Dear God, people. Please help me, for I have gone terribly astray. Before I continue with my
apologia biblia, let me tell you a tale of wonder and romance; a story that begins with a fleeting glimpse from a passing car and develops into perhaps the greatest discovery since Cortez found all those Aztecs and stole all their money.
Here in Eyrieville, there is a magical place on the downtown square. I first saw this mythic and bewitching spot as I drove mindlessly toward my new home some two or three days after moving all of my earthly possessions in the hottest truck in the Western world, and I was preoccupied by the customary aches and pains that result from repeatedly lifting things that are far too heavy for you for many days and nights. Perhaps this is why I did not fully realize the miracle I had just been permitted to sully with my cursory glance; or perhaps it was the oppressive heat that prevented my immediate and complete worship of the magnificent edifice that stood before me. Whatever the reason, I drove past in an ignorant stupor, and the workaday world kept on spinning in its usual way for some time.
A few days later, my wife and I decided to check out some of the junk/antique shops lining Eyrieville's remarkably lively courthouse square. While strolling back toward the car, I again noticed the strange purple building with the unusual words "Opera House 1901" on its tall facade.
"Hmm," I said, "I think that's supposed to be a used book store."
"Well, you certainly don't need any more books," my wife quickly remarked.
"I know, I know; but maybe I could just duck in and have a look around. These downtown places are never more than one or two rooms with a few musty paperbacks and old library books; it won't take long."
"Oh, alright," she said reluctantly, "but I'm staying in the truck. Leave me the keys."
I carelessly tossed my wife the keys and strolled brashly up to the unassuming doors of the establishment, barely noticing the sign above the door brandishing the name that I would come to love so dearly only minutes later. Upon entering the quiet gloom and blinking the harsh, sunny glare out of my eyes, I stood for a moment in slack-jawed wonder. The room was brimming with books. 10-foot tall shelves towered above me, crammed full to overflowing with many more books than I had expected.
My initial awe subsided somewhat when I noticed that the room also contained DVDs, VHS tapes, CDs and cassettes.
"Oh," I thought foolishly, "this must be it. I'll just glance around and see if I can find the poetry section."
I glanced around and found no poetry, drama, or even general fiction of any kind! What sort of store was this?! All I could find was tons of mystery and an inordinate amount of theology and philosophy. It was then that I saw the small doorway at the end of the row, revealing a room on a lower level that looked to have a few more books in it. When I passed through the doorway and down a ramp into the other room, I was astonished to see that it was even bigger and more jam-packed with books than the last one! Staring agog at the piles and piles of books on art, photography, architecture, science fiction, drama, interior decorating and gardening, I hastily assumed that I had found the rest of the store.
But gentle readers, there were
two more doorways leading out of this chamber, and what was more, a
staircase led up to another
entire floor of books, almost as large as the main level! My breath caught in my throat as my eyes dilated like those of a hungry shark, and my palms began to sweat profusely. I felt like some intrepid British Egyptologist, crawling throuugh chamber after chamber of the massive tomb he's just uncovered at Giza.
I soon discovered that both classic and contemporary fiction was all upstairs along with poetry and literary criticism, but I couldn't find anything on mythology or folklore (a subject that has become my main concern of late), so I went back to the main room to ask for assistance.
"Sure, we have a mythology section," the woman behind the counter said with a chuckle, "but it's kinda hard to find."
"Oh, did I miss it in the adjacent room? I thought I had looked at most of the rows, but there are just so many," I replied with obvious admiration.
"No, no, no," she shook her head, "mythology's in the basement."
"Th...the...the basement?" I stammered.
"Yeah, just go down the stairs behind the counter there, and then go through the first room on your right. Follow that through into the very back corner room, and you'll see the signs for mythology/folklore. You can follow them the rest of the way."
"Uh...um...thanks," I said over my shoulder as I swaggered unsteadily toward the hidden stairway she had indicated. I wept silent tears of joy as I stepped down from the bottom step. The entire space of the room above was duplicated down on this level, and shelves upon shelves of books stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see.
By the time I had found my way back to the truck outside, my wife had called both of her sisters and was on the phone with her mother. I looked down and was surprised to see that I had bought four books. They were in great condition and hadn't cost a fortune.
But now, readers, now I've been to that wonderful store every day this week, and I never leave without buying something. My bookshelves, which had just begun to take on some semblance of order, are once again burgeoning with excess volumes. They're everywhere. There are stacks on the floor...stacks on the nightstand...stacks in the closet; I don't even remember which book I was reading last!
And I've got nothing to do until August 23rd! I know I will keep going back to that beautiful place if someone doesn't stop me! Please, please, someone check me into a clinic or something before it's too late!
We've all come across the word, sometimes on Christmas cards, sometimes as part of the title of a lame children's Christmas music CD (i.e. "Cool Yule"), sometimes in the lyrics of those most sacred Christmas carols themselves:
Madam, pray tell us what "Yule" or "Yuletide" is all about.
He was extremely short-sighted, and his eyepiece of choice was most often a monocle. He was terrified of mental illness due to his father George's excessive drinking and resultant epileptic fits. He was a direct descendant of King Edward III. Towards the end of his life, he allowed himself to be recorded by Thomas Edison as he railed against his own verse.
I have a confession to make, me bloggies. I have become something of a 
Well? Is anyone there? For the last several posts, I've felt rather like a blind mime performing for an audience of no one. Blogs cannot live without an audience, so this mime might just have to wipe off his make-up and hang up his invisible ladder if he doesn't start getting some comments. I do have other things to do, you know. Jeesh, people.
