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Category: Non-Fiction

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Bookshop Memories: A Novel Idea – Lincoln, Nebraska

A Novel Idea – Lincoln, NE

A Novel Idea opened in the early 1990s downtown, closer to the University of Nebraska’s campus than most of the other used bookstores in town. Downtown Lincoln was changing. It was becoming a destination for people who had moved to the suburbs a generation earlier. It was gentrifying. However, this area closest to the university has long been filled with various commercial enterprises. Bars thrived, of course, but now other smaller shops were opening. Even little shops you could generously describe as boutiques. A Novel Idea seems to have been established when increased pedestrian traffic began to grow, and not just on Nebraska football game days.

The shop featured at least one cat that I recall, except that it existed. I don’t remember the cat’s name. The workers were friendly, and I don’t know if I ever met the owners, but maybe those friendly smiles were from them. I didn’t go there often. It seemed more like a “standard used bookstore,” if that makes sense. Where you could find a book that is still in print, just cheaper than the original cover price. A good place to find a classic, not so much the strange and unexpected, for the book you could not conceive of existing. It was a good place to check if you had a specific book you were looking for. They did not seem to specialize in anything in particular. They did not keep a large stock of old books. 

The clientele also skewed younger than the other downtown shops, probably due to its proximity to the University of Nebraska’s main campus. So, it was a better place to find pretty, smart hippy girls who wore tank tops without bras and sometimes didn’t shave their armpits. If you were looking for such people in the ‘90s.

One of the other things I recall was that the older books were kept in the very low-ceilinged basement, and I can remember bumping my head pretty hard down there once. I may have even done it more than once. Also, the basement’s cement floor must be one of the waviest ever poured. I had worked on some paving crews around then and never could quite figure out what would make it like that.

About the Author: Benjamin L. Clark writes and works as a museum curator.

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Bookshop Memories: Bluestem Books, Lincoln, Nebraska

Bluestem Books – Lincoln, NE

Growing up in Lincoln, Nebraska, in the 1980s and ’90s, there was a bookshop in the scuzzier part of downtown in an old brick building, under a towering overpass that took you out to the interstate on the east side of town. It was a tiny corner of our modest town that felt like a much bigger city. There were pigeons. 

Bluestem Books was an institution by then. There were always cats around, and no one cared if you stayed and browsed or just sat and read for hours on end. Even as a teen doing his best grunge impression day in and out browsing the history, essays, and mystery sections. There was an old green chair in a little nook that was a coveted spot. People would circulate through the store, accidentally sneaking up on one another because there were virtually no open lines of sight because of the tight, full shelves. 

The building was also ancient, for Lincoln. The wavy glass in the drafty windows and crumbly brick gave the building a charming derelict feel it may have deserved. Doorways had been knocked through brick walls, giving the shop a rambling layout. The wood floors creaked dreadfully, though muffled under threadbare, faded rugs. Old cast iron pipes passed through here and there, their purposes unclear. Strange metal fittings studded the concrete vault ceilings in places. I wondered if portions of the bookshop had once served as a meat locker or some other weigh-station for once-living things headed out on the nearby rail lines. 

It was always warm in there. It probably had more to do with an old boiler heating system, but that was my recollection of it. Going there on an intensely cold day, howling winds that wanted to slam the door on you as you wrenched it open. The door may have been kept attached to the building with a long, old storm door spring to help it eventually snap shut. The spring sang a stretched-out springy twang and thwack back into the door as it closed. There was a faded, soiled note taped to the door with instructions on how to use the door. “Hold on tight on windy days,” or “Don’t let the door slam,” or something like that. 

Near that old green chair were a couple of short shelves dedicated to series like Everyman’s Library and The Modern Library — small vintage uniform editions of classics and some contemporary fiction, “contemporary” meaning 1920-1965 or so, arguably the heyday of such series. It was there that I saw the Modern Library series as a series — the recognizable books were a great size and affordable, and they looked cool on the shelf. Looking cool on the shelf is a virtue we don’t admit often enough as book lovers. 

I don’t remember if I bought any Modern Library books there that early … I may have. I never had a lot of money, but I sometimes had a job after school, so I had a little spending money in my teens. I don’t remember buying much there in my teenage years, really. But it felt good to be somewhere where I could buy books. 

After leaving Lincoln for college, I would try to come back whenever I was back in town. I’d bring friends sometimes but usually come alone. It was the kind of bookshop that in some ways was better to go alone. 

Reading one of the John Dunning biblio-mystery novels featuring his rare bookseller/ detective, Cliff Janeway, which takes place mostly around Denver, I sat upright one night where toward the end they mention Bluestem Books in Lincoln by name. My book world had been so insular, so much part of my niner life that it was strange to think this author had been there too and wrote about it, and it came into my hands. I took my battered paperback down to Scott at Bluestem and had him autograph it. He laughed and told me he’d had a few others, but not in a long time. 

Around 2000, they added a bookshop dog, who was a delightful addition, and quite a departure from the cats they had. A floofy friendly thing a little less broad than an ottoman and about as tall named Don Diego. I’m not a cat person, but I remember one cat named Thurber who had been awarded employee of the month for several months (and years) running. But then Diego was different. He was eventually awarded the title of Director of Customer Relations, a role to which he was perfectly suited. He was a Havanese, a breed of dog I had to look up later after I’d asked the owners about him. “He’s hypoallergenic!” they claimed. Don Diego’s grand-niece Maribel is now filling in since his retirement. 

Bluestem Books magnet featuring Havanese dog, Don Diego
Don Diego de la Bluestem. And the old address under the overpass.

Even by the mid-1990s, things were changing in downtown Lincoln’s western district, soon to be ubiquitously known as “The Haymarket.” The thrift stores and vacant storefronts that were home to the homeless and pigeons were beginning to change. Fresh brown paper went over the windows, and work trucks began to fill the alleyways. Eventually, it became Lincoln’s hotspot, to the betterment of local tax revenues, no doubt, but losing its seedy charm. 

Bluestem had to move too, eventually but managed to find a larger location not too far away, but it’ll always be the old building in the shade of an overpass I used to think was a meat-locker by the railroad tracks on the bad side of downtown that I’ll hold in my heart.  

About the Author: Benjamin L. Clark writes and works as a museum curator.

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Bookshop Memories: Barnes & Noble – Lincoln, Nebraska

Barnes & Noble – Lincoln, NE

When Barnes and Noble arrived in Lincoln, Nebraska, in the spring of 1994, they staked out a huge chunk of prime real estate right on “O” Street. It cleared a fiefdom from the car dealership that ran nearly uninterrupted for eight blocks on both sides of Lincoln’s main street. This giant new store was a big deal. Not only did they bring easy access to a cosmopolitan newsstand, but of course, that hallmark and highmark of modern western culture: Starbucks coffee. Finally, we could buy fancy, expensive coffee drinks and not have to go all the way downtown for the pleasure. And it was from a brand we had heard of on television. 

My Dad, who owns a small business, had rented a pleasant office nearby several years earlier on a bank building’s fourth floor. He was thrilled. Who knows how many hours he killed there during the week looking through car magazines, bringing home the occasional Hemmings Motor News or the aspirational DuPont Registry for us to get a glimpse into how wealthy people live. “This house has its own waterpark!” One night he came home with an espresso machine. It wasn’t one sold by Starbucks, I’m sure. However, we cannot doubt the inspiration for buying the contraption. This strange, exotic machine stayed in its box in the pantry for some time, though I don’t know why. Perhaps we were intimidated by it.

One day I was home playing hooky, sometime in the seventh grade, and I dug the machine out and plugged it in for the first time. By then, I was regularly drinking sweet milky coffee concoctions. It was time to learn about the real thing. I read the manual, opened the little packet of pre-ground, measured coffee pods, and let it rip. Soon, I was dissolving Werther’s Original candies to mix in. Italian branded flavored syrups had already appeared in our home to make Italian sodas, so the idea to sweeten it up wasn’t a new one. I had one waiting for Dad when he came home. I was lucky my head didn’t explode with what was probably a near-lethal amount of caffeine in my young body.

When Barnes & Noble came to town, going to the bookshop became less remarkable. In those years, the store was clean, cool, and bright—a respite in a hectic day, not a dive into some subject, writer, or experience. We were just going to grab a coffee, maybe browse a little and go.

Festooned with holiday decorations and a table of ladies ready to wrap gifts, I quickly made it my preferred place to buy gifts during the holidays. The big wood double doors, with the little panes of glass, swung easy and offered a warm welcome in the winter. The ladies were from some good society doing good works. Their wrapping paper was thick and subdued, and it was only a donation to have them quickly wrap up all these rectangles. I’ve never been great at wrapping gifts, so it was an easy choice. 

It was the ’90s, I was in high school, and I didn’t have much money to spend. So, another thing I loved at Barnes & Noble was that they carried Dover Thrift Editions. If you’re not familiar with this series of books, they are the absolute most cheaply produced paperback books of all time. And with our annual 14-hour drive each way to Michigan for Christmas at my Grandparents’ ahead of me and a weeklong stay with virtually no television and early bedtimes — it was a reading paradise. Yes, I could read our assigned books for school, but I already wanted to read other stuff. And the Dover Thrift copies of Treasure Island, Robinson Crusoe, and The Hound of the Baskervilles fit easily in my bookbag and only cost a dollar or maybe two each, at the most. B&N would even put them on sale for half-price, so $10 would buy a lot. It was almost as good as the used book sale in the mall’s basement each summer, but these books were *new*. 

The wallpaper graphic covers today give me a warm, Christmassy feeling, awakening memories of laying in the rollaway bed in my grandparents’ basement in northwestern Michigan, the little basement well-windows filled with snow diffusing morning daylight bright enough to read by. Grandma cooking a full breakfast upstairs and a few murmured Good Mornings meant the coffee pot was already on its second run. 

I didn’t own a lot of new books. Most of the books on my shelves were claimed from my parents’ shelves or bought at the used book sales put on by the retired teachers association. They had books as cheap as 10 cents back then. I could come away with a grocery stack about to split for a few dollars, stuffed with wonderful old Modern Library editions, the solid colored Penguin paperbacks, and anything else that struck my fancy. Writing that memory, in particular, makes me feel like when my grandfather would reminisce about going to the movies, buying a candy bar, taking the streetcar home, and leftover change still clanking in his pocket from the quarter his mother gave him for his outing. 

It feels strange to feel nostalgia for Barnes & Noble in the 1990s. Having the behemoth come to town felt like a declaration of war against the small independent shops. However, many of them were just fine in the end. The bookshops at the mall took the brunt of the blow — places like Walden Books and B. Dalton. At least that’s how it looked to a teenager in Lincoln, Nebraska. 

About the Author: Benjamin L. Clark writes and works as a museum curator.

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What is a Squib? A little newspaper history

Squib — That’s the word I spent a couple of days trying to find. So, what is a newspaper squib?

The word has a few meanings, and according to Webster’s I’m interested in the least meaningful meaning: “a short humorous or satiric writing or speech, a short news item; esp; FILLER.”

This week, while researching something else, I came upon a sort-of cartoon, but didn’t run as a cartoon as such, but was just … filler. What’s wonderful about being able to browse millions of pages of archival newspapers is the access, but there’s a downside — interpretation. I was curious if any scholarship or just collected thought had been put together around these smallest of memes (in the dictionary sense), but wasn’t sure what to call them to find anything. Often unsigned, there were many that seem to have been distributed by syndicates, and no doubt, some newspaper staff were capable of coming up with their own, as well.

A few examples:

MILITANT MARY — Arguably a single-panel comic, and not a squib, but the line of definition between them is hazy at best.
DAILY BIRTHDAY PARTY — “George Horton, the noted American diplomat, who has represented the interests of this country in Greece and Turkey for many years, and who is the author of a great number of very good books …”

“Dr. Samuel Johnson wrote his famous “Rasselas” in the evenings of a single week, to meet the expenses of his mother’s funeral.”
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Book Review: The Library Book by Susan Orlean

Cover of The Library Book by Susan Orlean

By Benjamin L. Clark

Cover of The Library Book by Susan Orlean
The Library Book by Susan Orlean

The Library Book by Susan Orlean — This book was on some great end-of-year lists last year and for good reason. I had it on my shelf for a while waiting for “someday,” and, well, someday came. It’s an amazing book. Is it very, very long-form journalism, is it popular history? A twist on True Crime? Where does that line even exist? It doesn’t matter. Deeply, passionately researched, this is a love story. Not simply to the beautiful Central Library in downtown Los Angeles, but to libraries everywhere, to the librarians who made and make them what they are, and most of all to the libraries of our hearts. 

Burning the Library

Los Angeles Public Library
Los Angeles Public Library, courtesy, California Historical Society, CHS2015.1897

The story of the 1986 fire that became one of the largest single-event losses of print culture in human history is the burning hoop that keeps this story together, fueled by the clear-eyed curiosity of Susan Orlean. Orlean is present in the story, but with so much uncertainty around the fire, and around the man who was arrested for it, her voice is the anchor readers need. Harry Peak was arrested for starting the fire, but not charged and eventually released has a slippery historical record, but a fascinating and in the end, sympathetic story. He died in 1993. Though the case remains unsolved, Orlean has done an incredible job taking the scraps and bits, talking to the right people who still remember important things, and puts it all together, not only cohesively and effectively, but in a touching and humane way.  

I’ve liked the L.A. Library for a long time, too. I’ve never been there or anything, but I like the architect who designed it, Bertram Goodhue. He also designed the capitol building of my home state of Nebraska. He is an interesting person as well, and his role isn’t ignored either. 

What Didn’t I Like?

Nothing. It was an incredible story well told. I’m sure Orlean could have filled four thick volumes of footnotes for all of it, but didn’t need to. I can see some readers may not see the point of going back to the L.A. Public Library’s very genesis, and down through the years along the way, but I found it fascinating! There are several other people who should have a lot more written about them! What we got was not enough! I kept hopping over to Wikipedia to look up more about individuals mentioned, looking for other connections. 

Reading Such A Book “In Times Like These”

“Under our current circumstances,” “in these unprecedented times,” whatever your preferred euphemism for sheltering at home during a novel virus pandemic that has already taken 300,000 lives worldwide, it’s a strange time to review a book at all. Especially one about a disaster. But I found this book to be strangely calming. Orlean brings order from an avalanche of charred, damp, broken bits. I also miss my local library. Also, as curator of a museum, I couldn’t help but feel encouraged — we’re going to be OK too. 

The book was also a balm for how open-ended our “current circumstances” are. The library fire burned for several hours, but the destruction and unanswered questions lasted for years. I can’t imagine working in the conditions the people there endured for so long. Would the library be rebuilt? Would the institution even survive? Could the city even afford to rebuild if there was political will to do so? Spoiler alert: In the end, the library was restored, expanded, and is thriving. 

Who Should Read It?

Bibliophiles of any stripe, anyone interested in the history of Los Angeles. Creative people, people pushing nostalgia for the 1980s. People facing disasters. Survivors. Culture vultures, architecture nerds, the bookish, the lonely, the weird kids. Friends of the Library, Museum, Symphony, Theater, whatever. It’s a great book and you should read it too.

Buy This Book From An Indie Bookshop

About the Author: Benjamin L. Clark writes and works as a museum curator.

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The bookseller that started Memorial Day

Civil War era token for Henry C. Welles, Druggist and Bookseller, Waterloo, New York

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Memorial Day was typically a fun holiday for me and mine. It usually meant cookouts and warm weather. These don’t always go together in Nebraska where I grew up. Every few years it would mean a sojourn out to the family cemetery to lay flowers on graves, almost entirely for relatives I never knew. I enjoyed the quiet graveyard by the little abandoned church and read the familiar names- names I had only heard in stories. I liked trying to find the oldest markers, trying to decipher the military markers, and always stopping to admire the stone featuring a detailed drawing and patent number awarded to my kin for some kind of stump grinding device.

What does Memorial Day have to do with books? Henry Carter Welles was a hyphen bookseller. Not another Barber-Bookseller, but a more common Druggist-Bookseller. Welles, born in 1821, was too old to serve during the Civil War. Sure, there are many, many recorded volunteers who were in their 40s, and beyond, but it was not the norm. However, Mr. Welles, like the rest of the nation, was certainly thinking about the war and how many boys from home never returned.

At a social gathering in the summer of 1865, Welles suggested that a day should be set aside to honor the dead of the Civil War. The next year, he repeated his suggestion to General John B. Murray. The two men and a group of local citizens gained the support of the village, and on May 5, 1866, the first complete observance of Memorial Day took place in Waterloo, NY.

On that day, civic societies joined the procession led by veterans marching to martial music to the three existing cemeteries. At each cemetery there were impressive and lengthy services including speeches by General Murray and a local clergyman. The ceremonies were repeated on May 5, 1867.

Henry C. Welles died in July 1868 but had lived long enough to see Memorial Day nationally proclaimed by General John Logan, the first commander of the Grand Army of the Republic. The GAR was the veteran’s organization for Union vets of the Civil War. This was General Order No. 11 establishing “Decoration Day” as it was then known. The date of the order was May 5, 1868, exactly two years after Waterloo’s first observance. That year Waterloo joined other communities in the nation by having their ceremony on May 30.

The Centennial Committee, formed in Waterloo, New York for the 100th observance in 1966, found old newspapers from the 1860s honoring Henry C. Welles, crediting him for suggesting the first Memorial Day. Until that time it was believed that General Murray started Decoration Day.

So, we have one more to remember this Memorial Day. Henry C. Welles, the bookman who helped organize recognition for those who preserved our Union.

At least, that’s how it goes officially. Since I first wrote this, there has been a lot more historical research done in the matter of the founding of Memorial Day. 

Pictured above is what coin collectors refer to as a store card. It’s a token advertising a particular establishment, Mr. Welles in this case around 1861, minted these tokens. Tokens were widely used as small change, usually, pennies during the Civil War since there was a shortage of official minted money. This was back when our change actually had intrinsic value, unlike today. So, merchants of all sorts saw an opportunity to spread the word about their particular business. However, the story goes, one saloon keeper in New York City took it too far and minted as many as one million tokens with his name and “Remit for 1 Cent”. When the NYC streetcar company tried to remit the hundreds of thousands they’d received for fares, he told them to jump in a lake. They went to Congress, which created stricter laws about private citizens minting US currency.

About the Author: Benjamin L. Clark writes and works as a museum curator.

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A real Indiana Jones day

If you’re like me and work in a museum and/or archaeology, Indiana Jones makes you roll your eyes a bit. But, being human, you are also swept away in the fun and adventure shouting along with Indy “THAT BELONGS IN A MUSEUM!” Especially being a kid born when I was. You may even say “Dang, I wish I was an archaeologist/ museum curator.” Then reality sets back in and… well, you have days like this.
Now, I’m fascinated by printing. Letterpress printing. It comes with being a fourth-degree bibliophile. My job at the museum allows me to explore some of my interests. I’ve wanted to put together a program for kids where they could print things themselves. Something simple, like a bookmark. You get the idea. Doing my part to engage kids with history and spread bibliophilia.
Last…, I don’t know. We’ll say it was last Thursday, one of the other curators comes to me with a great little tidbit: The heirs of a defunct newspaper were looking to divest themselves of stuff. Being a knowledgeable hand with the “black art” of printing, he was going down there Monday to see if the museum could use any of it for our collections. Knowing my interest in printing, he welcomed a “wish list” of stuff I could use to get my program off the ground. I was pumped. Friday rolls over and I find out he won’t be going, but was sending another lady down in his stead. Wonderful as she is, she doesn’t know much about printing. I threw a few photos and words together for her to know what I was wanting.
I fret all weekend and resolve: I’m going too, no matter what. Monday dawns, rainy and windy. A big cup of joe poured, we head out. We finally arrive at our destination: A rural town where if you’ve ever wondered what a Cadillac would look like if it was bred with a monster truck… I have a place for you! Also, if you are wanting a pet beagle, there seems to be an unlimited supply roaming the roads and highways in this town and the next one over.
The elderly daughter of the former editor greets us, leading us to the buildings where everything has been kept. The first building had a few galleys and some Linotype slugs. I grabbed a galley and move to carry it outside—- and step through the floor. I was fortunate to be on the ground floor and only went in several inches. I tromped ahead, stomping my way through the rotten floorboards and outside. Now, I’m a big boy, but literally wrecking a wooden floor was unexpected. To my credit, it was rotted out real bad.
The next building wasn’t bad. Concrete floor and a couple skylights made a world of difference. It wasn’t pitch black inside like the first. Several cases of type and a mid-1940s Vandercook. I jotted down the serial number of the Vandy and grabbed the wood type. I checked the other fonts and made some notes as to what lead was there. I was getting nervous. Was this it? Not what I had hoped. “Let me take to the newspaper office,” the old lady said.
The next building had metal sheets screwed to the front covering whatever windows used to face the street. The little old lady said, “Now a cat or two have been in here some, so there is an odor.” I bet you’re all thinking what I thought in that moment. If you’re not thinking what I was thinking, you’re a cat-lady. “Now, Daddy never let us in here. He worried we’d be crushed by something.” Perfect. She unlocked the door. As the door opened the building sighed a distinctly moist, warm feline puff into my cringing face.
It was just noon. Thoughts of lunch vanished in the drizzle. We took turns going in, closing the door, stepping clear, then opening the door for the next person. My partner from the museum had a camera, clinched jaw and set face. I could see the willpower being summoned to the top. It was not just a few cats. Several would have been a joy. It was more like dozens of feral cats have been undisturbed here for the better part of thirty years. Heaping mounds of decomposing cat poo oozed and crumbled everywhere. It was pitch black inside. The flashlights also revealed three linotypes, a couple melting pots. An uncounted number of type cases. Most of them against the walls along the perimeter of the large room. Nearly all sitting at unnatural angles, having fallen through the floor, some bursting their lead onto the floor. A few magnesium plates sat on the composing table. They were furry with corrosion. Worthless. As we moved through, trying our best not to touch anything, I worried about one of us slipping on the paper several inches deep on the floor, moist and soiled. Either on the paper, or whatever lie underneath. Mousy odors mingled up from beneath our steps.
We slunk around to the back of the shop, passing layout tables heaping with more and more you-know-what. The lady said her mother used to hand feed the paper into old the drum press when her father took over the paper in the mid-1950s. He ran the newspaper there until his death in the mid-1980s. The name in the cast iron press was so coated with ink and crud, I couldn’t make anything out except “New York”. Big help.
The drum press was old. Maybe seriously old. The dinosaur was pretty grungy but seemed complete. It was very dark in there and hard to tell. You can just make out a bit of the drum press in the shadows if you look at the big versions of some of these pics. There was also an old-style Chandler and Price, a new-style C&P, a paper cutter, and other stuff. By then I knew, we had to go. I knew the museum wouldn’t be interested in anything. It was too far gone. They should have called when he died and not waited another 25 years. Disappointed, we picked our way out. As I begin to slide back past the linotypes at the front, my unfortunate colleague points “Hey. Isn’t that, that?” I look around to see the pile of papers and poo she’s pointing to, seeing for the first time a cylinder and a handle poking out.
I climbed over, leaping with maybe a little joy. I knew exactly what it was. I must have been smiling ear to ear. I tipped the thing over, scattering the paper and … toppings off to reveal a Miles Nervine proof press.
Exactly what I showed my colleague that morning with the words “My lofty hope is to find one of these.” Dr. Miles invented a patent medicine and ran a program in the late 19th Century aimed at small-town newspapers. In exchange for one year of advertising in the paper, he would send you this neat little proof press. It’s very small, table top sized. It’s from the period I do most of my programs (the 1890s) and simple enough for even the youngest of kids to be able to use. It’s in nearly perfect shape. Just needs the slime under the bed cleaned off.
Here are a few photos that we got. Believe me, the photos do not do this building justice. She tried to keep the cat contributions to a minimum in the photos. However, it does capture the eery feeling I got going in. It didn’t take much imagination to see the lady running the drum press, the husband composing type, someone proofing a job.
 
So, if Mr. Spielberg, Lucas or Ford read this post, here is an idea for Indy 4: to match the horrors of the snakes in Raiders of the Lost Ark, the bugs of Temple of Doom, and the rats of Last Crusade, I offer: Leavings of a feral cat colony.