Saturday at Murphys

You Are Here 

I stopped counting after the eleventh tasting room in the three-block strip that is downtown Murphys.  I counted one that isn’t open yet, though.  Including that one (I did a recount on the way out of town Sunday) there are thirteen.  Wine must be recession-proof. 

Murphys is on Highway 4, heading east into the Sierras.  During cold dry cycles it gets snow in the winter. In the summer, usually, it gets hot, into the hundreds.  This particular Saturday, clouds rolled across the blue sky, and it was about seventy degrees.  People were congratulating themselves, and each other, on what a great day it was. Murphys is a refurbished mining town, catering successfully to tourists. 

It’s Nebulous 

When I first came to Murphys, there was a small bookstore called Mother Lode Books, featuring mostly used books.  At some point, I don’t remember when, Mother Lode morphed into Sustenance Books.  It expanded into the space next to where Mother Lode had been, and is taking the approach of post-internet independent bookstores in a post-internet world—expanding inventory to include gifts and specialty items. 

Sharon and  I went in .  The one employee, Scott, was on a step-ladder doing something.  I found a field guide I wanted, and about three other books in under five minutes.  Then I walked over to a shelf that caught my eye.  

“Hey,” I said, “Is it a coincidence that you have three Nebula finalists on this one shelf?” 

“What finalists?” 

“Nebula.  Nebula award nominees, here on this science fiction shelf.” 

He shrugged, still atop the step ladder.  “I don’t know.  I’m just the Saturday guy, not the owner.” 

“You have the winner here,” I said.  This was fascinating.  I had talked to staff at two local Copperfield’s stores.  You could do a display on the Nebula finalists, I’d said.  And in both stores, staff had nodded.  That’s an interesting idea, they had said, in a tone of voice I recognized; one that meant they weren’t going to do it.  Now here were three; and an even weirder coincidence, the three that I had read. There they were, The City and the City, Boneshaker, and The Windup Girl. 

I shopped a bit more and then went up to total up my purchases. Scott clambered down off his ladder and came to help.  We were briefly interrupted by a very small boy, with his mother.  The small boy came around the counter, his face solemn, and handed Scott a picture book with both hands, as if it were a sacred object.  “We know you’re helping another customer right now,” his mother said, “but he wanted to give you that to hold.” 

Scott said, as he rang me up, “Tell me again what was on that shelf so I can act knowledgeable when the owner gets back.” 

“Nebula award finalists.  And the winner,” I said, handing over money.  “The winner is easy to remember.  Windup Girl, and winner.  Both start with W.” 

He handed me my change.  “Great,” he said.  “She’ll be impressed when I tell her I know three finalists for the nebulous awards.”

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

Sharon had an appointment back at the house, so I decided to stay and walk back.  It’s an easy walk, a little over a mile.  There were lots of new businesses open since the last time I’d spent time in town. 

One corner has a storefront that has seen many incarnations.  Right now it is Sierra Nevada Adventure.  On each side of the door is a bench, put there by the city of Murphys.  There are benches scattered along the main drive, an invitation to sit and eat your ice cream or your frozen yogurt or sip your coffee drink, and stay a bit longer in town because maybe you’ll spend a bit more money.  

A man with a brown beard and a lumberjack shirt sat on the corner bench, holding a coffee cup and a pipe.  As the breeze flared and shifted it brought me the sweet scent of his tobacco.  He leaned back against the wall, gazing across the street.  He seemed to be enjoying the weather and the people-watching. 

 I stopped next to the bench to sip my café mocha from Aria Bakery and try to get a good picture of the Murphy Hotel’s neon sign.  People strolled past.  One group went into Sierra Nevada Adventure.  A few minutes later they came out.  “I don’t understand how they’re still in business,” one of them said as they walked past us. 

A minute or two later a young woman in a green top came out of the store, barged past me and said, “Sir!”  The man on the bench looked around.  I thought she might be pursuing a shoplifter, but she approached him. “Sir,” she said again, “I have really bad asthma.  And—“ she swung her arm around behind her to point—“every time that door opens. . . . well, couldn’t you go sit on the bench by the gallery, where nobody goes?” 

The man stared at her as though he were just waking up.  Then, still sheltering his coffee cup against his chest, he held out the pipe and turned it upside down.  No burning material fell out of it. It had been empty for the past several minutes.  She was right, though, that the direction of the breeze would have blown the smell toward the door. 

“Okay, then,” she said.  She spun around and went back inside. 

He looked away from her, to gaze across the street.  

Four Freedoms 

There is another bookstore in Murphys.  Now, as a matter of fact, there are three places to get books.  Maisie Blue is behind Alchemy, a specialized gift and yarn shop that also sells a limited and targeted supply of books; mostly chick-lit and mysteries.  She is aiming at the book-club crowd and since she already pulls in the knitters that seems like a good strategy.  I bought Matthew Pearl’s The Dante Club from her. 

The other bookstore is Murphys Books.  This is a big, square unassuming space next to Sierra Hills Market, visible from the highway as you head up to Ebbets Pass. The bookstore owner here sells primarily used and remaindered books, but will special order anything.  I don’t know his name.  

He was standing outside his shop door with his face turned up toward the sun, enjoying the warmth and the breeze, clearly not lamenting the hundred-degree weather of the day before.  A local woman came in right after me.  While I was looking, she went up to the counter to pick up a book she had ordered.  They talked for a minute about the road trip she had taken with her mother. I think she said they had seen Glen Beck somewhere, or maybe that she was disappointed they couldn’t stay somewhere (DC?) to see him that day as he had his rally.  The bookstore owner said, “Oh?”  “Yes,” and “Um-hmm.” 

“I know many people don’t like him,” she said, “but he just seems so nice.”  I wondered if she had met Glen Beck in person and if he had been nice.  “People complain, but he’s just about history.  He’s all about history.” 

Yes, like I’m about neurosurgery. 

“It’s just a different history,” she said. 

“Well,” the bookstore man said, “He gets to have his say, just like we all do, right?” 

“Um, right.” 

“That’s what matters to me,” he said.  “Just that we don’t get dogmatic.  I’m glad you and your mother had a great trip.” 

She left and I picked up a hardback copy of Longitude. After all this time, the Sig-O and I still haven’t read it. The book looked so new I thought maybe it was a reprint. I brought it to the counter.  The bookstore man congratulated me on my find.  “I bet it’s never been read,” he said.  “Someone got it as a gift and gave it away.” 

While he was ringing me up I looked around.  Above the door, four posters ranged across the wall.  Freedom of Speech.  Freedom of Religion.  Freedom from Hunger.  Freedom from Fear.  Beneath the text on each one there was an illustration, very Rockwellesque. 

I said, “Wow. The four freedoms.” 

“Aren’t those great?” He smiled, and his brown eyes crinkled up at the corners.  “And they’re authentic, from the period.  I bought a bunch of old books and there was an envelope to a credit union of the time, postmarked even.  And those were inside.”  He looked up at the wall and tipped his head to one side.  “I should put the envelope up too,” he said.  “Did you notice what was between them?” 

I hadn’t, so I walked over to look.  He had two posters, signed internment orders for Americans of Japanese descent.  “I put them up there for a reason,” he said.  “Because. . .it’s about history.” 

“Because it was happening, it was all happening, at the same time?” 

He nodded.  “And it’s happening again, right now.” 

“You mean in Manhattan.” 

He nodded again.  We talked about mosques and Manzanar.  He said he thought it was all about history; that it wasn’t strange that we could have the Four Freedoms and the internment camps at the same time; that those are the choices we make when we’re frightened. We talked about how easy it was to give away or trade away our rights because we think we’re silencing, or controlling, someone else.  We were talking about FDR’s Four Freedoms, as we stood underneath them.

 I wished him a great weekend and left, wishing, for a second, that Glen Beck could have a conversation with him, because the local woman was right.  It is all about history.