The plan was simple.  When traveling to Tokyo I would stroll into the Tsuchiya Kaban store to be fitted with what would be “my first randoseru.”  But then the pandemic shut down travel . . .

I was not some little kid who would get a randoseru and carry her books in it through grade school—I was an old lady who had admired the style of the randoseru from the time my family lived on Okinawa back in the 1960s.  Dad was in the Army and we were stationed there.  School children walked along in uniforms with randoseru on their backs.  I was intrigued.

So, to finally fulfill my dream I turned to the Tsuchiya Kaban website to place an order from the U.S.  My husband measured my back to make sure I could wear one (if I lengthened the straps down to the very last hole) and I went for it!  I justified the price as being no more expensive than a designer handbag.  (And the shipping was FREE.)

Within a week a large box arrived by Japan Post.  My first randoseru was luxuriously packaged in tissue inside a gift box inside an outer shipping box.  It was everything I hoped for.  And most importantly, it fit my adult back if I fastened it in the last hole.

The craftsmanship and quality of the leather is exquisite.  It’s built to last.  The first place I wore it was to a Hello Kitty event where many young people were dressed for “cosplay.”  Several girls who could have been my granddaughter knew what I had and complimented me on it.  I told them about the website, adding that “shipping is FREE.”

So the pandemic came to an end and Japan reopened to tourism.  Finally “go-time!”  The planned 2020 trip became our 2023 trip.  We booked our ANA flights and hotel.

I decided I would carry my randoseru and use it as a purse/tote bag.  It would fit under the airplane seat.  But just before we departed for the airport, I had second thoughts and almost left it behind.  Feeling my age, I was afraid people would laugh when they saw a 72-year-old gaijin wearing a randoseru on the streets of Tokyo.

But husband Don said “You’d better use that thing.  We spent a lot of money on it!”

So I loaded it with essentials—my book, a back-up book, medications and snacks.  At last we were off!

Backpacks are standard in Japan and people are courteous when carrying them, switching from back to front-carry so they don’t bump someone.  While seated on the Yamanote Rail Line I switched the bag to my front and sat with my arms wrapped around it.  People would smile and nod and several ladies told me about their randoseru, recalling that it was red.

People weren’t shy about asking me how old I was and I answered, “nana-ju-ni-sai  (72 years old).”

When we were at Mt. Fuji a Filipino family stopped me to ask where I got my bag.  I told them to look up Tsuchiya Kaban and go to the nearest store in Tokyo.  I’m sure that lady went home to the Philippines with her very own randoseru.

As I wandered around Tokyo I was bringing smiles to ladies’ faces when they saw me wearing my randoseru. Many told me how they had worn a randoseru—a RED one. Girls wore red. Boys wore black.

One old lady in Tokyo Station couldn’t stop giggling as she tried to hide her laughter behind her hand when she recalled wearing her randoseru. I laughed along with her. I told her I always wanted one–and I didn’t care how old I was!

By then I was claiming to be nana-ju-ichi-sai (71 years old).

So I carried my randoseru as we wandered the streets and one day found myself surrounded by students wearing theirs! Many adults smiled and nodded and some even told me what color randoseru they had.

We stopped at the Tsuchiya Kaban store in Shibuya to check out the inventory.  There I wanted to buy something more, so I selected a little coin purse and carried it home inside my randoseru.

And when we landed at LAX the ANA flight attendant saw my randoseru on the floor and picked it up to help me put it on my back.  Of course, it brought back memories and she reflected on her school days.  She told me that her daughter attends a private school where she wears a uniform and carries a randoseru.

And when she asked—I told her I was nana-ju- sai (70).  That was the last comment about my age.

Back in the States, I once again became an old lady carrying an unusual leather bag on her back.

I still carry my randoseru and if anyone asks where I got it, I’ll refer them to the Tsuchiya Kaban website and add that the shipping is FREE!

So now . . . I’m roko-ju-kyu-sai (69).

A street corner butsudan confirmed that we were not lost in the dark in Japan.

The taxi driver had just dropped us off in front of a stylish two-story house in northern Kyoto that I assumed matched the address we had provided. But when I rang the buzzer and inquired about “Daniel Kelly?” and the lady of the house responded at the gate with a puzzled look, we began to wonder where we really were.

Slowly shaking her head, she kept repeating the phrase wakarimasen . . .

Wakarimasen!  Of course! Nothing lost in translation here! Wakarimasen was the one of the 25 Japanese phrases in which I was fluent. She was saying, “I don’t understand.”

I responded with an apologetic gomenasai, as my husband and I turned away.

Don was concerned because we were standing in the darkness—clearly in the wrong place, and the taxi was long gone.

“Wait,” I said. “We have to look for something I saw on Google Street View when I looked up Kelly’s studio.”

In Japan, addresses are not at all clear. Often referred to as “blocks of confusion,” even the locals need maps to find their way around. There are eight components to a Japanese address—and I won’t go into them all—but suffice it to say that even our veteran taxi driver referred to his phone and a “map-app” to get us to Daniel Kelly’s studio.

Don and I took a few steps in the darkness over to a nearby intersection and he used his flashlight to shine a light on what I was looking for—a mysterious shrine enclosed in what looked like a telephone booth with bars.  There it was!  This is what I saw on Google Street View. A Buddhist shrine—a butsudan. We couldn’t be far from the studio of world-famous artist Daniel Kelly.

We walked in the opposite direction from where we had been dropped off, but didn’t know what to do.

A small white pickup truck drove towards us. The driver had a questioning look on his face. Why wouldn’t he? We were standing in his driveway!

But he knew who we were looking for, and helped us! Domo arigato!

Instead of asking for Daniel Kelly, I should have been asking for the gaijin.  Everyone knew him that way.  He was the gaijin . . . the foreigner . . . of course! Daniel Kelly was the gaijin-artist who came to Kyoto in 1977.

Born in Idaho, and raised in Montana, Kelly grew up helping in his father’s ceramic tile and marble business. When he entered college, Kelly decided to pursue a degree in psychology, but after helping some friends set up a stained-glass studio, he realized that art was where his interests and talent would flourish. He graduated from college and moved to San Francisco in 1971 to study figurative drawing with expressionist artist Mort Levin.

And as is so often the case, there was a woman involved in another life-changing event. Daniel Kelly met her in San Francisco. She came from Kyoto. When she returned to Japan, Kelly followed her.

Living in Kyoto, Kelly tracked down the studio of Kyoto’s best woodblock print artist, Tomikichiro Tokuriki, a twelfth-generation woodblock printer who offered to take him on as a student, teaching him the basics of woodblock printing and suibokuga Japanese ink painting.

I first discovered world-famous artist Daniel Kelly when I ventured into The Verne Gallery in the “Little Italy” neighborhood in Cleveland, Ohio. It was there that I bought the book Quiet Elegance: Japan Through the Eyes of Nine American Artists, written by Michael Verne and his sister Betsy Franco.

Daniel Kelly’s art intrigued me . . . especially his striking koi themes . . . but it was one of his early creations that held a special appeal—a long horizontal woodblock print called “Buttercups” depicting a row of schoolchildren walking in the rain and carrying yellow umbrellas.

Kelly held his first showing at the Hankyu Department Store in Osaka in 1978, where his collection of misty rain-drenched landscapes, including “Buttercups” sold out. Another of those gaijin artistes working in Japan who was profiled in the book—Sarah Brayer—celebrated Kelly’s success by proclaiming, “You’re not even dead yet!”

Bold moves pay off! While in New York, Kelly showed some of his woodblock prints to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and “Buttercups” was bought by the curators and is now part of their permanent collection.

Kelly’s working much larger now. He incorporates kimono fabric, tatami matting, wooden lids, and fans into his work, placing them against three-dimensional backgrounds of Nepalese paper on wood panels. Sometimes he uses hand-inked pages from Edo-period handwritten books featuring kanji lettering for backgrounds.

His huge masterpiece “Pillow Talk” is one of several koi-themed creations dedicated to the disastrous 2011 earthquake and tsunami in the Tohoku region of Japan.

Finally in the right place, Kelly invited us to join him and his studio assistant and model, the lovely Tomomi Matsuzuki at a large table in what appeared to be his studio/living area. I explained that I had been reading about him and became fascinated with his art—especially the koi themes.

Pouring a glass of wine for me and offering a can of Yebisu beer to Don, I told Kelly how I had missed his reception at the Verne Gallery earlier in the year, and when Michael Verne learned that my husband and I were going to be visiting Kyoto, he told me to “Go and find him in his studio!”

So I did! I explained how I came to be in Japan and that my interest stemmed from my days as an army brat living on Okinawa with my family back in the 1960s.

“My brother was a military brat,” volunteered Kelly.  “The stories he told me when I was young, about living in Japan probably inspired me to end up here.”

I wondered about that statement—but before I could ask, Kelly cleared things up, adding that his brother was actually a half-brother—and that his family was a “modern family” before we knew it as a popular term.  It sounds like there were at least three marriages for his mom and dad.  It could only be a bigger story, but not the one I was trying to put together.

Great art challenges the rules. And Kelly is one who definitely challenges the rules.

A huge creation was propped against the opposite wall—with wooden support strips behind it for ease in transport. “Little Giant,” a fish-eye lens portrait of Tomomi, had been exhibited in Tokyo at a weekend show and had been acquired by someone in Melbourne. SOLD! Soon to be packed and crated.

Just a week before the exhibition Tomomi posted on Facebook that “Daniel stayed up all night!”

We all laughed.

I got it.  I totally got it! Kelly and I were in agreement that yes, we creative souls do find ourselves staying up late or even all night long . . . while drinking wine. The solitude of late night hours only boosts creativity.

My cell phone went off and I picked up, answering authentically—as I had planned.

“Moshi, moshi , , , hai . . . dozo!”

Like I knew what I was saying!  But it sounded convincing to our son and his radio audience.

“Boy-san” was back at home in Cleveland, broadcasting live on college radio station WRUW-FM 91.1. Paul had planned to phone us using the free LINE app and put me live on-air to talk about what we were doing in Japan!

Anyway, Paul’s previous calls to us in Japan had not worked out well.  We often were somewhere too noisy to talk, but this time he caught us at Daniel Kelly’s studio. This time we could talk. Even Kelly could talk.

Leading up to the big overseas phone call, Paul had been playing selections by “Shonen Knife,” a female-fronted Japanese punk rock band as a lead-in, telling his “drive-time” audience that he would be calling somebody in Japan—namely his parental units . . . to find out what they were up to 14 hours into the future.

I told him that we were now in Kyoto, and at the studio of a world famous artist with a Cleveland connection to a gallery in the Little Italy neighborhood.

“Do you want to speak to Daniel Kelly?”

I handed my phone over to Kelly, expecting him to say a few words to his art-fans in Cleveland, but Kelly was speaking way too fast and getting into something about the current state of academics in America. I can’t quite remember all that he said, but it was not what I expected.

(And even later when I caught up with Paul, he told me that Kelly was speaking so rapidly that he was breaking up over the LINE app. Only every other word could be heard. Someone did phone in to the station to say that he had been to The Verne Gallery and knew Kelly’s art, but by that time Kelly was no longer on the phone, so all Paul could say was, “Thanks for calling. I’ll let him know.”)

All of a sudden Kelly proclaimed that he was hungry!

Were we hungry? We should all go out to dinner!

We followed Kelly and Tomomi out of the studio and down the street to a neighborhood sushi-counter restaurant with about eight stools and several small tables.  Every counter seat was taken and we squeezed into a small table for four. Tomomi took charge, ordering what she thought we would like—she was right!

Don and I didn’t really know what we were eating, but it was authentic and delicious! We continued to drink . . . but now from large bottles of Asahi  beer . . . Kampai!

Getting fuzzy, all I can recall was miso soup and a mushroom perched atop a pillow of sushi rice. Don remembers raw salmon . . . and then barbequed salmon . . . we were eating like locals—Anthony Bourdain would approve!

The sushi-chef behind the counter surfaced every now and then to see how we were doing, while a lady who was most likely his wife, kept changing the tiny dishes with new delicacies. It was like we had found an undiscovered sushi-joint in “Parts Unknown” and for now I will call our chef, “Masa-san.”

Kelly observed our feeble use of chopsticks and instructed us in the easiest way to handle them, but it didn’t help much. Don and I are still working on our chopsticks prowess. We will never give up. We can only get better . . . way better.

Kelly asked someone to call for a taxi to take us back to our hotel while he and I split the check. I pulled a 10,000 Yen note out of my saifu for our share. It was after I had drunk quite a few glasses of Asahi and I can’t remember for certain. It must have been 10,000 . . .  I was feeling fuzzy, but it couldn’t have been 100,000 Yen.

At least in Japan, there is no tipping . . . no tipping!

Daniel Kelly and I have several things in common:  keeping late hours while drinking Costco wine and blasting music to fuel our creativity!

After I returned home, I stopped by The Verne Gallery to update world famous art dealer Michael Verne about our visit to Kelly. I looked around the gallery at all the original Kelly pieces now with a greater appreciation. And then my eyes settled upon a small woodblock print on the floor. Two empty cans of Yebisu had been tossed against a kimono fabric background . . .

“I know that beer,” I exclaimed. “We drank that beer.”

“But why is this print called ‘Dead Soldiers’?”

Verne explained the meaning of the title to me, and later my husband confirmed it.

Empty beer cans—dead soldiers.

I get it. And I can just picture Kelly tossing those empty cans aside and then turning them into art.

 

Here’s my police blotter from 12-27-2001.  Skip over the mundane and proceed to the final entry.

I submitted my blotter late that night to the SUN MESSENGER and didn’t give it another thought.  I figured the editor would laugh and move on . . . but I heard nothing.

Someone over at the CLEVELAND FREE TIMES read the blotter entry and ran with it.  Things escalated with heightened embellishment.  Mass hysteria?  Remember when almost everyone was on the hunt for Bin Ladin?

Mayfield Heights police said there was nothing reported on the day in question, but sightings were confirmed by a manager at TGIFriday’s . . . and my editor stood by the blotter item.

After I read the FREE TIMES that week, I didn’t pick up the phone!  I laid low and stayed away from the windows . . . was I going to be fired?

I’ve been randomly selected for jury duty five times now.  How random is that?

The first time was back in 2006 and I was an eager-to-serve juror who believed in the system of trial by a jury of a defendant’s peers.  It sounded good with my background as a legal secretary and later as a newspaper stringer for the Plain Dealer and the Sun Newspapers.  I knew I would make a good juror.

That first case in 2006 involved a civil malpractice lawsuit and we were a good group of jurors who paid attention and resolved a unanimous verdict within an hour.  It was pretty much “cut-and dried.”

The most recent case was a criminal case, involving a young male defendant who was suspected of molesting young girls in the household in which he lived.  We the jury were to watch videotaped testimony from these children because they were too young to be exposed to courtroom proceedings.

During voir dire we jurors were asked if we had been victims of crime.  Some people were so excited over their jury duty that they went into way too much detail about their brushes with crime—most of which were not even worth mentioning.  I kept thinking, “Who cares about your sister-in-law’s burglary anyway?  Stay on point people!  Don’t digress!  We’ve got a case here.”

So how does this really work?  In today’s overview I learned that we may serve every two years!  And that it is based on voter registration and once we serve, our information goes back into the computer selection system for another random opportunity.

I can be called to jury duty until I’m 75 years old.  That’s the age when you may decline.

What do I have in common with today’s defendants—the majority of whom are recidivists who are being processed through the American system of fair trial, learning legal procedure as they go and if found guilty, immediately file an appeal—because that’s the way the system works.

My husband is also a frequent juror.  He served on a criminal case involving an armed robbery of a jewelry store, and his group returned a unanimous guilty verdict.  The “gang that couldn’t shoot straight” apparently planned their heist as they drove along.  The suspects selected a small neighborhood jewelry store and then discovered that most transactions are done by credit card so there was little actual cash on the premises.  But wait!  If there wasn’t much cash on hand, there certainly was jewelry!  Jewelry?  Didn’t anyone think?

And by directing the saleswomen to move and kneel on the floor between the display cases (FULL OF JEWELRY) the charges escalated to include kidnapping.

When the gang made their getaway in an easily-identifiable Ford Taurus with an add-on nifty rear spoiler, they stopped for a refueling at a Marathon station at East 55^th and Superior.  Surveillance cameras caught them all.

And cell phone towers can come into play.  The gang’s cell phones “pinged” to a tower near the jewelry store at the time of the crime.  And because the getaway car came from a used car lot, there was a GPS tracker on it indicating it was parked outside the driver’s home for several days after the crime.

Because one of the suspects brandished a firearm during the crime the charges escalated to armed robbery for all.  The rest of the defendants must have made plea deals because the station’s video surveillance ID’d them, but only the getaway driver insisted on a full jury trial.  They were a good efficient jury and returned a unanimous verdict of guilty.  The defendant was well-versed in his rights and filed an immediate appeal.

I wonder where that defendant is now.  Probably still appealing.  It’s the system.

So Don’s time of service was pre-pandemic.  That makes five for me and four for Don.  Any day now . . .

 

The hardest thing I would ever love was the Elementary Japanese 101 class that I enrolled in—at Cleveland State University as a “Project 60-something” student. I wanted only to be one of those audit-students sitting on the sidelines, but with Sensei-Lena, there are no sidelines.

Gathered in the hallway outside of the locked classroom on the very first day of class, a young student scurried past me . . . chanting, “Sensei, Sensei, Sensei” in a loud stage-whisper.

Sensei was approaching . . . striding briskly down the narrow hallway . . . rolling a carry-on bag behind her. Who was Sensei?

Filled with doubt about my ability, but reassured by the safety net of my “Project 60 audit status,” I figured I would certainly get something out of this class, and maybe even learn to speak some Japanese along the way. My plan was to sign up again the next time it was offered . . . and continue to learn at my own pace. I am a lifelong learner . . . and always want more.

One of the toughest teachers at CSU, Sensei Lena Vidahl commands respect. And she gets it.

The first comment Sensei made to the class was that we all must be able to write in cursive to master the stroke order. That I could do!

I went home that first day to master the first five vowel sounds in hiragana. Not too bad.

After the second class, I went home and gobbled a cupcake! And later that night, I hit the wine.

What was I thinking? Sensei was tough. Sensei was demanding. Sensei was absolutely certain that we all would be speed-reading hiragana and katakana . . .

Moving quickly, Sensei kept introducing another five symbols/sounds . . . and then another five . . . until we had more or less mastered the 46 hiragana . . . before moving on to the 46 katakana . . . and then . . . and then? Something about diacritical marks . . . called ten-ten and maru.

More cupcakes . . . more wine . . .

I was the most pathetic student in class, and the slowest, but I would not give up! Sensei assured me that if I followed her plan and if I could stick with it, I could be speed-reading and speaking what I had memorized.

No arguing with Sensei.

It was as if the class had fallen under the spell of a truly gifted teacher. Sensei demanded a lot, but did so in a spirit of trust and respect. And as a result, it seemed like her students would do anything for her. They were not merely her students—they were her fans!

I was totally stressing about how I had so much trouble memorizing the symbols . . . let alone even beginning to learn how to write them, when finally, husband Don planted his hands firmly on each of my shoulders and like a sergeant conferring an order upon a private, said, “What is going on with you? This is an audit class! This is Project Sixty. There is no grade!”

Like a drill instructor, Sensei-Lena could have barked out an order at any time to “DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY” . . . I was determined to make this class work because push-ups were real hell.

And my secret plan still was to take the class once more, before our trip to Okinawa in 2016 so that I could at least “speak like a gaijin.”

My flashcards went everywhere with me. As I drifted off to sleep each night, a hiragana symbol lingered in my head, and when I awoke in the morning, the first thing I did was reach for my deck of cards.

And when I awoke early one morning with hiragana in my head, and reached for my flashcards . . . I got it! I got it. I got it!

Of course! Sensei was right. We weren’t going to simply repeat phrases in a language we didn’t understand . . . we weren’t going to use rote memorization to learn this foreign language . . . chanting along as though we had learned how to say something and understood it . . . Sensei was taking us through a back door, into the heart of the language.

So if we were able to read the symbols, we would use the written language to speak Japanese “speedily” and effortlessly. I got it. I could only hope that I would catch up with the rest of the class. I was slow at memorizing, but I wouldn’t give up. I wanted to make these symbols part of me. I had to know them, not decipher them. I wanted to be able to speed-read them, but I couldn’t seem to keep up with my classmates.

It seemed like everyone else in class possessed some secret background in this mysterious language.

The Japanese art history class that I planned to take had been cancelled and that’s how I ended up in this class. Like the previous semester, I intended to take a class and then retreat to my corner on the third-floor of the Student Center and put in a few hours, writing on my ThinkPad.

Not now. I had made the commitment to this class.  I would take these symbols one-by-one, hiragana-by-katakana, in an effort to conquer them—like noted author Anne Lamott would recommend in her book, “Bird-by-Bird:  Some Instructions on Writing and Life.”

If I could somehow master the symbols well enough to decipher and perhaps speak some Japanese, I would consider this class a personal success.

 

Class aide Brian Moran pulled me aside one day to help me with flashcard drill, and I couldn’t help but notice his technique as he held his mechanical pencil—it was clear that he knew what he was doing by his stroke order and style! Brian held his pencil upright, much like Asian brush artists hold their brushes when doing calligraphy. I was impressed . . .

Still I struggled. It seemed like I had essentially learned to recognize the 46 hiragana, but then began to mix up some of them. Oh, great. I thought I had it, but then had to really concentrate upon the ones that I continued to mix up. The class had already moved onto the diacritical marks and then came the day that Sensei announced that we should master katakana on our own.

She gave us one month to do it. She was right. There was no point in taking class time to drill one another on these 46 additional symbols. We knew what to do and could take them five at a time, like we did with the hiragana. Just do it! To quote Sensei: “Okie-dokie?”

Okidoki. There’s got to be some kana for that . . .

 

Sensei took ten minutes at the end of every class to answer questions. She called upon us randomly. I always had a question ready, but saved one in particular from Don for a day when the class needed a good laugh.

The day finally had arrived.

I had given Don a few books to peruse when we were making our plans to travel to Japan in the fall of 2011. One of those books was that “oh-so-silly” Dave Barry Does Japan.

All of a sudden one evening, Don demanded to know if what Mrs. Barry said was true. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I soon learned the details. While on a shopping expedition, Beth Barry returned to the hotel room and announced, “I heard two farts today. Out on the street, walking around.”

“Really?” said Dave.

“Really,” she said. “You’re allowed to fart in public here.”

I need to re-read that book . . . I assumed that Dave Barry was taking artistic license and injecting his trademark humor into some parts of his book.

But it was time for Don’s question. So I asked—on his behalf.

Only Sensei could confirm or deny.  The class erupted.

Sensei laughed too and pointed out that while there were instances of public urination in Japan, farting probably was not encouraged.  I felt like an idiot, but I was getting used to that. It could have been possible. The Japanese do slurp food noisily, to show that it is to their liking . . .

The consensus of opinion was that the Japanese are far too polite . . . to tolerate public farting . . . NO—definitely a NO!

It was a set-up. I blame Dave Barry . . . or really Beth.

 

Juku or “cram-school” is a phenomenon unique to Japan. Providing supplementary education to students whose parents are able to afford them, juku enables ambitious students with an option to study to improve their scores for entrance examinations for secondary school. Clearly, I needed some juku—pronto!

The class was zoom-zoom-zooming, and I was going down, down, down, falling farther behind. I was having trouble with the basic stroke order for writing the symbols. I needed to practice over and over, writing the hiragana strokes from left to right and then top to bottom. I seemed always to be behind the others, but I figured if I could manage to read the symbols—would I ever really need to write them?

Apparently Sensei thought the package wasn’t complete without mastering writing.  After class one day, she confronted me and said that she knew what my problem was: that I simply didn’t think I could do this, but she was positive that I could!

Darn. She was using some serious “teacher-psychology-strategy” here. I couldn’t take the easy way out. She was right. If she had faith in my ability, how could I let her down? I went home and returned to my basic writing practice . . . once again.

A holiday approached—NO CLASS! The university would be closed for Veterans Day, but I had a sinking feeling that if I logged onto the CSU Japanese Facebook page, Brian would be posting directions to a secret study-bunker in a previously undisclosed location, encouraging us to meet him there . . . I never looked.

I stumbled along, and I came up with a few mnemonic clues to help me recognize hiragana and katakana and kanji. But that little “stick-man on the parallel bars” never did stand out to me as being the kanji for the word “home.” And of course, in true confusing kanji fashion, there are two symbols to express “home.” The other one resembles a pig, with a roof over it . . .

I had a few personal favorites, like the little Christmas tree kanji that meant kasa, which translated into umbrella. I thought it was cute. And if you put a kanji for sun in front of the little Christmas tree, it means higasa, or sun parasol!

 

I promised to wear out my flashcards throughout the summer months and clear my calendar for next fall semester when the class appeared on the schedule again.

I listened to Japanese language CDs as I drove back and forth to Cleveland State, hoping to pick up some key vocabulary and pronunciation tips. I came across a signature sentence that I decided to claim for my own:

 私は毎日飲む Watashi wa mainichi nomu*

*“I drink every day.”

Driftwood Gallery in Euclid was in business for 57 years before closing in 2018.

Owner Jon Boyton was a self-proclaimed “framing whore” and every time I walked in with a few things under my arm, he couldn’t wait to see what I had.

I brought him unique items that needed to be preserved.  Jon snatched the 1965 yellow metal license plate from Okinawa . . . and then he eagerly grabbed two small rocks that I pocketed from Shuri Castle, along with my castle tour ticket from the 2006 Kubasaki High reunion trip.  Jon was all for preserving memories.  If there was a faded old family photo that had writing on the back identifying the people in the photograph,  he made a photocopy and pasted it on the back.  Jon and I shared a philosophy about preserving things for posterity.

His prices were reasonable, and it got to the point where all I said was, “Make it pretty!”

Jon wanted to see his customers keep coming back.

With a background in art history and design, he always selected the perfect molding and coordinated it with the perfect mat.  All I had to do was hand it over and trust his judgment.

“My dad ran the place before I took over.  I learned this business from him,” said Jon.

Each time I visited I would admire a large Asian embroidered panel that was waiting to be picked up.  One day I asked Jon, “That’s still waiting for pickup?”

The next time I stopped by Jon loaded it into my Honda Element, “I don’t know what happened to that customer.  I left many messages about picking up the piece.  If they ever come back to claim it, I’ll tell them it’s in storage and I’ll give you a call.”

We had a good laugh over that.  The item that I admired for so long now hangs on the wall of our dining room.  At least I appreciate it—and as far as I’m concerned, it’s mine.

When Jon retired, he handed over the reins to his grandson and things were never the same.  Driftwood Gallery relocated under a new name and then closed temporarily, and the grandson talked about maybe reopening.  I was willing to give him my business.  Now I have no framer. 

And lucky for me that husband Don was busy at work all day.  “Frugal Fred Mertz” never questioned my frequent trips to Driftwood.

Like I said, I’ve got many tales to tell.

My favorite author Margaret Atwood appeared on Late Night with Seth Meyers recently to promote her new book Old Babes in the Wood—and she’s still dragging her old lady handbag along . . .

The first time I met her in downtown Cleveland I had not read anything except The Handmaid’s Tale.  I had it with me.  It was a first edition printing and she signed it for me.  I treasure that book.

Peggy Atwood keeps her audience laughing.  She does not take herself seriously.

***

Mystery author Rita Mae Brown was scheduled to appear at Joseph-Beth Booksellers in Lyndhurst.  I had some of her Mrs. Murphy books featuring her tiger cat Sneaky Pie to get signed—as well as a first-edition of her early feminist classic (Rubyfruit Jungle).

My friend Debbie read some of the Mrs. Murphy books and accompanied me to the event.

We were seated in the audience when a middle-aged woman with gray hair walked to the podium and thanked us all for attending and proceeded to discuss her latest book.

It must have been obvious—both Debbie and I turned over a copy of the books in our laps to glance at the author photo—and then at the woman behind the podium—and then at one another!

Brown clearly has been using the same flattering author photo for too long.  It’s definitely time for an update!

While I sat there, I was reminded about my friend M.K.’s offer to work for her as an author-escort . . . what if I had been looking for Rita Mae Brown at the airport?  Would I have found her?

***

When I showed up for an appearance by Anne Rice at Booksellers in the Pavilion Mall (who was on tour to promote the latest in her series of vampire-themed novels) I found myself standing with the treasurer from a local school district that I covered as a newspaper stringer.

Balding old Bob?  A big fan of vampire fiction?

We became “line-buddies” and were talking books!  The line wound from inside Booksellers out into the adjoining Pavilion Mall.    I could only claim to have read Rice’s first book Interview With The Vampire in softcover, but Bob was proud to tell me he was a huge fan.

Bob claimed to have read all of Rice’s books, and I could tell the conversation would likely veer into her “other” books, her series of erotica novels written in the 1980s under the pseudonym A. N. Roquelaure.  Known as The Sleeping Beauty books, Rice announced she was the author in the late ‘90s and they were reissued and now displayed right there on the shelf alongside mainstream fiction.  I had a copy of Belinda with me and got it signed along with her new release.  Belinda was considered “light” erotica and not as explicit as the Beauty series.

Again, I felt out of place with the people standing in line—so many were leaning WICCAN and into the occult, dressed like her characters.  I was happy to get my book signed and take off.  And I didn’t want to get into any deep conversations with Bob . . .

Rice’s rarest book is the first edition printing of Interview with The Vampire in a decent dust jacket.  The metallic foil jacket was a poor design choice and didn’t hold up well.  Simple handling led to creasing and edgewear.  My copy was good at best, and I was lucky to find it for my collection.

Price guides listed it at $600 and the copy I came across at the annual CWRU Book Sale was marked $300.  Ever-frugal, I waited until half-price day.  When the doors opened, I dashed to the rare and unusual table.  It became MINE—for $150.  (Don’t tell Fred Mertz.)

When Anne Rice was scheduled for another book tour stop in Cleveland at a local Barnes & Noble I was excited.  I bought Rice’s newest book and intended to get it signed as well as my rare collectible. 

When I arrived at Barnes & Noble, I was informed that Rice would only sign her newest book with proof of purchase.  I could not get my rare first-edition book signed.  I used my receipt to return the new release and left in a huff.

Thinking back now, I should have tucked the rare book into my purse and pulled it out when I got to the signing table.  Rice might have signed it if I told her how I was a serious modern first-edition collector and wasn’t going to sell it.

Rice’s gone now.  She died in 2021.  No more book tours. No more signing opportunities.  Interview With the Vampire remains rare and unsigned on my bookshelf.

I said it first.  I’ve only been proclaiming this for over 30 years now.

I coined the term back when I was feeling out of place at a Cleveland Public Library event where I was surrounded by youthful followers bearing tribute gifts for their hero, author Neil Gaiman, a “rock star author” who’s been to Cleveland a few times now.

When there was an overflow crowd for his appearance and it had to be moved to the Villa Angela-St. Joseph Academy, I ended up parking at a nearby funeral home and hoofing it to the school to sit on the carpeted steps in the band room!  We could hear Gaiman speaking over the P.A. system.  Halfway through his talk he shared his presence with us “folks in the cheap seats.”

He stood right next to me.  I stared down at his expensive-looking black leather boots.  They reminded me of “Beatle-boots.”  I was in the presence of a rock star.  I could have reached out and touched him.

The excited crowd was young and came bearing gifts.  One fan painted an oil painting of him!  He accepted all the gifts graciously and was kind enough to sign everything we brought!  I had several first editions of course and ended up waiting with the rest of the crowd in the gym.  Someone organized us and when my group was called, I got my books signed.  (I finished reading Coraline during my wait.)

 

That Time Jane Smiley Lobbed a Book Across The Stage.

That got our attention—especially mine!  I wanted to see what the title was but by the end of the event I’d forgotten to find out.  The point is—Jane Smiley told us not to waste time!  Time is short!  She’s right.  Time is precious and we can’t waste it if a book doesn’t hold our attention.  If a book doesn’t “grab” me in the first 100 pages—make that 50—now that I’m even older, I donate it along to one of those Little Free Library cupboards.  Smiley is one of my favorite authors and I’ve encountered her at least three times now when she’s appeared in Cleveland.

 

David McCullough.

If asked, I’m sure the late great Pulitzer Prize-winning historian David McCullough would have remembered the time when one fan asked him to sign a book that he didn’t write!

It was me! Me! I was that person—that total idiot.

I approached McCullough at Playhouse Square in Cleveland with my first-edition hardcover books in hand, telling him how much I admired his writing.  He signed The Path Between the Seas, Truman and The Johnstown Flood before proclaiming that the next book I presented to him was not his book!

Foolishly, I proceeded to point out that his name was on the book.  I babbled something about always tracking down an author’s backlist to find more books for my collection.  (I donated that book, whose title I cannot now recall.)

 

Zadie Smith thought I had an accent.

While speaking in the signing line, she asked me about my distinctive accent! My accent?

She said that I clearly had one and that she wondered if it was a distinctive Cleveland accent.  I don’t have an accent . . . do I?

She should know.  A worldly author, Smith has a charming accent herself.

I was standing in line to get my books signed and all I could think about at the time was how I hadn’t finished reading her highly acclaimed debut novel, White Teeth. I personally found it tedious so put it aside.  After that evening, I went home and moved White Teeth back into my TBR-pile.  I must be missing something. I’m determined to finish reading it someday.

 

Gillian Flynn—my kind of author!

She doesn’t outline! Totally my style. I always feel deficient because I don’t outline.

Gillian Flynn and I share similar writing styles—apparently disorganized. When she described how she writes her novels I could identify. She does not outline . . . and she scribbles in longhand and then puts it all together into something cohesive, which is how I do it—but clearly she is way more successful with her books!

After reading Gone Girl,I can’t imagine that she put together such an intricate diabolical tale without some type of a “crime-scene board” on her wall.

And when I finish reading a remarkable book, I turn back to the beginning, reading the first pages and skimming through, reading portions to see how it all came together.

 

Musician Patti Smith was on tour for her latest book, M Train.

And when the conversation turned to how she got a song from Bruce Springsteen and needed to come up with additional lyrics, she told us how she was sitting around her New York apartment waiting for her boyfriend to call.  She was waiting . . . that was back when long-distance rates became cheaper at night so you waited to make your calls!

“Back then long-distance rates were cheaper after eight o’clock and I was waiting for the phone to ring when it came to me—because the night belongs to lovers. Because the night belongs to lovers!”

Patti Smith spontaneously led a SOLD-OUT audience in an a capella concert with a rendition of Because the Night. And the audience joined in.

 

The great John Irving was another crowd pleaser.

When a member of the audience stepped to the microphone to tell Irving that his favorite book was Cider House Rules and he requested that Irving recite the famous good night line issued by Dr. Larch to the boys in their beds.

“Good Night you Princes of Maine, you Kings of New England . . .” boomed John Irving in the voice of Doctor Larch.  A classic quote from the book.

It was met with thunderous applause in front of another SOLD-OUT audience of literary fans at Case Western Reserve University’s Writers Center Stage event last fall.

John Irving told us how he re-reads some of the classics for inspiration, especially the works of Charles Dickens and Melville’s Moby-Dick.

A participant in the well-known Iowa Writers Workshop, his instructor back in the day was none other than Kurt Vonnegut, who when reviewing his drafts would write notes in the margins, often repeating a scribbled phrase, “We know! We know!”

And later in the signing line I discovered that Irving is a neighbor of Margaret (Peggy) Atwood who had appeared earlier in the season.  It was soon after The Handmaid’s Tale won big at the Emmy Awards and she went onstage.  She dragged her purse along and it created a social media frenzy known as “The Handbag’s Tale.”

Both Irving and Atwood live near one another in Toronto and get together for coffee.  (I’ll stalk them the next time we visit Toronto.)  I told him how I missed him when we were last in Toronto at the Harbourfront Book Festival.

 

Rick Moody appeared downtown at the Cleveland Public Library for an event and when I approached him with three hardcovers and handed over a copy of Garden State, he refused to sign it, saying “This is my first book.  It’s too valuable with my signature inside.  You’re probably going to sell it.”

I explained that I was a serious modern first-editions collector and that it took me a while to find a copy for my shelves . . . but still he refused.  I’ll never forget him now.  I’ve read some seriously bad reviews of his work.  What a prick!

As I walked away I mumbled, “Actually, your books won’t be worth anything until you’re dead.”

 

When Anna Quindlen came to town promoting the softcover release of her latest work, I rummaged around the house and uncovered 11 books total.  I called upon my friend Debbie to be my “signing-line buddy” and tote a few books.  The evening of the event arrived and Debbie cancelled.  I still had two line numbers so my plan was to simply get three books signed and deposit them in the car and return with another three hardcovers.  Six signed, carefully selected books was way better than being a self-proclaimed “book pig” so I would be happy.

Leave it to Anna Quindlen – a trained observer and reporter — as I made my way through the line a second time, she greeted me with, “You’re back!”

Next time, maybe I should change blouses when I grab that second armload of books.  Anna will undoubtedly come to town again.

 

There’s a 12-step program out there somewhere for me – I just haven’t found it yet!

This is what keeps going through my mind as I stand in line waiting to get my books signed at yet another author event — in yet another bookstore.

Justified as a “good thing,” I continue to hoard my “flat-signed first-edition hard covers with pristine dust jackets (some protected in mylar) and original unclipped prices,” hoping that my son doesn’t one day put them all out in the yard on tables for a “buck a book” when I’m dead.

I might live long enough to read them all, but it’s not likely.  I’ll die happy, knowing that I tried.

And when I get a lead on an author who’s coming to town on book tour, I mark my calendar and start pulling together the hard covers.   I always buy the newest volume from the bookstore hosting the event – and then bring along the author’s backlist, many of which are somewhere among my stacks of books.

Lately, the problem has been locating them.  I have a system that only I understand.  As I ferret out a book that I just have a feeling is piled upstairs rather than downstairs, things usually fall together at just the last minute before I dash off to an event.

When author John Dunning came to town (Booked To Die, The Bookman’s Wake, The Sign of the Book) I ran into the store and took a seat in the back.  He looked up at me as I came in and I said, “It took a while to uncover my books.”  That brought laughter.

For one of the characters in his series, Dunning described the house of a “bibliomaniac” (which I am not, really I’m not—because I have only achieved “biblioholic” status).

A “bibliomaniac” hoards all books – desirable only in quantity – with no consideration to authorship or subject matter.

A “biblioholic” is also a connoisseur of books, but someone who collects books with a purpose — by author, genre, or subject matter.  That’s me.

 

And after 30 years of gathering signed first-editions, it’s finally happened!  I bought back my own book.

I was organizing my collection and realized that among my signed Joe Eszterhas books I was missing one.  How did that happen?  I apparently got mixed up and thought I had a duplicate copy of American Rhapsody.  I listed that copy on eBay and sold it a few years before.

Always seeking completion, I tracked down a signed first from a bookseller in Connecticut.  It was reasonable. When it arrived and I inspected it, there were clippings tucked in the back of the book—from the Cleveland newspapers!  This was my book, that I sold to someone a few years earlier!

I sent a message off to Alan at Derringer Books.  Alan remembered that he bought a book collection from someone in New York and the Eszterhaz was among them.

“What strange journeys our books travel. I bought that particular copy from a long-time NY collector who sold me his books when he retired.  Glad it made it full circle! –Alan”

 

I got to know M.K., the author escort who turned up at the events I went to.  I was a regular, and she was usually standing in the back of the venue.

She made sure everything came together without a hitch.  M.K. told me how she picked up the author at the airport, drove him or her to their hotel and returned in the morning to escort them to media appearances around town.  I thought she had an exciting schedule and wondered what the authors were like when they were offstage and seated in the back of her Jaguar XJE.

M.K. told me things.  I got the skinny on what they were like when they let their guard down—real people.  She told me that her absolute favorite person was P. J. O’Rourke, the late journalist and political satirist (Give War A Chance).

“He kept me laughing all day long as we drove around town, and when he said goodbye, he tossed me a ‘lucky coin’ from a recent trip.”

And remember the New Age author spiritual guru who wrote A Return to Love and so many other self-help books?  The woman who ran for president in 2020?  Marianne Williamson?

“She was the most foul-mouthed woman I ever met.”

So many authors, so many books!  Celebrities, politicians, and activists.  So many more stories I can tell.