Collecting Books and Buying Books As A Seller A Profound Difference of Attitude

BACK ON THE TRAIL OF OLD AND COLLECTABLE BOOKS TO STOCK OUR SHOP

HUNTING AND GATHERING OLD BOOKS IS JUST AS NEAT AS WRITING ABOUT THEM - BUT A TAD ADDICTIVE


     A year ago, I wrote on this very blog site, that I was once again turning my attention to the hunt and gather of old books. This is like an alcoholic saying that casual imbibing now and again, won't tip-over the apple-cart. I like to think of my own exit from the unkind label, of "bibliomaniac," as having been profoundly successful. It was the reference Suzanne afforded me, one evening, at what she perceived, was the height of my excesses, catching me sneaking boxes of books through the back door, when I had, on my mother's life, sworn-off adding any more to the already stuffed homestead at Birch Hollow. I would clearly (crystal clear), realize, after this remark, that I had most definitely become a book hoarder. Very much like the fellow I would write a book about, at the turn of this century. I unburdened our marriage by getting rid of most of the books from our house. It would be a few years before I would even think about buying books at an auction, or attending a charity book sale, of which I haunted whenever, and wherever they were held in the region. We moved the balance of the books to our antique shop, and began selling them at a discount, just to continue the mission of lightening the burden of having way too many for our own good.
     Here's what happened next. We began selling books. Many, many books. Suzanne was continually impressed, by how many books of my remaining library, were selling every month. She started to bug me about returning to my former days of book scouting, and yes, it was a little like a loving spouse handing her mate a flask of scotch, and being prepared for the drunken episode to follow. Well sir, she had faith that I had seen the light, as if I had successfully communed with a guru, and could now handle being involved in the buying and selling of old books, without being tempted ever again, to horde them away in our house or business. Sort of like hiring a recovering alcoholic to run a bar, and not sampling the inventory. She had faith that I could still be a successful book hunter, and seller, without feeling the compulsive desire to stuff them into every nook and cranny at Birch Hollow. Admittedly, I had my doubts that I could go back into this collecting field, and not wind-up developing the same obsession, to buy large collections from estates, where I kept seventy-five percent for posterity, and only sold a quarter of them through the shop. If she was watching over me, to remind me of any unhealthy excesses, I felt confident about re-entering this addictive pursuit. Suzanne became my sponsor you might say, and so far, the first year back in the saddle has worked pretty well. I am incredibly fussy about the books I acquire, and instead of buying books that please me, I'm now being a responsible book shop operator, who wants to please customers first.
     I wrote the editorial copy a few weeks ago, as I began looking back at the past twelve months, of active book hunting, feeling that I had honestly kicked the bibliomania, and was successfully hunkered down in a sensible profession of "buying to sell," instead of "buying to hoard." I had carried my study of Dave Brown, my book collecting mentor, way too far, during the preparation of his biography. Here I was, writing about the follies of a man who had said goodbye to his wife, when she complained about his bibliomania, preferring to spend the balance of his life in the company of good books instead. Dave was a powerful influence on me, and whenever he stayed over at Birch Hollow, on his canoe trips north, we would talk until late into the evening, about our respective book conquests. I was enthralled to hear of his adventures, but after he died, I must have felt the need to carry-on where he left off. Even though I had written about his self-imposed loneliness, in return for the company of books, (a mountain of books), and wrote about his obsession that came to seriously limit his social life, I gradually became obsessive in my own way, and yes, it could have hurt my marriage. I just promised myself I'd cut back. Just like the fellow who over-drinks and then gets into a car to drive home. I was spending money we didn't have, and was buying boxes of books at auction that I would never actually read.
     I have come a long way from those days. I have a lot of checks and balances in the way, and that's a good thing. Dave Brown chose a life without a close companion, although he had many colleagues and associates in history and collecting, to spend his spare time visiting and book hunting all over Ontario, and in some of his favorite locations in Chicago and Washington; a place where he knew many rare book and old paper dealers. I am much more regional than Dave was, but then his collection was a lot broader in subject, and specialty, and much older generally than mine. He had a collection of period books on whaling, and very early books on nature and flora and fauna, of which he was a specialist as an outdoor educator. I trend continually toward regional histories, Muskoka especially, and both Canadian and American art when I can get it for the shop. He would buy any book about the logging industry, especially early books on the subject, and I am a sucker for farm machinery catalogues and anything post office related. Both of us, together, were the dynamic duo, and we could shred a collection for sale, from an estate, as if we were dining on the same cob. We were, I suppose you could say, book sharks working the same bit of sea, when he and I went shopping locally. I was the underling most of the time, learning from the master. Dave Brown could get a truck load of books, for a really, really good price, secure a night's lodging from the same person who sold the books, and get atleast two meals at the same residence. He was famous for this, and at the same time, making good friends all over the place. I have never run into any one, as his biographer, who hated selling Dave books. They may have felt they had been out-horse-traded, because Dave was a modern day Will Rogers, when it came to selling a nag, but getting a Derby winner in exchange. I studied the man closely, and although there were many of his traits I would never adopt myself, in business, it allowed me to see just how cunning buyers can be, with the right obsessions at play.
     Here now is a little of Dave Brown, for better or worse.



     I am a dealer of books. A bibliophile who also wants to share what he likes to read. And profiting from the books I find worthy of hauling home, is pretty good as well. I have been involved in the old book business since the early 1990's. At first it was the case, I needed inventory for our new storefront, on the main street of Bracebridge. I already owned a thousand or so books of all descriptions and provenance, and they looked real good on shelves that were otherwise a little bare. In our area of the province, there are only a few old and used book-dealers, which means a lot less competition out on the old "hunt and gather," and thus, Suzanne and I benefit from a good supply and reasonable prices. This means, that we can offer low prices, and a pretty fair selection. While our shop, occupying a back-room, in our Gravenhurst antique shop, is heavy on the side of non-fiction, which is my passion, we will house any worthy book if it is in good condition, and has a heck of a good story within its covers. Our sales of old and used books has been increasing substantially year by year, and I've been pushed back into active service as a book scout, hustling shops for interesting titles most desired by out customers. I trained with legendary Ontario book collector, David Brown, of Hamilton, who had amassed a rather historic collection of 100,000 books, according to the executors of his estate, who had the task of sorting through the mountain of texts stacked in his small residential abode. Dave did turn into a bibliomaniac, but heaven forbid one of his friends, or even his enemies, would call him that to his face. I was his biographer, so I had to take some liberties in order to explain the character of the man. If you want to read more about the antics of this Outdoor Education Teacher and Book Collector, you can archive back in this blog. There are plenty of stories. Dave was a colorful character any time of the day or year, and he was my mentor. This relationship certainly fueled my own obsession with books, which I battled free of, a few years back, in order to save my marriage. Our bedroom alone, used to house several thousand books, and she was kind enough to allow my excesses, at least until she caught me sneaking more books onto the already burdened shelves. So I began selling books with more conviction, first online, and then our new shop, until the house was finally emptied of all but my personal favorites.
     Although we aren't running what could be called a traditional old book shop. By almost any description, we are a little loose on sorting our titles, and we more or less decorate with them, versus setting up a "by-the-book," sorted, organized, and categorized library-format; and you might say our collection is in disarray. To be in disarray, however, suggests that at one time, or other, we must have been more formally appointed. Not so! Many of our books purchased, have attracted buyers because of the cover art, not necessarily subject. It's not that they're not interested in the subject matter, because purchasing these titles does require an appreciation for what is held within. I have had people buy books for their book shelves and coffee tables, for show more so than content, but, gosh, we're trying to run a business here. If the cover art pleases you as a house, condo, apartment or cottage decorator, that's fine by us. The antique business depends on impulse buyers. This happens when you don't have predictable inventory, and it changes day to day, depending on the pickers who bring us their latest finds. We treat our treasured books in the same way as we do our vintage sealer jars, silver pieces, pottery, crockery, heritage glass, artifacts, antique fabrics, blankets and quilts, and of course our array of furniture. It makes the book collectors a little cranky, because our set-up forces them to hunt for the books they want, and they tell us we need to get our books in order. We tell them that we are an antique business that has old books for sale, and this usually pacifies them; and they usually do find books in the mix of this and that, because it's what old book collectors do for sport. Take the hunt away, and they would only have half the fun.


Part 1

DAVID BROWN SHOWED ME A LEARNING PATH THROUGH THE WOODLANDS

I never really knew how wonderful it was, to live across from The Bog, until someone told me. Not just anyone. An educator. A wilderness canoeist. A man who made his living from the environment of Ontario. A teacher known by thousands of youngsters and adults, who had benefitted from his special classroom, near Hamilton’s Botanical Gardens. I was his special student....a project I suppose. He liked to move the unmovable!

When I authored the biography of teacher/historian, Miles David Brown, back in 2000, I felt unfairly abandoned holding onto an old promise! Fate unfortunately got in the way of self imposed protocols. I never break a promise. My kids disagree but I’m talking professionally here. I wasn’t sure whether to shelve the project or carry-on to the best of my ability. Few had as many intimate conversations with the educator, in his final years, than Suzanne and I. If we wouldn’t write the book, who could practically fill-in and do justice to a project that would take a year to research and write,...... and most likely be a labor of love and respect, with nary a cent of profit. We certainly didn’t do this to make a profit. We did it as friends. Friends who initially were scared to tackle the life story of a man who was both complicated and contradictory. He was a brilliant man but eccentric. How would we represent all his characteristics properly, and not offend his colleagues and students, who really didn’t know just how strange Dave had been for years and years. (At the time of his death Dave had stuffed over 100,000 rare books and documents into a small Hamilton bungalow)

When Dave first asked me to write his life story, as an outdoor educator, I assumed he’d be around for the whole project. He had it all figured out including the cover-art. What I didn’t realize is that Dave was close to death when he hired me on. I went from being quite confident I could deliver a worthy biography, ghost writing for Dave, to the nervous lead author on a book left up to me to compile and design. While I never doubted Dave was looking over my shoulder the whole time, I confess it was one of the toughest writing jags I’ve experienced. Dave was a fussy, fussy man, and I had to make it right. Well, bottom line is, I sold out the biography and Dave haunts me quite pleasantly in memory.

Dave was a key component and motivating force in the Outdoor Education programs in Ontario, and his classroom in Hamilton, was filled with an absolutely amazing array of critters....some alive and in glassed containers, terrariums, aquariums and hundreds of preserved animals of forest and boglands. I met Dave as a fellow book collector, in the antique shop we used to operate in Bracebridge, and after only a few meetings and impromptu debates about Canadian history (which our shop was famous for), Dave became a regular house guest, on his many camping and canoeing forays in northern Algonquin Park. The boys couldn’t wait for Dave to pull into the driveway with his red truck and yellow canoe, heralding the arrival of natural goodies. Dave never came here without some natural oddities to show the boys. One day it might be rattles from a deceased rattlesnake ( Dave would harvest these from snakes killed on the road), to portions of moose antler broken in battle, lightning-fried wood, from damaged trees, so that our boys could see and smell what a bolt of electricity against wood could manifest. There was always a plethora of interesting items, from old woodstoves, logging chains, cant hooks, and pike poles in the back of that truck, harvested from the many waterways of Ontario, where Dave liked to canoe. Dave was a teacher 24-7, and he always had his students in mind when he came upon something peculiar, while traversing a lake, or portaging from river to lake. Thousands upon thousands of youngsters in this province learned about nature from David Brown. He was a nature guide, a television personality in Hamilton, an historian, and an amazing tutor to our family.

One day he showed up here covered in muck. “Fall out of the canoe Dave,” Suzanne asked our burly guest. “Come here,” he waved, as he ambled to the back of the truck. “See that log,” he questioned. “Check out that stamp on the end.” Sure enough it was an end cut with a lumber company stamp, of which he had a collection of Muskoka’s antiquated logging industry marks, of which this one was a J.D. Shier stamp. It was the bloody size of the log-cut that impressed us, and the fact he was able to wrestle it off the bottom of a bay, and haul it into the canoe by himself. And he paddled for an hour after that engagement. “I’m going to put this in the display cabinet at the education centre with some of the logging stamps I’ve got at home,” said Dave. He did it for the kids....and guests of the education centre who might be interested in Canada’s early logging industry. That’s the way Dave was. He was like a good billiard player thinking three shots ahead. (Dave’s wife was used to coming home to find turtles etc., in the bathtub, and boxes upon boxes of artifacts and books he’d found or purchased on his travels. He said she left him when he only had 30,000 books, and just a few cant hooks and logging chains in the livingroom.)

Dave, Suzanne and I, used to sit out on our front deck, overlooking The Bog, and he talked for hours on end about his many wilderness excursions. He’d take our boys Andrew and Robert on nature hikes through the lowland, and so patiently deal with their many questions about flora and fauna.....question dear old dad fumbled with, and mother had to consult her wildflower guidebook to answer otherwise. Dave knew it all. He could find snake skins and bear poop, and tell you when these natural events occurred. He’d show them the handiwork of the local woodpeckers, and draw their attention to tracks in the spring snow. I followed behind, in awe of all this wonderful man knew, of the bountiful and precious nature around us.

I’ve sat on this same deck with Canadian historians, experts in many fields, and there have been wine enhanced discussions about everything from World War and politics, to Muskoka’s old boats, boat builders and artists. I’ve debated the death of Canadian landscape artist Tom Thomson, with those close to the case, and found out Dave had particularly important information the Mowat grave was still occupied by the artist (contrary to accepted belief)......a story told to him by someone intimate with the Canoe Lake community of 1917. I went on to write three published feature articles, with a huge following, inspired in part from that front porch chat with the good Mr. Brown. He was a story bonanza for an eager columnist.

I sat out there for a wee bit this afternoon, and while a little chilly in the shade, it was a warming reconciliation, to feel Dave’s presence beside me again, lounging together, mortal and spirit-kind, looking out over what I find so amazing about this Gravenhurst neighborhood. He wasn’t a showboat of information, and he never force-fed conservation as a personal life mission. In fact Dave made money on weekends, chopping dangerous trees down for Hamilton customers. Dave realized that it was impossible to save every tree, every pasture, all the woodlands we knew as children, and even some of the wetlands we believe fragile. He was blunt and honest and I knew he was right. Yet he realized with a good science background, when destruction of nature had gone too far. Many times, before retiring to bedlam, Dave and I gave a final toast, to all the wee beasties that played upon the Moor, and the fairies that may have frolicked in the moonlight in the beck beyond the hillside.....the fairy rings, in evidence Queen Mab had been there the eve before. Science for Dave was a classroom protocol but his eyes told of enchantments far and wide, and Robert and Andrew listened intently, so as not to miss any of the drama on his woodland hikes.

Dave told me he liked our place.....very much enjoyed the view over this wild paradise in an urban package. I agreed. I’m so glad I wrote his biography. I’m so glad we spared this Bog for all the youngsters and their parents who enjoy trodding down its pathways today, in those marvelous adventures in contentment.....that have never ended for me!