The HAMMS Effect

Not much going on at Ten Pound Island this week, for obvious reasons. In fact the whole book world is rather frozen up – no new catalogs in the mail, no collections in the offing, no auctions for another week or so. The only thing that seems to be hot right now is Melvin Jackson’s HISTORIC AMERICAN MERCHANT MARINE SURVEY. It’s kind of a funny story. Kind of sad, too.

In case you’re not familiar with it, this multi-volume survey, called HAMMS for short, is a compilation of over one thousand drawings, plans and photos of 19th century American merchant vessels. It was assembled during the WPA era, and printed in its present format in 1983. It was, and probably always will be, the premiere research tool for those interested in wooden merchant ships. Unfortunately it’s got a couple of things going against it.

First of all, many of the drawings have been reproduced in other works, such as those by Howard I. Chapelle. Since they were originally gathered by the WPA there is no copyright on them. They are available over the internet, from the Smithsonian (repository of the original survey), and from ship modeling specialty shops, cheap print dealers and any number of other venues.

Secondly, they’re BIG. Seven volumes, each two feet long, a foot-and-a-half tall, chockablock with folding plans on coated stock. The entire set weighs in at more than 150 pounds. Shipping would be a nightmare, and if you bought the set you’d probably have to have an addition built on to your library. I’ve sold two in my career, for $2500 each, and considered myself damned lucky to be rid of them. Someone’s got a set on ABE right now for $6000 (Alibris price $7000 – must be a fancier clientele) and I reckon it will be there for a while.

So here’s the funny/sad part.

A month or so ago a set in fine condition must’ve surfaced. Maybe an attic got cleaned out or a neat-freak collector died. Within a few days I’d gotten two referral calls from big city dealers who had been quoted the set and wanted nothing to do with it. I didn’t either, but I kept getting calls because I’m supposed to be the specialist who deals in this kind of stuff. A call from some guy named Steve up in New Hampshire who told me he was selling it for a client for $3000. Then two in short order from a couple of guys whose names I forget, one of whom may have been the “client” himself. Then from a guy named Paul who was calling to offer me the set for $2000. Just to see what would happen, I told him I’d consider paying $600 if he paid the postage. He replied, “OK. Six hundred.” Turned out he wasn’t a dealer, and he didn’t own the set. The HAMMS Survey was coming up in a Connecticut auction and it seemed really valuable. I told him there was no way I wanted to get wrapped up in 150 pounds of paper – for $600 or any price. Then, just this morning a call from a colleague who’d been approached by one of the many prospective vendors, or perhaps a new one altogether.

We had a good laugh over it, but I hung the phone up with a sort of melancholy feeling.

Are things that bad out there? A supposedly valuable book is up for grabs and half a dozen opportunists trawl New England trying to sell it on the hook?

And more snow is forecast…

Ye Olde Booke Shoppe

My measure of having made a good buy at a book fair is a simple one. If, on the journey home, I find myself thinking obsessively about the thing I’ve bought, then I know it was something good. I might even lose money on it, but it has captured my imagination. That’s the sort of adventure that keeps me in the game. The item pictured above was in that category today, as I drove home from Boxborough Paper Town. I’ll tell you more about it in a few paragraphs. First though, a sideways rant…

A few days ago I received a bulk email message from someone who was selling his store. It seemed the same old sad story – “a very diverse stock of 15,000+ gently used books” a business that was “steadily profitable since I purchased it in 2007 (with) considerable potential to increase its profitability through stronger marketing efforts, expanded store hours, and literary event sponsorship.” All this along with fixtures and lease, for $24,900. I figured some retiree had been bitten by the book bug, then slammed by the ugly realities of the Internet, the economy, and a generally disinterested public. Still, there was something about his advertisement that didn’t add up.

I was curious enough to respond to his email, identifying myself and this blog, and asking him, as respectfully as I could, “Can you tell me why you’re selling a ‘steadily profitable’ operation with ‘considerable potential to increase its profitability?’”

Somewhat to my surprise I received the following thoughtful answer…

“Because what was once a challenge has become routine. I bought the store from folks who worked hard, knew something about retail and online operations, but didn’t seem to know much about books. In the course of straightening out their mess, I enjoyed the learning process about the book trade, customer service, etc., and I turned the store into something special… But the expansion/innovation phase is over. The online part of my business--an important piece of 'profitability'--is tedious. And, strange as it may sound, my customers seem, shall I say, more depressed and less interested in conversation. (Why am I not surprised? Look all around us.) At my age, I'm a bit tired of the heavy lifting. And the in-store business, while still profitable, is not what it was three years ago before the crash. I (or a potential buyer) could build up the business with literary events, intensive marketing, going to auctions and buying more interesting books (I get a ton of donations and trades--I almost never have to buy), networking with other sellers, and spending more than 25 hours a week in the store. Call me lazy, but I don't want to make the effort…”

In a way his reply affirmed my suspicions. He bought a toy, played with it for a few years, and now is tired of it. Look at the things he did not do – work the internet hard, put in long hours, network with other dealers, and risk capital upgrading his stock – “I almost never have to buy” was the tip-off for me. I knew that operation. I’d seen hundreds of them. Usually their owners get bored because their books are boring. But they never seem to figure that out.

And yet, all the man wanted was a pleasant environment filled with books and conversation, perhaps a “literary event” or two. Where’s the harm in that? As Bill Reese pointed out in a recent essay, these neighborhood feeder operations are vital to the trade as a whole. They are the breeding ground for new collectors, a trade school for young dealers, and the first level of rescue for the occasional collection, estate, or rare tome that has somehow escaped the clutches of auctioneers and higher-end dealers. Sure, this guy got bored. But there’s more to it than that. The Internet, the economy, and our entire culture seem to be conspiring to relegate Ye Old Booke Shoppe - along with monocles, ascots and pipes - to a quaint and faintly ridiculous past. Another extinction - as the ecology of the book trade becomes increasingly depleted.

I hope this gentleman finds the inspiration to give that shop another go.

On an even less cheery note, Boxborough Paper Town seems to be asphyxiating, perhaps on the caustic dust of unsellable paper, or perhaps from a strain of the same wasting disease afflicting Old Booke Shoppes. About 35 dealers braved the snow and the cold and the tedium and the lack of business and the fire alarm that went off about 10AM and rang for another insufferable 25 minutes, to service about 100 listless customers. I’m told there was a conflicting show on the Piers in New York. But the addition of a few more dealers would not have bailed Paper Town out. Certainly not the promoters’ fault, nor the dealers, nor their customers. It’s nobody’s fault. It just is.

And yet, and yet…

In the midst of the sadness and squalor appears the happy piece of Texas Navy paper pictured at the top of this essay. The Texas Navy, as we all know, succeeded in pissing off the Mexican government, which promptly sent Santa Anna and his army into the disputed territory. The rest, as they say, is history. This certificate was issued as pay to a midshipman named Livingston. It is signed by James B. Shaw, state comptroller - an Irishman who moved to Texas - and James Wright Simmons, state treasurer and part-time poet, author of The Maniac’s Confession. Which, I suppose, this is.

Here's the kicker. This lovely piece of paper, which I supposed was rare, turns out to be relatively common. I'll be lucky to sell it for what I paid to own it. A bummer, yeah. But now I know something I didn't know before. And I'm anything but bored with my job. Bring on the heavy lifting!

Papermania Plus, 2011

Pananti. Narrative of a Residence in Algiers. Lon. 1818

All the sudden it’s been twenty-four years. Me and my ’85 Dodge wagon crammed full of $25 books. I didn’t even know what paper was. And I wasn’t the only one. I remember booths full of TV Guides, Mr. Peanut beer trays, Reddy Kilowatt posters and Smoky the Bear action figures. I had three little children, a very sickly wife, and Stagolee’s hat. The mortgage was $184 a month, and hard to scratch up. Then one time I got into an attic and came out with a couple of chromolithographed town views and some letters from California in the 1850s. Savvy dealers smelled it before my Dodge even got off I-84. The stuff evaporated like rain on a hot summer sidewalk. After that I had a better idea what paper was

Not that I saw much of it at any single show, but now the years and buys are all slammed together, piled up with me in booth 93, memory soup. Once I got the journal of a guy who’d just returned from the Erebus and Terror expedition writing like Poe about Antarctica. A can of 16 mm film of a Japanese whaling expedition in the 20s. The wonderful Moses Brown papers some of which came in a wallpaper-covered trunk (even though he was the “wrong” Moses Brown). Whaling logs. Sailors letters from every part of the world, not to mention enough old maritime books and pamphlets to have filled twenty-four years worth of catalogs. Bob Lucas is dead. Gary Plechner is dead. Tom, that strange little guy in the wooden shoes, he’s dead too.

And always there’s the weather or, more properly for the first week in January, the threat of weather. One year, as a nasty storm rolled up the coast, they took pity on us and let us out early. Right into the teeth of it. Another time Amanda and her husband came down and tended the booth for me while I rushed home in their car for some terribly important reason, now forgotten. Their shitty little Saturn crapped out on the Mass Pike. In the middle of a blizzard. With the back seat full of Moses Brown papers. Long night in the No-Name Motel, waiting for AAA to never show, ferrying load after load of Moses Brown papers back to the motel in a plastic trash bag. Dinner at 7/11. Cans of Guinness in a little slammer of a bar next door. That was when I realized I’d left all my meds back in the hotel in Hartford. More Guinness. Slainte! But even without the broken Saturns there’s likely to be snow on the ground each year, or a chill wind to chase me from the Civic Center to the bar, to dinner, back to the hotel.

Except it's no longer the Civic Center. It’s now the XL Center. And Papermania has grown into Papermania Plus. The more downtown Hartford dwindles, the bigger the names get. They created the XL Center by tearing down the shopping mall atop the old Civic Center arena and building high rise condos, which currently enjoy about 12% occupancy. Up in the lobby a few scraggly kids drag parents into the ticket line for some tired iteration of “Disney on Ice.” A big lite-up sign announces tonight’s contest of the Hartford Whale vs. some other sad team. Half a dozen people at the will-call window. Our show is, and always has been, in the vast basement beneath this arena. The late Paul Gipstein had the concession and now wife Arlene and son Gary continue to run it. Sunday afternoon Gary announces the scores of football games we should be home watching. The proud traditions of our fathers. Remember that last scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark? The endless warehouse? That’s me in the corner, baby.

And in the very early morning, with fresh snow on the streets, homeless parkas pound the pavement alongside the lone paper dealer who had to abandon ship at 5 AM after the whiskey caught fire on the bridge. Jaggy dreams in fields of pure white. The town’s been neutron bombed. Did I tell you the McDonald’s on Asylum Street shut down?

Thus it is in Year Twenty-Four. Effortless load-in. Everyone’s been doing this show for so long we’re on full auto. Pound the piles of paper looking for dollar bills until the brainscreen goes gray. Inch back at it. Pound away. A lot of inches at the end of the day. Developed as a top-secret antipersonnel weapon during WW II, the yellow-blue-gray-green-orange ceiling lights exert a subtle, cumulative hallucinogenic effect, warping human features into frightening noses, stomachs, ears. "Papermania Plus - where the wild things are." Some guy with shaved sides and a six inch moustache compulsively going through his own boxes of paper. Two hours later, he’s still at it, flipping away. His own paper. Scrooge McDuck in his money bin. I catch sight of my image in the glass cover of someone’s display case. Terrified coyote. At least I think it was me. That must be the “Plus” in Papermania Plus. This year it’s in 3-D. Hi-Def

OK, no more Hartford jokes. Here are a few of the things I dredged out of the swamp.
Outfitting book for the whaling Bark Martha

It doesn't look scarce, but it is.

Papers of Bark Edw. Cushing
Accounts of Sch. Gertie Merrow

Seaman's medical guide, 1863

Letter from Lord Nelson at Leghorn (OK, I "bought" it New Year's Day, but picked it up, specked it out, and paid for it here.) It's the real thing!



OK folks, I'm on a voyage to London and the Emerald Isle. See you all in a couple of weeks.