy with appointments. After my dentist appointment, my father decided that before he took me to Albany airport to fly back to DC we would go on a book crawl through upstate New York.
And by book crawl, I really mean pit stop in Hobart, NY. It's this really small town that has about 5 booksellers within 5 miles of one another. All the other stores in town were closed. My father saw an add for it in some magazine and decided that the two of us should go. I had no problem with that. An afternoon in bookstores with my father. What could be better?
On the way there I was reading the brochure. It turned out that only one of the bookstores was open during the week. How booksellers manage to make a living by only being open on the weekends I'll never know. Lucky for us, the store that was open was the best of the bunch. It was called Bibliobarn and it was situated on a hillside overlooking a gorgeous valley. I was immediately struck by the silence of the area. No cars on the road, no people, nothing. Cooperstown may be a small village, but it's always busy. Even in the winter. One would think that snow would muffle sound. It doesn't. Cooperstown (even though it claims to be a quite, one stoplight town) is still a happening place. Tourists are a noisy bunch. Baseball teams with families and kids in tow take noise to another level.
This hillside, on the other hand, was remarkably quiet and calm. The only sounds I could here was the wind, footsteps on the gravel drive, and the the jolly "Hello" of the bookseller from inside.
The bookseller had renovated an old barn into a two story bookstore. It was packed from end to end and top to bottom with books on every subject, of every size and style. It was like sinking into a warm and soft easy chair; comfortable and familiar.
The bookseller was a man that one would be inclined to be wary of if they met him outside of this specific environment. He was thin and of normal height with long stringy white hair that reached half-way down his back. His thin, wire-framed glasses slipped to the end of his nose. His clothes were not dirty, but they were not pristine either. They hung on his frame, as if they were an afterthought. When the man walked he did so with a hunch. His stride should have been slow and laborious. Instead, the bookseller walked with determination and vigor. He looked happy that someone had taken there time to drive to upstate New York and dawdle in his store. He had a soft southern accent that reminded me of reading Gone With the Wind. When he talked he always said "we." I never learned who the other person was. I just assumed he was talking about the books.
The bookseller immediately asked where my father and I were from and how we found him.
Booksellers are always the same. Librarians and bibliophiles are always stereotyped as these quite, inner people who would rather be holed up with a book than drawn into an actual conversation. (Or, in the Hollywood standard, as mean spinsters with glasses and a pencil through their hair.) But I've never encountered a quite bookseller, bookworm, or librarian. In every instance, they're talkative, intelligent, and almost overly interested in the world around them. I think it's becase they (or should I say "we") read so much, we have so much to share. What's the point of having all this knowledge of the world and tales of adventure if we don't want to share it. It's almost impossible to silence a bookseller once they get on a roll. Let them know one thing about you or your interests and you'll have a tough time prying yourself out of a conversation.
This bookseller was no different. He wanted to help us find the genres we enjoyed. Then he wanted to tell us how he came to be located on a hillside in the middle of nowhere. I wish I had listened to his story, but I was drawn more the shelves upon shelves of books.
I could not quite figure out his shelving system (every bookseller has there own), but there really is no need for order in a used bookstore. I was surprised by the lack of books on the floor. Used book dealers are notorious for piling books on the floor, when they run out of room on the shelves. (Then again, when you have a mouse in resident, you probably don't want him chewing the merchandise.) The bookseller had genres I'd never heard of, along with others I could not pronounce. There were books published from as recently as 2005 to as far back as 1600. He had hardbacks, paperbacks, vellum covers, leather covers, sheet music, stamps, postcards, ephemera; I could go on.
He had chairs and cushioned window seats throughout the store that would be perfect to curl up in, book in hand. I don't see how anyone could sit in Bibliobarn; there was too much to look at. Each bookseller gives their domain a special touch. This one decided to post witty reference notes, cartoons, and book sayings around the barn. These touches were sprinkled every where. In every nook and cranny there was something to see; something to read.
While in the store, I ran into a dealer who often frequented Willis Monie's Used & Rare Books (the store I worked at during High School). We talked as we browsed before he realized that he had better leave before his pile took over the check-out counter. That's another similarity between booksellers. They'll only stop buying when they can no longer carry or pay for their stacks. And they always buy in stacks - not once have I seen a bookseller leave a store with only one book.
My father and I wandered around for about 2 hours. We could have stayed longer but the barn turned book heaven was hot, and we had other stores to go to. At the end of the day, I was still unable to figure out his shelving system, but I find joy in simply browsing and being surprised by the treasures I come across. That day I walked out with a novel set in ancient Rome (Gods and Legions), a book on a topic I've never read before (The Holy Grail), and a travel memoir (Bella Tuscany). I should have walked out of there with more, but I didn't have the money. And, the bookseller looked like he did not accept credit cards. There was no computer in the store, just an antique cashier's machine.
On our way out, the bookseller thanked us for stopping by. The aroma of the store lingered in the air as my father and I walked to the car, purchases in hand, slight smiles on our faces.
We ended up visiting two more of the local bookshop (that were - surprisingly - open), but none of them had the life that Bibliobarn and his proprietor held. We even stopped at a Barnes & Noble five minutes from the airport. B&Ns usually send my into shivers of ecstasy, but not that day. I had already found my bookstore for the day.
And by book crawl, I really mean pit stop in Hobart, NY. It's this really small town that has about 5 booksellers within 5 miles of one another. All the other stores in town were closed. My father saw an add for it in some magazine and decided that the two of us should go. I had no problem with that. An afternoon in bookstores with my father. What could be better?
On the way there I was reading the brochure. It turned out that only one of the bookstores was open during the week. How booksellers manage to make a living by only being open on the weekends I'll never know. Lucky for us, the store that was open was the best of the bunch. It was called Bibliobarn and it was situated on a hillside overlooking a gorgeous valley. I was immediately struck by the silence of the area. No cars on the road, no people, nothing. Cooperstown may be a small village, but it's always busy. Even in the winter. One would think that snow would muffle sound. It doesn't. Cooperstown (even though it claims to be a quite, one stoplight town) is still a happening place. Tourists are a noisy bunch. Baseball teams with families and kids in tow take noise to another level.
This hillside, on the other hand, was remarkably quiet and calm. The only sounds I could here was the wind, footsteps on the gravel drive, and the the jolly "Hello" of the bookseller from inside.
The bookseller had renovated an old barn into a two story bookstore. It was packed from end to end and top to bottom with books on every subject, of every size and style. It was like sinking into a warm and soft easy chair; comfortable and familiar.
The bookseller was a man that one would be inclined to be wary of if they met him outside of this specific environment. He was thin and of normal height with long stringy white hair that reached half-way down his back. His thin, wire-framed glasses slipped to the end of his nose. His clothes were not dirty, but they were not pristine either. They hung on his frame, as if they were an afterthought. When the man walked he did so with a hunch. His stride should have been slow and laborious. Instead, the bookseller walked with determination and vigor. He looked happy that someone had taken there time to drive to upstate New York and dawdle in his store. He had a soft southern accent that reminded me of reading Gone With the Wind. When he talked he always said "we." I never learned who the other person was. I just assumed he was talking about the books.
The bookseller immediately asked where my father and I were from and how we found him.
Booksellers are always the same. Librarians and bibliophiles are always stereotyped as these quite, inner people who would rather be holed up with a book than drawn into an actual conversation. (Or, in the Hollywood standard, as mean spinsters with glasses and a pencil through their hair.) But I've never encountered a quite bookseller, bookworm, or librarian. In every instance, they're talkative, intelligent, and almost overly interested in the world around them. I think it's becase they (or should I say "we") read so much, we have so much to share. What's the point of having all this knowledge of the world and tales of adventure if we don't want to share it. It's almost impossible to silence a bookseller once they get on a roll. Let them know one thing about you or your interests and you'll have a tough time prying yourself out of a conversation.
This bookseller was no different. He wanted to help us find the genres we enjoyed. Then he wanted to tell us how he came to be located on a hillside in the middle of nowhere. I wish I had listened to his story, but I was drawn more the shelves upon shelves of books.
I could not quite figure out his shelving system (every bookseller has there own), but there really is no need for order in a used bookstore. I was surprised by the lack of books on the floor. Used book dealers are notorious for piling books on the floor, when they run out of room on the shelves. (Then again, when you have a mouse in resident, you probably don't want him chewing the merchandise.) The bookseller had genres I'd never heard of, along with others I could not pronounce. There were books published from as recently as 2005 to as far back as 1600. He had hardbacks, paperbacks, vellum covers, leather covers, sheet music, stamps, postcards, ephemera; I could go on.
He had chairs and cushioned window seats throughout the store that would be perfect to curl up in, book in hand. I don't see how anyone could sit in Bibliobarn; there was too much to look at. Each bookseller gives their domain a special touch. This one decided to post witty reference notes, cartoons, and book sayings around the barn. These touches were sprinkled every where. In every nook and cranny there was something to see; something to read.
While in the store, I ran into a dealer who often frequented Willis Monie's Used & Rare Books (the store I worked at during High School). We talked as we browsed before he realized that he had better leave before his pile took over the check-out counter. That's another similarity between booksellers. They'll only stop buying when they can no longer carry or pay for their stacks. And they always buy in stacks - not once have I seen a bookseller leave a store with only one book.
My father and I wandered around for about 2 hours. We could have stayed longer but the barn turned book heaven was hot, and we had other stores to go to. At the end of the day, I was still unable to figure out his shelving system, but I find joy in simply browsing and being surprised by the treasures I come across. That day I walked out with a novel set in ancient Rome (Gods and Legions), a book on a topic I've never read before (The Holy Grail), and a travel memoir (Bella Tuscany). I should have walked out of there with more, but I didn't have the money. And, the bookseller looked like he did not accept credit cards. There was no computer in the store, just an antique cashier's machine.
On our way out, the bookseller thanked us for stopping by. The aroma of the store lingered in the air as my father and I walked to the car, purchases in hand, slight smiles on our faces.
We ended up visiting two more of the local bookshop (that were - surprisingly - open), but none of them had the life that Bibliobarn and his proprietor held. We even stopped at a Barnes & Noble five minutes from the airport. B&Ns usually send my into shivers of ecstasy, but not that day. I had already found my bookstore for the day.
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