A Real Life StumbleUpon

A few weeks ago, I was in this bookshop in east-end Toronto.  I've been in a few times over the years, recently under new ownership. Two marvellous 40-something hipster women who, unlike me, do bandanas and socks well. A steady stream of customers, 4 of us at a time in the shop.  That's the perfect number in a small bookshop.  The quiet remains, everyone gently jostling for their expanse, happily settling in to a good ole' browse.

The shelves had a freshness to them, perhaps a dusting?, and a general update of lots of stock, not only by year, but more recent authors, for me, my generation. Struggling bookshops tend to have older and older titles, more and more obscure authors, increasingly intellectual fare as selection thins, more dust!  I was now in a store with care, with perspective, with creating a business I'm kind of interested in.

I begin my ritual slide to the left, glancing at the ' in your face' table that dominates most small business entrances and hurriedly passing by. Truthfully, this is the absolute last table I ever consider.  Finishing a browse without a purchase is to me, almost like breaking a commandment. I hate the "thanks a lot" cry I emit when I apologetically leave empty-handed.  It rarely happens. The 'in your face' table is my last grasp at buying something.


Heading through the alphabet of authors, I spend a good hour being delighted, intrigued, reminded, encouraged, led. I lift some off the shelves, read their backs, their opening lines, the dedication or entry quote, sometimes revisiting an old favourite.  Its a calming hour, ending in the War History, Largest Machines, Visual Arts and Music.  Cooking.  Philosophy and plays.  In Print. 

I pass a window, deep set sill, "Struggling Plant With Pillow" and turn the corner. Before me is a 2-case wall labelled Canadian.


I begin top left, recognizing so many. Warmth, as I say hello to plots, characters, authors, the place I was while reading. Before I'm halfway through the first case, I realize this is an incredible collection of cross-Canada literature.  The lilt and spirits of the east, peppered with poverty, religion and weather.  Moving through the heart of the country, tales of prairie, immigration, settling the land, sky overhead and wind carrying tales. The Work Load, the animals, women eke-ing out an existence and men changing the land.  Into the mountains, with lore of heroes, wilderness, the west's opening, the trees. Heading north to listen to First Nation tales, their spirits, their beings, the connectedness of it all.

One of the owners comes by and I've enjoyed my time so much, I have to compliment ourselves on what a great breadth of authors Canada has produced in the last 50 years.  Many from away, making Canada home, the other half here by generations, all bringing their heritage to the storyline, enriching us all by the combinations of their genes and geography.  We visit a few spines, talking books, both caught up in the inspiration of what we've read.

While Yann Martel may bemoan the state of our Leaders' lack of litera-breadth, be safe to know Canadians are pumping out the literature - 2 out of 5 on the ManBooker this year are connected to Canada - I'd say the bursting shelves in a small used bookshop in east-end Toronto is a testament to what we can write.  And how great it is to read.

I came away with two:  a follow-up by Donna Morrissey of Newfoundland (my favourite authors I think) and a historical bio of Mabel Stark, the legendary Ringling Brothers Circus tiger tamer in the 1920s.  Two great StumbleUpons.

And you can bet I'm plotting my Ottawa International WritersFest menu, and will be sure to try and score tickets to Joseph Boyden, who's new release The Orenda, is at the top of my list.

Now get out there, meet a bookseller, browse an independent bookstore, buy something.  I sure as hell can tell you I wouldn't remember my experience at Chapter's  almost 3 weeks after the fact.