Free The Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap by Wendy Welch

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    Unfortunately, Jack and I handle a lot of frass. We opened our store just as the economy tanked, so as the recession deepened, an increasing number of people wanted to sell their holy grails to us.
    Thelma and Louise, the aforementioned regular customers and thriller aficionados, showed up one day with a 1940s World Book encyclopedia set, which they hoped to turn into a lifetime supply of Kay Hooper paperbacks. “You know, in the middle of the war, no one knowing who would win, it must be valuable,” Thelma said hopefully.
    We showed them how many people were trying to jettison similar items on eBay. Thelma and Louise were disappointed, but took it with good humor. Since Christmas was just around the corner, I was getting ready to hold a class in how to make angels from old hardbacks, and they graciously donated their World Books for that—first reserving two volumes for their own use in making personalized angels.
    But people came every week bearing encyclopedias, 1890s reprints of classics, and book club editions of just about everything, plus books with mold, dog-chewed corners, bugs in the spine, and dead spiders in the pages. We saw them all, and a few ugly things besides. We valued the offerings via AbeBooks, Half.com , and Alibris, Web sites every bookseller knows intimately. We stayed off Amazon itself as long as we could, although they now own ABEBooks.
    Occasionally some first editions or otherwise expensive tomes do appear; in those rare instances where someone might really be clutching a holy grail, we suggest they seek real appraisal from an antiques dealer, as we choose not to deal in rare volumes. All this experience soon brought Jack a reputation as an honest and fair expert on antique books, and people began bringing more and more in, knowing we would value them for free.
    “That’s irony for you,” Jack said with a laugh. “Say you don’t want to deal in rare books, and people know you won’t cheat them.”
    When I asked if doing so many free consults bothered him, he shook his head. “First, it makes people think we know what we’re doing. And second, I’m delighted that we’ve developed a reputation for honesty. Folks trust us to tell them the truth. Third, it means customers are coming to the shop.”
    I watched him cope patiently when a persistent individual argued that customers in our shop would indeed pay $450 for a first edition of Little Women, even though we had a paperback copy on the shelf for fifty cents. But it grew hard to let people down gently. The holy grail traffickers either evoked sympathy because they were so nice and hopeful and needy, or provoked annoyance because they fought facts. I became expert at melting away if someone carrying a single volume wrapped in plastic started up our steps. Jack’s people skills outstripped mine, I reasoned, hiding upstairs as the familiar refrain began: “I found this in my dad’s shed when we were cleaning it out…”
    One day the door banged opened and Lulu entered, lugging a box. She set it down on the floor with a thump. Bits of dust and straw flew into the air as barnyard ordure wafted.
    “Got some real valuable books here,” she said with satisfaction. Since Jack was away recording his monthly run of radio programs, I was stuck, and peered into the box. Mouse droppings adorned the top. The corner of one paperback showed teeth marks. Mentally, I armed for combat.
    “Great! I’ll have a look if you like, but—”
    Displaying the largesse of a duchess Lulu gestured that this would be acceptable. Some of the loot looked like it might have once been good stuff: a Langston Hughes children’s picture book; a first-edition Hemingway, dust jacket in bad shape. Their barn sojourn had taken its toll. (Let me take this moment to beseech you to store your books well; they want to live in the same climate you do, not too hot or cold, neither too wet nor dry. Treat them as though they are relatives you like, and they will reward