A store of one’s own: Leah Spafford returned to take over father’s bookstore
October 21, 2019Bukking Things Up In New Orleans
I took over my father’s bookstore when he suffered a stroke in 2005. He laboured very hard, and was deeply respected within the bookselling community for all of his years as a purveyor of all things on paper; historical, artistic, literary and whimsical.
He warned me that this business is not glamourous one. It consisted of long days, hard work and while the reward was not fiscal, it was deeply fulfilling. I grew up in the shop, and I know the hard truth behind these sentiments.
I accepted these facts gratefully but was still jealous of all of the stories he had of wonderous finds, and the lore of his “saving” exceptional things from extinction through accumulation, donation and/or sale.
Part of my training was to learn the mind of a collector. This is something that had evaded me in all my years, though I witnessed my father’s clients’ passions almost every day.
We were at the Toronto Antiquarian Book Fair, and he was, with great pride, introducing me to everyone in the trade without regard of my deficit of obsession. While we walked about, a book that was glowing quietly in the corner caught my eye. It was the Loujon Press printing of Charles Bukowski’s “It Holds My Heart in Its Hands”. It was all of the things! It was breathtaking. The paper. The hand sewn binding. The colours. The poetry. The history. I could not put it down. I was hooked.
It took me hellbent desire, 11 years and endless hours scouring auctions, bookfairs, and word of mouth, to acquire all that Loujon ever published. It amounted to little, in physical form, but meant the world to me. I kept them in a special inaccessible case, and they joined the not-for-sale things in the shop; a short list (as everything has a price) with just itself and the dog. SIDE NOTE: Oxford (the dog and not the dictionary) will never be for sale. I eventually put a price on the collection that promised they would never sell, but created a catalogue entry anyway, justifying my infatuation as a business expense and one very pricy lesson learned.
Cue to 6:30 PM on Wednesday August 14th, 2019. I am at the office when the phone rings and it is a true Southern charmer on the other end who asks if it is indeed true that I have all that Loujon ever published in my possession. I reply like a doting mother, “yes” with a hint of terror in my voice.
“Business first, I want to buy them”.
WHAT? What is happening? My love for them must have been palpable, because this gentleman then quickly followed with the explanation of an event he was curating for Bukowski’s 99th birthday. He went on to overwhelm me with details of the attending authors, poets, directors, family and friends. OH MY!
Within those details was an unattainable timeline for delivery as the event was on Friday August 16th. I was not about to courier my ‘babies’. Fat chance. Surely this was a hoax. Stammering, I stated as much, and all of my fears were whisked away when he suggested I deliver them, in person.
I was to book my flight immediately and participate as a distinguished guest, expenses paid.
Pardon me?
I am pretty sure I ended the conversation with something as drudgingly mundane as “unreal – talk soon”.
I hurried to the computer and did some due diligence, because, you know, if it sounds to good to be true...
I was, in short order, on a flight to New Orleans, despite my misgivings about crossing the border during these tumultuous times. The treasured books in my luggage (the one Henry Miller is 24 inches by 36 inches and could not be carried on).
The flight was unusually efficient. Alas, I was not. I lost my phone in the Toronto airport, and as a result, was unable to digitally photograph all of the happenings, but also could not “work” for the first time since I took over the shop.
I was indulged to all of the niceties possible. The food was glorious. The cocktails (see menu) were delightful. It was all things Bukowski. There was an avant-garde screening of Taylor Hackford’s bio-pic of Bukowski on Friday evening. Saturday evening was a round-table discussion by Buk’s closest peoples. Then off to the lounge for poetry reading by the best of New Orleans, who read their own, as well as Bukowski’s greatest hits and some of his more obscure bits too. All delivered with emphatic, theatrical panache. The finale? A burlesque show, by some amazing talent, that turned misogyny on its ear.
Jeff Wheddle, the author of “Bohemian New Orleans: The Story of the Outsider and Loujon Press”, University Press of Mississippi, 2007, fondly inscribed the copy of his book that had furthered my obsession so very long ago.
I flew home on a cloud. The babies are safe in a new home that would love them as much as I did. And there is now a new title beside my name.
It pays to collect. Sometimes in dollars; more oft in the experience. My dad is envious of my excursion.
Leah Spafford – ABAC ILAB NAAB “Literary Mule for New Orleans”
He warned me that this business is not glamourous one. It consisted of long days, hard work and while the reward was not fiscal, it was deeply fulfilling. I grew up in the shop, and I know the hard truth behind these sentiments.
I accepted these facts gratefully but was still jealous of all of the stories he had of wonderous finds, and the lore of his “saving” exceptional things from extinction through accumulation, donation and/or sale.
Part of my training was to learn the mind of a collector. This is something that had evaded me in all my years, though I witnessed my father’s clients’ passions almost every day.
We were at the Toronto Antiquarian Book Fair, and he was, with great pride, introducing me to everyone in the trade without regard of my deficit of obsession. While we walked about, a book that was glowing quietly in the corner caught my eye. It was the Loujon Press printing of Charles Bukowski’s “It Holds My Heart in Its Hands”. It was all of the things! It was breathtaking. The paper. The hand sewn binding. The colours. The poetry. The history. I could not put it down. I was hooked.
It took me hellbent desire, 11 years and endless hours scouring auctions, bookfairs, and word of mouth, to acquire all that Loujon ever published. It amounted to little, in physical form, but meant the world to me. I kept them in a special inaccessible case, and they joined the not-for-sale things in the shop; a short list (as everything has a price) with just itself and the dog. SIDE NOTE: Oxford (the dog and not the dictionary) will never be for sale. I eventually put a price on the collection that promised they would never sell, but created a catalogue entry anyway, justifying my infatuation as a business expense and one very pricy lesson learned.
Cue to 6:30 PM on Wednesday August 14th, 2019. I am at the office when the phone rings and it is a true Southern charmer on the other end who asks if it is indeed true that I have all that Loujon ever published in my possession. I reply like a doting mother, “yes” with a hint of terror in my voice.
“Business first, I want to buy them”.
WHAT? What is happening? My love for them must have been palpable, because this gentleman then quickly followed with the explanation of an event he was curating for Bukowski’s 99th birthday. He went on to overwhelm me with details of the attending authors, poets, directors, family and friends. OH MY!
Within those details was an unattainable timeline for delivery as the event was on Friday August 16th. I was not about to courier my ‘babies’. Fat chance. Surely this was a hoax. Stammering, I stated as much, and all of my fears were whisked away when he suggested I deliver them, in person.
I was to book my flight immediately and participate as a distinguished guest, expenses paid.
Pardon me?
I am pretty sure I ended the conversation with something as drudgingly mundane as “unreal – talk soon”.
I hurried to the computer and did some due diligence, because, you know, if it sounds to good to be true...
I was, in short order, on a flight to New Orleans, despite my misgivings about crossing the border during these tumultuous times. The treasured books in my luggage (the one Henry Miller is 24 inches by 36 inches and could not be carried on).
The flight was unusually efficient. Alas, I was not. I lost my phone in the Toronto airport, and as a result, was unable to digitally photograph all of the happenings, but also could not “work” for the first time since I took over the shop.
I was indulged to all of the niceties possible. The food was glorious. The cocktails (see menu) were delightful. It was all things Bukowski. There was an avant-garde screening of Taylor Hackford’s bio-pic of Bukowski on Friday evening. Saturday evening was a round-table discussion by Buk’s closest peoples. Then off to the lounge for poetry reading by the best of New Orleans, who read their own, as well as Bukowski’s greatest hits and some of his more obscure bits too. All delivered with emphatic, theatrical panache. The finale? A burlesque show, by some amazing talent, that turned misogyny on its ear.
Jeff Wheddle, the author of “Bohemian New Orleans: The Story of the Outsider and Loujon Press”, University Press of Mississippi, 2007, fondly inscribed the copy of his book that had furthered my obsession so very long ago.
I flew home on a cloud. The babies are safe in a new home that would love them as much as I did. And there is now a new title beside my name.
It pays to collect. Sometimes in dollars; more oft in the experience. My dad is envious of my excursion.
Leah Spafford – ABAC ILAB NAAB “Literary Mule for New Orleans”
