Cruising the River and Meandering in the Garden

 

(More pictures will appear on my Saturday Facebook page.)

 

I’m getting down to the last few sites from my October trip to France. I was happy we signed onto a National Trust tour to get such expert specialists to enlighten us. Towards the end of any tour, though, companies usually scale back the activities. Those days usually involve something that most people will like plus something that appeals to some but not others.

 

Our something-for-all activity was a cruise down the Dordogne River at Beynac. Why there? The Dordogne is a demarcation river for the region, much the same way that towns near me identify as being in the Connecticut River Valley even if they are miles from the river. As rivers go, the Dordogne falls into the category of being more scenic than mighty. There are parts of it that are shallow or narrow or rocky, or some combination thereof. There is also a vast difference between a river such as the wide Garonne and the more humble Dordogne. The vessel used to transport Eleanor of Aquitaine to Beynac, coal, wood, food, and other agricultural products, would have been a flat-bottomed  gabare. Fishermen used it as well, and not coincidentally, that’s what still used to take goods downriver and the show tourists around. Flat-bottomed boats, of course, have very little draft, perfect for unpredictable water flows.

 

There were wide sections on our cruise, but the main attraction is that is a good way to appreciate how towns, shops, and homes hug the river. The castle at Beynac literally looms over the villages. It is not, however, the only seat of power in the region. We floated past several chateaux of those friendly to or bitterly against Eleanor and Richard, especially after Eleanor’s marriage to the Capetian French king was annulled and she became a member of the English Plantagenet family. Luckily for Eleanor’s opponents, not many had the moxie to take up arms against her or her son Richard lest they pay with their heads on a chopping block.

 

I enjoyed the cruise quite a lot. Large fish (catfish, pike, and varieties of zander) leapt from the stream or could be viewed swimming in the clear Dordogne waters. The sun felt so warm that most of us shed our jackets. The wise ones used thin scarves to prevent the sun from burning our necks.

 

Speaking entirely for myself, I could have done without the visit to the gardens of Eyrignac. Some people love to wander through formal gardens, but I find they raise my working-class hackles. The only thing remotely French about Eyrignac was Sophie, our very enthusiastic expert guide. Sophie is 30, but she’s a teen in temperament. That gal loves plants and her favorite phrase was “ooo-la-la.” She made things more fun than they otherwise would have been. After all, we were there in October, so it wasn’t like we were bombarded by color. We were shown a formal Italian garden that dates from  the 18^th century. The manor house was also 18^th century, though it was made of the ubiquitous gold stone of the region. There were a handful of water features, but the big draw was a saw-tooth arrangement of boxwood hedges.

 

I would have been more impressed it they had sculpted them into topiary, but to my eye it was little more than parallel hedges where one block of green poked out, the next was indented, and so it goes. I again confess that formal gardens are just my thing and my idea of flower garden is one where seeds or bulbs are stuffed into the ground, somehow resist my ineptitude, and pop up when they’re supposed to. I could but nod and smile when the serious gardeners of the group said something about Eyrignac in English that was the equivalent of ooo-la-la. I snapped some photos, but was happy to get back to Sarlat for dinner and a nighttime stroll through its medieval sector. I guess the moral is never hire a historian as your gardener!

 

Rob Weir

 

Where Are My Choices?

 

 

 

Sometimes capitalism is enough to inspire communists! We’ve been told since were little that, unlike “socialist” countries, our economic system provides choices. The myth of capitalist choice is all around us. Almost every town has a gasoline alley with numerous stations cheek by jowl that are theoretically in competition with each other. Yet each sells gasoline that's a mere penny or two from other stations. Does anyone ponder over whether to pay $3.01 versus $3.02? It hardly matters given that pennies are being pulled from distribution!

 

The lack of personal choice dictates what we wear. The hot colors for 2026 will be teal, green, and blue. What if those colors don't flatter you? Millions of people will wear those colors anyhow, even though they think they look like they were mugged by park rangers. How about skinny jeans? They were hot just a few years ago until someone said you were supposed to wear wide legs that make you look as though you needed extra space to tuck in your peers when you go out. Trash ‘em; skinny jeans are back! For the record, I wear skinny jeans. It’s not because I think people wish to gaze at my physique; it’s because I'm old and my arse has disappeared.

 

Capitalism is supposed to work on a supply and demand principle. In theory, consumers drive the demand bus and suppliers respond by meeting their demand. As supply goes up, price is supposed to drop. In reality, capitalists create their own demand. They make “hot” items hard to obtain so the price skyrockets. It doesn't matter if the item is shoddily made; next year they will create a new demand and the sheeple will dump skinny jeans and wear construction worker pants with a tape measure in the side pocket once they see Kendall Jenner wearing them. Think I’m crazy? Explain why anyone would pay $100 or more for ripped jeans that look as if the wearer was mauled by raccoons. (I'll be wearing my skinny jeans unless I magically grow an arse.)

 

My rave  du jour is the size of automobiles. I need to replace my Prius Prime because disc surgery made me shrink by more than two inches  and I have trouble seeing out of it. I'm now around 5 foot 3 inches height and apparently the only person that short in all of America. My Prius Prime is now called a “compact” car. Dave Berry once joked about the new Ford Land-Grant, the first car to come with its own zip code. Maybe he wasn’t joking!

 

You might think that the answer to my dilemma is to look at subcontract compact cars. What are those? Yeah, I could buy a Smart Car. It should be called an Idiot Car as it gets less than 40 mpg. Who determines what mileage small cars get? In Europe the same vehicle that gets 30 mpg in the U.S. gets 50 or more. Maybe I should buy either an electric car or another plug-in hybrid. Have you seen the design of the new Leaf? Don't call it a Leaf; it’s more of a mature maple. I’ve viewed cars so wide that I need my phone GPS to find the glove box.

 

It's not hard to figure out who is behind big vehicles and low mileage; it's the oil capitalists of course. I'd say they lobby politicians to protect their singular desire to pump petroleum until they sell the last thimbleful to some rich fool who can afford $1000 per half oz. The truth is there’s little need to lobby because much of Congress is made-up of oil investors. They are the ones who answer the question of an old documentary: who killed the electric car? Anyone with more than 17 brain cells knows that large petroleum-consuming vehicles are not sustainable. Who needs big cars in a culture where a swelling tide of the people are taking Ozempic or Wegovy? Never fear; car dealers will regroup to sell us sailboats once the polar ice caps collapse and everything east of the Appalachians is under water. (Big Sale on Sails!)

 

I haven't completely given up. I can still check out Toyotas, Honda, and Kei. If they come through, I’ll  wait for retailers to offer skinny jeans with arse inserts. I'm sure I’ll be tempted to buy those at any price. Who needs choices?

 

Rob Weir

 

PS: Next year’s “hot” auto color is powder blue, if you believe marketers.

 

The Bookshop by Evan Friss

 

  

 

 

The Bookshop: A History of the American Bookstore (2014)

By Evan Friss

Viking, 312 pages + Back Matter

★★★★

 

An unusual aspect of the town where I live is that we have two independent bookstores and a large used bookstore in a place with just 30,000 residents. That didn't used to be odd, but many towns these days have no bookstores beyond a rack of best sellers at Walmart.

 

Evan Friss, a history professor at James Madison University, traces American bookstore evolution, proliferation, and reinvention. His title is slightly deceptive as he devotes much of his study to New York City. Of course, New York City dominates the publishing world, though the first bookstore of note was that of Benjamin Franklin in Philadelphia. You wouldn’t recognize it; in 1742, it held but one novel, Pamela by Samuel Richardson. Franklin sold books at his printing shop, most of which were sermons, philosophical treatises, textbooks, religious tomes, self-help works, and political tracts such as Thomas Paine's Common Sense. But the scale was small; he once boasted of having sold 600 books in a year. As the American Revolution drew near, there were but two bookshops in the entire Chesapeake region.

 

Friss cleverly places interstitial asides between chapters that are devoted to such related topics as the smell of books, the role of buyers, eccentric shopkeepers, oddball customers, devotees, and “The Guy Who Never Buys Anything.”

 

Friss cites Boston as the prototype for modern bookselling, especially the Old Corner Bookshop (Washington and School streets), which opened in 1828. In less than 10 years Boston held 137 booksellers, the bulk situated on Washington Street. They catered to an increasingly literate post-Revolutionary War readership. William Ticknor and James Fields thrived by sprinkling notorious titles among its offerings such as Lydia Maria Child's defense of African Americans. (Racists smashed the window where it was displayed.) Hawthorne was a constant presence at the Corner Bookstore; Whittier, Longfellow, and Thoreau sold well. Still, there were just 1,553 American titles in the 1840s. By way of comparison, Penguin Random House alone publishes 15,000 new books a year.

 

As the 19^th century progressed, New York City passed Boston as the leader of the publishing business. No city does big scale as well as Gotham. D. Appleton had an elaborate 6,000 square foot shop in New York that combined publishing, wholesale, and retail. It anticipated a scaling up of the book business. Ironically, many future magnates began as peddlers: Roger Mifflin, Helen McGill, and Frank Collins. A post-Civil War observer could have predicted that department stores would become the future of book sales: Stewart, Wanamaker’s, Marshall Field…. They would be among the innovators for paperbacks, Pocket Books, and outrageous ballyhoo such as Julie the elephant flogging Rand McNally “slotties,” books that came with inserts like elephant puzzle pieces.

 

By the early 20th century, though, books were sold every conceivable way. Writers and readers crammed into the rooms of Gotham Book Mart owner Francis Steloff for fellowship, discussion, and new titles. Steloff introduced a Parisian touch, outdoor book stalls. This paved the way for a constant battle between vendors and NYC officials bent on getting rid of loiterers and unlicensed vendors. The streets and bookstore windows also became battlegrounds between moralists, surrealists, Beats, hippies, black nationalists, and gay activists. Friss also highlights famed and infamous bookstores such as the Oscar Wilde, the rightwing Aryan bookstore, and Drum & Spear.

 

Many will recall that the next stage was a surge of gigantism in the late 20th century. Elegant stores such as Scribner’s gave way to Walden, Barnes & Noble, and Borders. Then came Amazon, whose first venture was selling books and music from storefronts before it became the online retailer that swallowed Walmart.

 

Friss is not a pessimist. He shows us that bookselling has been an ever-changing pursuit. Of late, famous authors have bought bookstores. Ann Patchett started Parnassus in Nashville. Louise Erdrich followed with her own store in Minneapolis, Garrison Keeler in Saint Paul, Judy Blume in Key West, and Emma Straub in Brooklyn. These new ventures make venerable City Lights in San Francisco look like a grey beard, though it is still a vital concern.

 

To return to western Massachusetts, bookstores have reinvented themselves, some by going retro and selling everything from toys and cards to calendars and socks; others by sponsoring author readings and lectures. It is said that Americans don't read anymore. If you believe that, you're hanging around with the wrong people.

 

Rob Weir