These Old Songs

When we were kids, Mom and Pop had their country and western records, and we had our ‘kid records’, including a few that Mom had when she was a little girl, most of which were little yellow 45’s with songs from Peter Pan on them. But there was a special category of discs, 78’s as thick as plates with one or two songs on each side, which defied definition. Whether they had belonged to Pop or Mom it was hard to say exactly; they never seemed to play them for their own amusement. But something about them appealed to us, whimsy or humor or just undefined emotion, and when the mood was on us, we’d put them on the player, switch the speed up, and ‘dance’ or jump around or mime to the beat like maniacs. Anyway, here are links to some of those old songs on YouTube. I hope my brothers will enjoy them. Anybody else who listens … make of them what you will.

Kenny Roberts ~ Casper, the Candy Cowboy - YouTube

Kenny Roberts ~ Mickey the Chickey - YouTube

Rosemary Clooney - This Ole House - YouTube

Guy Mitchell - Christopher Columbus - YouTube

Dean Martin - The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane - YouTube

As you can see, some of them were connected to holidays. I listened to “This Ole House” well into my dotage before my nephew Kameron, much to my surprise, correctly identified the bass singer as Thurl Ravenscroft, which I’d never realized in all my years. That boy has an ear on him! As I say, Mom and Pop had the country and western records, and, though we had favorite songs among the albums, we weren’t allowed to touch them until we were much older. John still has most of those records in his archives, I believe. After Pop passed away, I wrote this poem:

 

RECORDS FOUND

 

Mute inglorious souls,

Your records sing for you

Now that your voices are stilled.

 

I hear them through scratches and clicks:

Your dreams and fears,

Tenderness, tears, and weariness,

 

Those things you could not say

That swelled your hearts

To yearning, until they flew--or burst.

 

Mother, Father, bless anew my silence

With the voices I hear

Through guitars and fiddles, that are you.

 

AUGUST 5, 2005

 

"Bob's Book": Chapter Two, Page Sixteen

 I finished my bun, smacking a bit with satisfaction.

“That was delicious, Miss.” I looked over at Rank, expecting agreement, but he was just staring fixedly at the desk, as if he could make the Secretary materialize by sheer force of will. I looked at the girl, and she was just as pointedly snubbing Rank. It was awkward; I was effectively in the frozen zone between. Well, I couldn’t be having that.

“I’m Bob Bellamy, by the way,” I chirped up, bowing my head a bit and indicating my seatmate. “And this here’s Howard Rank. I’M sure we’re mighty glad to meet you, Miss ...?”

“Miss Rosemary Calhoun, Mr. Bellamy.” She seemed to unbend a shade.

“Sakes, Miss Calhoun, my Pa is Mr. Bellamy,” I said sociably. “You can just call me Bob, if you like.” I got to admit I blushed a bit. I wasn’t normally so forward with the girls.

She smiled. She looked charmed, as if I were a precocious child.

“Very well … Bob. And my good friends usually call me Rose.”

“Well, ain’t that cozy,” the older boy said dryly. He tilted his head back proudly. “People simply call me Rank.”

“Well, it certainly fits you, sir.” Her voice was civil enough, but she wrinkled her nose slightly, enough to hint at her hidden meaning.

    “Why, you …!” Rank bridled, then caught himself and settled back angrily, dignified but scored against. I found out later that this was an old joke on his name that had worn a deep sore into his mind, and always, well, rankled. 

Old Bookstore Memories

 

Today I would like to pay tribute to two local used bookstores that exist only as memories now, but, oh, what great memories those are! I suppose (or I would hope) that all young readers had such places, stores that would allow them to browse and dream and explore (at very little expense and therefore all the more available) new (and old) avenues of literature. There were two such places in our area, both owned by retired men who smoked pipes and both of which seemed to be run not so much to make money but as a means to keep busy, in a low-key kind of way. And we kids profited in so many ways from such a business strategy.

The first was called Half Price Books (not the huge chain store – and it was really half-off of whatever the original price was on the cover), a small one-room building not far from the town’s Jack-in-the-Box, broiling in summer, chilly in winter, with a cement floor, two shaded windows, and two doors, filled to the gunwales with books. Tall shelves with narrow aisles navigable by only one person at a time. It was run by a white-bearded old gentleman we called Half at first, though we later came to know him as Captain Frank Armstrong (now there’s a name for you!). We came to buy so often he would greet us with a familiar, “Hello, boysh!” He also sold soda out of a little cooler behind his counter, and that helped mitigate the summer days; it was here I was introduced to the joys of a cold Peach Nehi.

It was also here that we brothers could indulge our growing interests, Mike his Hemingway and Faulkner, John his Bradbury and horror fiction. This is where I bought many a Ballantine Books Adult Fantasy volume, curated by Lin Carter, introducing me to Mervyn Peake, E. R. Eddison, Peter S. Beagle, and the like. It was here I found my improbable copy of “The Pedant and the Shuffly”, my embarrassing Avon edition of “Jurgen”, and my 1963 paperback “The Sword in the Stone”, the Disney movie tie-in, which, since it was originally sold for fifty cents, only cost me a quarter. We would return home with our hauls and the rest of the afternoon could be spent reading and gloating over our finds.

The other outlet for used books was called Yesterday’s Warehouse, and it lived up to the name. An enormous steel-frame building, divided into a small office, a cavernous room filled with rambling shelves, a seldom-visited upper floor covering a third of that space, and enormous garage doors, front and back, that were opened in summer to catch the breeze. It was run by a retired dentist (I don’t recall if I ever heard his name [John now reminds me it was Kimble{sp?} and that does ring a bell]) and occasionally presided over by his ancient mother when he couldn’t be there. While Half was predominantly paperbacks, Yesterday’s Warehouse was mainly hardcovers, and also featured various gimcrackery items of an interesting nature.  I bought a set of monk book-ends, a small bookcase in the shape of a clock, and many National Geographic maps there. But the main feature was the books, of course. You could go in with $20 and expect to leave with a tall grocery bag full.

Notable volumes I found there were T. H. White’s “The Book of Beasts” and “Mistress Masham’s Repose”, a set of 1928 Books of Knowledge, G. K. Chesterton’s “The Coloured Lands”, "The Little Grey Men", and Bellairs’ “The House with a Clock in Its Walls”.

  Yesterday’s Warehouse was an interesting location in that it was a place even Pop enjoyed visiting and didn’t mind taking us; in fact, I believe it was he who discovered it! A lovely place to spend a couple of hours in, browsing, comparing one’s finds, and then returning home to add to your growing book hoard.

Perhaps these bookstores were too good to last. First, Half Price was effectively over when Captain Armstrong left; it limped along for years with another owner and location and was never the same. Then Yesterday’s Warehouse was shut up, I never knew why. Now the nearest used bookstore is over thirty miles away in San Marcos (which since publishing this post I know find has closed!), and that is part of a national chain. While it is good enough and supplies a fine selection of books (it's even air-conditioned, of course), it has none of the lazy, louche, and informal charm of those beautiful old monsters. I pity those growing up (as I pity myself now) who do not have such a place in their hometown.  

"Bob's Book": Chapter Two, Page Fifteen

 

“Oh, thanks very much!”

I got up, scuttled over, and took a bun. I quickly bowed and eagerly returned to my seat next to the older boy and began to tuck in. Rank was watching me closely. With me right by him, he could see, and really smell, how delicious the little treat was.

Rank looked over at the girl, brows knotted. She offered the basket again in challenge, holding it out a bit farther with a little shake, as if enticing a reluctant dog. Rank had a moment when his pride fought with his hunger – it came to me that his lank body might not be so much natural physique as a result of poverty – then he stood stiffly, walked over, and accepted a bun in defiance, as if to prove her generosity was hypocritical.

“Ma’am.” His voice was chilly.  He stalked back, sat down, and took a bite. For a fleeting second there was an expression of naked bliss; that vanished behind a mask of indifference as he finished the pastry – in rather hurried bites. He sat back with a that’s-that look, but he cut his eyes rather furtively at the basket once or twice. The girl pretended to ignore him.

Lord of the World

 

Lord of the World, by Robert Hugh Benson (1907)

“In one of the first such [dystopian] novels of the twentieth century, Robert Hugh Benson imagines a world where belief in God has been replaced by secular humanism. Lord of the World describes a world where Catholics are falling away, and priests and bishops are defecting. Only a small remnant of the faithful remains. Julian Felsenburgh, a mysterious and compelling figure arises, promising peace in exchange for blind obedience. Those who resist are subjected to torture and execution. Soon the masses are in Felsenburgh's thrall, and he becomes leader of the world. Into this melee steps the novel's protagonist, Fr. Percy Franklin. Dauntless and clear-sighted, Franklin is a bastion of stability as the Catholic Church in England disintegrates around him. Benson's harrowing plot soon brings these two charismatic men into a final apocalyptic conflict.” – Amazon.

          This rather bald summation by Amazon does not do justice to Lord of the World, but then it would be very hard indeed to do so. It makes it sound like a simple work of propaganda of Christianity against secularism; it is instead an almost prophetic analysis of much that happened in the development of attitudes between 1907 (the date of publication) and 2007 (the approximate year the story takes place).

          Besides of the ideological conflict between Franklin and Felsenburgh (who appear to be somehow contrary doppelgangers of each other), the ramifications of the new secular state are played out within the dynamics of a single family. The husband, whose government job leads him gradually into ever more bloody acts of persecution; the wife, whose natural humane instincts rebel against the riots and conceptual demands of the state; and the husband’s mother, a weak and vacillating woman who wavers between her old faith and the herd instinct that is driving her to the secularly sanctioned suicide centers. There is also a family friend, a priest who eventually apostatizes in the face of growing governmental power. Through their eyes we see a glimpse of Felsenburgh’s all-too feasible rise to dominance and the implications of his new world order.

          The modern reader might find much to struggle with here. It starts rather slowly with a preface summarizing what happened during the century since 1907. The future science described has an almost steampunk aesthetic that might seem merely quaint. But as one progresses and catches the trick of Benson’s prose (over a hundred years old, and British at that – but that should be no problem for anyone who reads, say, H. G. Wells), one is drawn ever deeper into the almost breathless drama of a world swelling towards apocalypse.

   Robert Hugh Benson (18 November 1871 – 19 October 1914) was an English Roman Catholic priest and writer. In 1903, Benson, an Anglican priest, was received into the Catholic Church; he was ordained a Catholic priest the next year. He was also a prolific writer of fiction, writing the notable dystopian novel Lord of the World, as well as Come Rack! Come Rope!. His output encompassed historical, horror and science fiction, contemporary fiction, children's stories, plays, apologetics, devotional works and articles. He continued his writing career at the same time as he progressed through the hierarchy to become a Chamberlain to Pope Pius X in 1911 and gain the title of Monsignor, before his death a few years later. - Wikipedia.

The Shadow Library: Eusebius

 

The History of the Church, by Eusebius (Translated by G. A. Williamson)

"Eusebius's account is the only surviving historical record of the Church during its crucial first 300 years. Bishop Eusebius, a learned scholar who lived most of his life in Caesarea in Palestine, broke new ground in writing the History and provided a model for all later ecclesiastical historians. In tracing the history of the Church from the time of Christ to the Great Persecution at the beginning of the fourth century, and ending with the conversion of the Emperor Constantine, his aim was to show the purity and continuity of the doctrinal tradition of Christianity and its struggle against persecutors and heretics." - Amazon.

I remember (as in a dream) having this book, not really reading it, and at some point selling it. Now I'm thinking of getting another copy.

The Letters of James Branch Cabell

 

The Letters of James Branch Cabell, Edited by Edward Wagenknecht (1975)

Published by the University of Oklahoma Press. The copy I have lacks this cover, but the picture is included as a frontispiece inside. Cabell was undergoing a bit of a renaissance in the Seventies, which I can't help but connect to the reprinting of several of his more fantastic 'romances' in the Ballantine Books classic fantasy series. There are letters from 1915 until his death in 1958; they are arranged, not in chronological order, but as to whom they were sent. Cabell kept no copies of his letters; these are all collected from his correspondents. There are three sections of photos, including Cabell, his haunts, and his family and friends. 

As for the body of the book itself ... well, it is a university press production, and from the Seventies at that. The cover is sort of a plastic pressboard, glossy and brown, of a texture that will be quite familiar to those of a certain age who purchased school almanacs or cheap religious literature from the time. It has library stamps declaring it was withdrawn from the "Zug Memorial Library/Elizabethtown College/Elizabethtown, Penna".  This amuses me, because 'Zug' is not only the name of a town and canton in Switzerland, it is also "a Lovecraftian-like monster from the fictional universe of Marvel by Marvel Comics." -H. P. Lovecraft Wiki.

When I unwrapped it I was dismayed to find that the spine had detached along one side. A quick and careful patch with transparent packing tape, however, soon rendered it fit for handling again. I haven't read any in it yet; it fact, I am in a delightful dilemma that has seldom if ever happened to me: I have almost too much to read at the moment!

"Bob's Book": Chapter Two, Page Fourteen

 

“Then what is in the basket, Miss?” I interrupted. I figured it was about time to step in and defuse the situation; also, I was truly rather hungry and was being driven to distraction by the smell. “It smells wonderful.”

The girl looked gratified at my appreciation.

“Well, I didn’t know how long this might take, so I brought along some fresh-baked hot-cross buns.” She lifted the corner of the cloth covering the basket to reveal the glossy treats inside. There was a fresh waft of scent. “I find there is no situation, whether happy or disappointing, that can’t be improved by a little treat.” She closed the corner.

“Aha! Bribery!” Rank sprang to the attack. “Leave it to a female to try to wriggle her way in anywhere with a little kitchen grease!”

“I deny the accusation.” Her disdain was calm. “And to disprove it, I offer you gentlemen to partake.” She held the basket out to us at arm’s length. She looked at Rank, head held high. “I certainly have nothing to gain from you, sir.”

Object of Interest: The Marlin Pony Go Roun'

 

I am always on the look out for various prehistoric toys that we owned since forever, many times going over Google Search or through eBay or Etsy looking for at least a picture to hold in my memory. One was a little wind-up carousel with pink, blue, and yellow horses. The original was thrown away during one of the parental toy purges; it had been broken for many years, though if you shook it you could get a reminiscent jangle. Well, last night I was looking over a video on YouTube about the 1968 S&H Green Stamps Wishbook (S&H Green Stamp Catalog Toy Section & Other Mid Century Fun! ~ Toy-Addict - YouTube) when this tiny image caught my eye. It was, of course, in the worst spot to capture a picture, but I did manage these little clips. It is perhaps too blurry for an absolute identification, but the timing (1968) is right, as is the thrifty condition under which it could be obtained. At least it gives me a name with which to pursue further investigations, though I must admit that so far I have found out nothing farther.

Update July 16th! I found this much clearer picture from Etsy, looking VERY familiar, and might just probably be our earlier incarnation (1965) of the Marlin toy:

My Cup Runneth Over

Unafraid of Virginia Woolf: The Friends and Enemies of Roy Campbell by Joseph Pearce  (Author)

Roy Campbell (1902-57) led an unquiet life marked by numerous affairs (both real and imagined), brawls (he once attacked Stephen Spender on stage during a poetry recital), and assorted stunts (with the help of Dylan Thomas, he once ate a vase of daffodils in celebration of St. David's Day). It was also marked by numerous scandals, often concerning Campbell's relationship with Virginia Woolf and her Bloomsbury group, about whom he remarked in "The Georgiad": "Hither flock all the crowds whom love has wrecked / Of intellectuals without intellect / And sexless folk whose sexes intersect...."
Capturing the imagination of the English intelligentsia with his romantic background and controversial style, Campbell was acknowledged as one of the finest poets of his generation. Joseph Pearce's biography vividly recounts the story of Campbell's wonderfully romantic life, including his youth in South America, his dangerous sojourn in revolutionary Spain during World War II, the literary friendship he forged with figures such as C. S. Lewis, T. S. Eliot, and the Sitwells, and his and his wife Mary's eventual conversion to Roman Catholicism. In Pearce's judgement, Campbell's poetry was "both perplexing and challenging - yet no more so than the poet himself." – Amazon.

Four Screenplays of Ingmar Bergman: Smiles of a Summer Night, The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, The Magician by Ingmar Bergman

TABLE OF CONTENTS: * Preface by Carl Anders Dymling, Ingmar Bergman's Producer -- * Introduction: Bergman Discusses Film-making -- 1.) Smiles Of A Summer Night -- 2.) Seventh Seal -- 3.) Wild Strawberries -- 4.) Magician - The Face -- * A Chronology of Films Directed by Ingmar Bergman -- * Major Prizes Won by Bergman Films.

It could be argued in this day of readily available personal copies of films that books of screenplays are a superfluous thing of the past. However, there is something to be said for the revelations of authorial intent that are described in Bergman's scripts, and for the slowed-down analytical scrutiny that can be made while reading instead of watching. My brother John once had a copy of this book, and I am glad to now have one of my own.

 Adventure Time: The Enchiridion and Marcy's Super Secret Scrapbook

“This book is great. This is the Enchiridion from Adventure Time and Marceline the Vampire's Scrapbook. The book was bigger than I thought it would be which is an enjoyable surprise. It is about double the size of the Adventure Time Encyclopedia (to which this book is a great companion) and I like that half of the book is the Enchiridion and the other half (just flip the book over) is Marceline’s Scrapbook. Both halves of the book get a good number of pages to impress and expand on the ever-growing world of Ooo.

“I like all the detail; you can tell this was made with love by fans of the show. It is written by Martin and Olivia Olson who both play characters on Adventure Time. Olivia plays Marceline. There are cool little things like taped-down pieces, and tons of little scribbles and sketches. I really like the parchment-style scrolls and spell sections in the Enchiridion and the hand-drawn sketches in the Scrapbook. This book is really great for the price … a wonderful book for any fan of Adventure Time and can be appreciated by anyone of any age. The Adventure Time Enchiridion and Marcy’s Super Secret Scrapbook is mathematical, and you have to get it. FULLY RECOMMENDED.” – Graham Swearingen, Amazon review [slightly edited].

I got the Roy Campbell biography and the Bergman screenplays in the mail yesterday, but most of my time was occupied with first preparing for and then enjoying a combined birthday party and family get-together for two of my nephews. I made cupcakes and hot cheese dip, and there were grilled hamburgers and hot dogs. There was gift-giving and swimming in the pool and then a Scategories game tournament (in which the boys' team won, for once). I was far too busy to post anything. Then The Enchiridion came this morning. I'm of course still working on A Mirror of Shallot and haven't read (or re-read, as the case may be) any of these new acquisitions from the Wish List just yet, so I present these, as it were, potted reviews. I am well supplied for summer reading right now!

Two From the Wish List

 

The Light Invisible/ A Mirror of Shalott: The Supernatural Stories of Monsignor Robert H. Benson

Two collections of short stories, each volume's tales linked by a framing device. In The Light Invisible (1906) the stories are told by an elderly priest who recounts instances (many that happened to him) in which many everyday experiences are revealed to have deeper significance when viewed by 'the Light Invisible', supernatural insights granted to the viewer by a supernatural grace. In A Mirror of Shalott (1907), a gathering of priests, in an effort to analyze the purpose and nature of supernatural occurrences, each tell their own best personal tale of such encounters. I got it in the mail yesterday, and have only as yet read most of the first part, but I am finding it quite engaging. Benson, a Catholic priest, has proved to be a very interesting writer; his Lord of the World (1907) is a great mixture of science fiction/dystopian/apocalyptic genres and a very early example of such; it is available for free on Kindle.

A Naked Tree: Love Sonnets to C. S. Lewis and Other Poems, by Joy Davidman; Edited by Don W. King (2015)

And I got this book just today, so I know very little about it (in an intimate sense). I do know that I always enjoyed the little bits of Joy's poetry that I did read and was always interested to see more. Until quite recently (well, the last decade or so) many of her papers had been in the care of her old friend Jean Wakeman, who in the light of her failing health passed them on to Joy's son, Douglas Gresham. Thus many of Davidman's poems are finally published here for the first time. Perhaps the most interesting is the cycle of sonnets (some of them in fact recycled and repurposed) which she presented to C. S. Lewis. They are certainly (if their prominence in the title of the volume is any indication) presented as a major selling point, though they take up only a tiny sliver of the book. But a quick riffle through the pages assures me that there is much more to be seen here. I let Amazon take up the tale:

"Although best known as C. S. Lewis's wife, Joy Davidman was a gifted writer herself who produced, among other things, two novels and an award-winning volume of poetry in her short lifetime.

"The first comprehensive collection of Davidman's poetry, A Naked Tree includes the poems that originally appeared in her Letter to a Comrade (1938), forty other published poems, and more than two hundred previously unpublished poems that came to light in a remarkable 2010 discovery.

"Of special interest is Davidman's sequence of forty-five love sonnets to C. S. Lewis, which offer stunning evidence of her spiritual struggles with regard to her feelings for Lewis, her sense of God's working in her lonely life, and her mounting frustration with Lewis for keeping her at arm's length emotionally and physically.

"Readers of these Davidman poems -- arranged chronologically by Don King -- will discover three recurring, overarching themes: God, death, and immortality; politics, including capitalism and communism; and (the most by far) romantic, erotic love. This volume marks Joy Davidman as a figure to be reckoned with in the landscape of twentieth-century American poetry." – Amazon.

From STUDIO GHIBLI (and also michael dudok de wit)

    “The Red Turtle is a 2016 animated fantasy drama film co-written and directed by Dutch animator Michaël Dudok de Wit and produced by Toshio Suzuki from Japan. The film is a co-production between Studio Ghibli and several French companies, including Wild Bunch, and tells the story of a man who becomes shipwrecked on a deserted island and meets a giant red female turtle. The film has no dialogue. The film was nominated for the Best Animated Feature Film for the 89th Academy Awards.” – Wikipedia.

          It is also one of the two feature-length films from Ghibli that I haven’t seen yet (the other is “Earwig and the Witch”, a CGI-animated style film based on the book by Diana Wynne Jones). Although it has just come in and I haven’t had a chance to watch it yet, the buzz on "The Red Turtle" is generally positive (hopefully I find it more engaging than "Ocean Waves"). It appears to me to have vague connections to the Japanese tale of “Urashima Taro” and his adventures far from the world of men after rescuing a turtle in distress. When the mood is right, I shall have a viewing, perhaps this evening.

Update: As of June 29th I have watched the film, and found it beautiful, engaging, and even visionary. It turns out to be much more akin to the "Animal Bride" archtype, where a creature like a selkie or a swan-maiden has their animal skin stolen, is stuck as a human, and then is forced to marry her captor, leaving as soon as she recovers her skin. Here, however, it appears it is the turtle who will not let the man leave and takes on human form to be with him. I was worried that the lack of dialogue would make the film slow or even pretentious; instead, it adds to the dreamlike and universal quality of the story.

Keeper of Secrets

 

Today I went into the hospital to have a venogram and then got a couple of stents put in my legs. Along the way I discovered the "interesting" experience of a foley catheter. But I was somewhat consoled when I returned home to find that UPS had delivered my Aughra action figure from "The Dark Crystal: The Age of Resistance". I very nearly threw away her walking stick, which was not very prominent in the packaging. I've always wanted an Aughra, and having missed most of the recent series of figures from the movie "The Dark Crystal", this version is a very well-done 'consolation prize' and most reasonably priced.

Oh, and considering the few days I'll need for recovery, my posts will probably slow down for a while.

"Bob's Book": Chapter Two, Page Thirteen

 

Rank was amused.

“I think the scullery is in the back, child. This is the Secretary’s office.”

“I know it is,” she said. She glared at him defiantly. “I am here to be an agent.”

Rank paused, flabbergasted for a moment, then his face wrenched in disgust.

“Ye gods. Infants, and girls now, too.”

“I beg your pardon.” She promptly pulled out a pamphlet from her pocket, as if she had been expecting to argue this point. “But it is explicitly stated that there are positions for both men and women.”

“But a lady agent …”

“Father O’Connor assures me there are such in the Department.”

“Who’s Father O’Connor?” I asked.

She spoke to me but continued to frown intensely at Rank.

“He’s priest at our church. He’s had necessity to deal with the Bureau on occasion. When I told him about my condition … ” She suddenly turned red under her freckles and coughed. “He … he said I might find a position here.”

Now the older boy looked interested.

“What condition?” There was insinuation in his tone.

The girl’s face went even redder.

“That’s none of your business!” she snapped.

McQueeney Memories

 

"Bob's Book": Chapter Two, Page Twelve

I could tell that as far as Rank was concerned, she needn’t have bothered. The bright red hair that peeked out of her bonnet, her almost flat physique, and the large freckles on her face certainly did not conform to the ideals of beauty of the day. I was a little more curious about her, particularly about why she was there. I watched while she set her basket down on the seat next to her and fidgeted it into place.

“Aren’t you a little early to peddle your wares, dear?” Rank said, eyes askance. “Lunch isn’t for an hour yet.”

The girl didn’t answer but drew herself up even more distantly. She cut her eyes at Rank under lowered lids, sniffed, and looked away.

“Whatever you’re selling, I’ll buy some,” I said amiably. “I haven’t had anything since five A.M. myself.”

           “I am not selling anything,” she answered stiffly. Her accent was Irish; not fresh off the boat, I reckoned, but second generation at best. “I am here for a job.” 

Hurrah and Haroo!

 

                      Walt Disney Comics Digest #14 (August 1969)

A very, very nice copy, both in condition and the quality of the art and stories. The tales are themed to the various areas of Disneyland: Donald and the Nephews struggle with the Beagle Boys on the river in Frontierland, Mickey and Goofy face off against the Wicked Witch who has set her sights on Cinderella and her castle in Fantasyland, Scrooge and Grandma Duck progress down Main Street, Chip and Dale and Jiminy Cricket go on safari in Adventureland, and Morty and Ferdie help the Three Little Pigs in Storybook Land. Also: Dumbo helps Madam Mim! Buck Duck rides again! Summer Magic (Part One)! And Windwagon Smith sails the prairies.

"Bob's Book": Chapter Two, Page Eleven

 

Rank opened his mouth angrily to reply but was stopped by the door suddenly opening again. We both turned in surprise to see the head of a young girl in a straw hat peering into the room, lips pressed primly as she scanned the room. She paused for a fraction of a moment as she saw us staring back wordlessly, dismissed us, then passed on to the clearly empty desk. She nodded as if taking in the fact. She came fully into the room, and I could she was wearing a plain green dress, with white fringe on the skirt and sleeve appointments. Even the ribbons on her hat were plain but starched freshly white. There was a kind of traveling cape around her shoulders and she carried a covered basket in the crook of her left arm. Continuing to ignore us she chose a seat on the other side of the room as if leaving a safety zone between the sexes and sat down with a rustle.

"Bob's Book": Chapter Two, Page Ten

 

“I don’t think my Pa would try to get me into the Bureau if he didn’t think I was fit for it …” I began.

“Hah!”

“Well, what makes you think you’re so all-fired right for the job?” I was starting to get hot.

“Because I have a brain! I have real natural philosophical training! I began applying myself in school to the subject, and I have spent every waking hour since in reading, digesting, and pondering every new discovery that the genius of Man is making!” Now he was starting to get hot, and practically preaching. He held his hands up to his head as if to contain his mighty brain.

“I am always thinking, thinking, thinking, and there is no reliance on antique fairy tales and no metaphysical mustiness in my head. If I were an agent, I’d soon put this department on a firm scientific basis, and no mistake! This is the Age of Reason, by God, and there is no room for ghost stories anymore.” He thumped his fist into his palm with a smack.

I looked at him, eyes wide.

“Well then,” I said, sitting back, voice bland. “I think you may have come to the wrong place, friend.”

More "New" Digests, Just in Today!

Numbers 12, 19, and 20, now in the Archive! Settling down to peruse these perfect summer reads. My 'rewrites' might be a little late today.

The Mystery of the Ages is Accomplished ... Er, Kinda

 

Just got the two issues of Walt Disney's Donald Duck Comics Digest (#1 and #3) that I'd been missing since the Eighties. Now I just need to get all the missing issues from the old Gold Key Digests.

"Bob's Book": Chapter Two, Page Nine

 “An agent? You?” He inspected me up and down. He snorted. “You hardly look qualified. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen! And what makes you think you can be an agent?”

“Well, my Pa works here,” I said. “And he says I have the one thing I need to be an agent.”

“And that would be what … strength? Brains?” Under Rank’s critical stare I was beginning to feel, for the first time, that maybe my appearance wasn’t quite up to snuff or my clothes quite city standard. “Frankly, you don’t look like you’ve got much of either, just yet.”

“He didn’t really say,” I said doubtfully.

“And what does your ‘Pa’ do here?”

I felt on firmer ground here.

“He’s an agent, sir; Mr. Chase Bellamy,” I said proudly. “You might have heard of him. He’s been in the Department quite a while.”

He was dumbfounded.

“Mr. Bella … Mr. Chase Bellamy? Well, that explains it!” He sat back bitterly. “I don’t know why I thought the Bureau would be any different from the rest of Washington.”

I was mystified. “What do you mean?”

“Nepotism!” he thundered. “Every goddam government job is becoming a hereditary sinecure! Oh, you’ve got the one thing you need all right: connections! It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.”

He crossed his arms and looked away, hunched and grumbling to himself.

    “Every no-good nephew and cousin being crammed into office … no chance for a skilled outsider …” He cut his eyes sideways at me. “While even young pups get consideration …” His voice was heavy with scorn.

"Bob's Book": Chapter Two, Page Eight

 

The door opened briskly, and a young man walked in, swiveling his head around inquisitively as he looked around. He was about nineteen years old, taller than me, lanky, and his neat clothes seemed to have come out of some of the better second-hand shops. His face was rather bony with bulging blue eyes that crinkled humorously as they landed on me.

“Well, I don’t think you’re Mr. Williams, are you?” he said dismissively.

I pointed to the desk

“No, he’s out. There’s a note.”

 

He marched over, picked it up, read it, then snapped it down again.

“Mm-hm.” He glanced around quickly, assessing the room, then stepped to the bench seat right in front of the desk and sat down. He was still in talking distance but had positioned himself so he would be right in front of Mr. Williams’ line of sight. He looked down at me triumphantly, as if he had gained the high ground. He reached out a patronising hand.

“Howard Ransom Rank, come to be an agent, sir. And you are?”

“Bob,” I said, and we shook hands briefly.

Rank sat back.

“Bob, eh? And what do you do here, Bob? Page or something, I suppose?”

“No, no. Here to be an agent myself, in fact,” I said mildly.