Blinking Lemon

My father’s nose was the first thing I know I loved about him.  The Berkman schnoz.  He always liked to point out that of the three times it had been broken, twice was by friends.  Like all noses broken before the ready availability of plastic surgery, his leaned across his face at a quirky angle.  It seemed to me to be almost an independent organ, capable of expressing thoughts and opinions of its own.  I don’t know about penis envy, but at 5 years old, I was terribly envious of my father’s unmistakable nose.

His hands were a second fascination.  Wide with beefy fingers, they were experts in so many mysterious things.  Pliers and knives, torches and saws, and most magical of all, the curvy guitars that lived under the bed from Sunday through Wednesday.  On Thursday night, the ritual of tuning and string changing commenced, and the guitars left the house with my father for the 4 nights of music jobs he played every week.

My father’s feet are the part of his body I remember most viscerally, though.  There is a certain poetic justice in this.  As a child, we are located much closer physically, for many years, to our parents feet than to their faces.  I memorized my father’s boots, square toed and black.  The sound of the zipper pulling up to close them is so vivid to me that it has made me a boot wearer, lately, just to hear the sound again, now that he is gone.

Dad had a lot of flaws.  His music job was an occasion to collect girlfriends and hide money from my mom.  He could not quell his perfectionism enough to allow music to grow in my sister or me.  But at 46 years of age, in 1970, he was perfectly happy to skip along Wabash Avenue, in broad daylight, holding his daughters’ hands.  I am telling you, men did NOT DO THAT in 1970.

After daycamp ended in the summer, my father was our daycare, while my mom worked at her full time job.  This meant dragging us from one little jeweller to another while he left and picked up custom job orders.  I am telling you, men did NOT DO THAT in 1970.  There was no take your daughter to work day, never mind, take your six year old twins with you to work every day.

I stared at my fathers feet countless times as we stood in creaking old elevators that smelled of cigars and oily metal.  I watched them tread briskly along marble and tile hallways past jewelry showrooms, the cuffs of his black trousers flapping like wings to speed us along.  The tedium of sitting in hard plastic chairs in grey rooms full of parts and supplies and cracked linoleum was excruciating, though I suppose it only lasted a few minutes in adult time.

Back on the street, under the elevated train, however, my father became mine again.  “Daddy, let’s skip!” we’d say, pulling on his hand.  “You want to skip, huh?”  broadly smiling with his teeth and his nose.  And then we would fly, each holding his hand, never taking our eyes off the blur of his boots plundering the pavement in great leaps, as he pulled us along.  His boots, rushing past faster than we could possibly keep up, cast a hypnotic spell.  Fixated on them, black flashes striking then bouncing up in an instant, we felt the secret of flight and landing, accompanied by the squealing rumble of the train overhead.

“Honey, people vote with their feet.”

Of all the over my head, what good does that do me platitudes I heard as a child, the number one head scratcher was, without a doubt, my father’s all purpose brush off.  “Honey, people vote with their feet.”

I was about eight years old when he first tried this riddle out on me.  Who knows what difficulty I’d come to him with…I was a socially tone-deaf child, and both took and gave offense countless times everyday.  Someone had wronged me, of that I can be sure, and I was seeking justice from whoever would listen.

“Honey, people vote with their feet.”  Clearly, my father believed this to be the answer to my problem; as far as I was concerned, however, it was the most unintelligible thing anyone had ever said to me.  Voting with your feet was expressly and universally prohibited in my eight year old world, otherwise I would have Toe Shoes and Nancy Drew and Mashed Potatoes with Gravy ALL DAY LONG.

Quickly enough, though, I came to believe my father was saying it was my own fault if I was unhappy, or someone was mad at me.  A double whammy to be both the culprit and therefor a disappointment to the person in the world I most adored.

As with many things we wish we could avoid, his words grew to have an unanticipated influence on my philosophy of life, evolving into advice I touted to my friends as we all flailed our way through our 20s.  When a boyfriend disappointed, when a boss reacted, when any little thing tripped us up, it was, “Honey, people vote with their feet.”

Now that I have crossed my fair share of thresholds, I understand what he meant to say.  Even if we don’t like a situation, if we stay in it, we are admitting that we get something out of it.  When we don’t like it enough, we leave. I’m not saying I buy this premise; just that his point of view is clear.  For my father, life was full of anchors, weighing him down only until he was ready to move on.  But I think my world is made of roots, that penetrate and reach out and most importantly, allow me to breathe.

After a few days of suspicious regard and uncertainty, my nephew decided tonight that I had earned a spot sitting next to him, to watch night night videos.  I certainly deserved the earlier rejection;  after all, who the hell am I, coming from goodness knows where and pointing that machine in his face all the time?  However, I did nothing really spectacular to achieve this rare-as-hens-teeth honor. If I had known chasing him into the kitchen with my orange phone because it matched his shirt would get me on the A-list, I would have done it 5 days ago.

After enduring a few minutes of good behavior sitting next to me, some squirming ensued.  Nephew was bored, and frankly, so was I.  Nephew tested the waters, poking me half heartedly with his feet, the universal sign for “please tickle me and see if we can upset my parents.”  So, of course, I did what I had to do.

Pretty soon, he was pounding his admittedly adorable feet on some pretty tender areas of me, above the waist.  I needed to put a stop to it. Without warning, I found myself possessed by a power previously unknown to me - The Slow Motion Monster!  C R A W L  I N G  S L O O O W L Y toward my nephew, I knew we were both in trouble.  Going to bed is serious business; much depends on getting enough sleep.  Giggling that escalates to active playing is counterproductive when unconciousness is what you are supposed to be producing.

Still, I kept going, ever so slowly, repeating “O O O O O H H H H N N N N N O O O O O!” in a suitably altered voice.  If my sister had a naughty chair big enough for me, I’m sure I would have been in it.  But the spirit of the Slow Motion Monster could not be stopped.  For a few heavenly moments, my reality had crashed open, and filled with a power beyond my own will - the power of play.  Resistance is impossible, where surrender is all there is.

I know I betrayed the adults, and I guess I betrayed my nephew, because the Slow Motion Monster is, frankly, no match for bedtime.  I couldn’t save him from the inevitable end of sweet dreams and sticker fairy rewards.  So selfish, I am, and I would do it again for anybody who loves me enough to pester me with their tiny, delicious feet.

The thing that has touched me most, since Dad’s death, is how deeply everyone loved him.  Mixed emotions persist, of course, but it’s the power of love that gives the strength to put those issues on hold, and either grieve, or laugh or make small talk about him.  For many of us, we love each other because we loved him.  How do you like them apples, kiddo?

This beautiful obituary was authored by my oldest brother, Howard, who had the unique distinction of knowing
Marv the longest of any of his kids.  I have added a category for Marv Berkman Stories.  If any readers want to contribute,
please do so in the comments section; then I'll move them to the Marv Berkman Stories page.
All comments are reviewed before posting to the blog.

Marv Berkman died Monday November 2 in the evening at Pikes Peak
Hospice in Colorado Springs at age 85. He was one of the mainstays of
the vibrant Rush St. night club, cabaret, restaurant scene. He was an
excellent guitarist, raconteur, singer, and fabulist. He worked at
Sasha's immediately after WWII, Caruso's from 1948 til '50; and
Riccardo's with accordionist Bobby Rossi from '51 or so into the
early eighties. He played all styles of music. He and Bobby wearing
their trademark red shirts were the ultimate strollers as much a part
of Riccardo's as the only outdoor cafe in Chicago until the laws were
changed decades later, the palette shaped doors ( the smaller of
which was for Gus, old Ric's Great Dane ), or the magnificent
paintings behind the equally iconic palette shaped bar. Marv was well
known to diners, drinkers, opera enthusiasts, artists, and
jounalists. He counted Mike Royko and Steve Goodman among his close
friends. Bill Broonzy played with him. Chet Atkins played his guitar
and said of his giant old Gibson arch-top, "Marv, playing that guitar
is like digging coal." Marv and Bobby accompanied visiting opera and
stage stars in late night champagne fueled jam sessions, as well as
going from table to table fielding all requests, from show tunes to
blues to ballads to country to ethnic melodies.

His childhood is virtually incomprehensible. Born in 1925, son of
immigrant intellectuals Ralph and Bronia Berkman who were desperately
poor, struggling to make ends meet entertaining in the second floor
clubs of the Old West Side during the Great Depression, getting
evicted with shocking regularity; Marv started playing on the streets
and going from saloon to saloon with his cousin Aaron Cainoff at age
thirteen. From that point on he basically was on his own rarely
staying at home. He dropped out of high school his freshman year to
devote himself to playing and making a living. He was almost entirely
self taught. Marv and Aaron played in South Haven and the jewish
resorts on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. By the time he was
sixteen he was playing in various small bands, mostly on the North
Side, sometimes playing as far afield as Lake Geneva or Fox Lake.

Marv joined the Army in late '42 after first being rejected for
having pneumonia. He spent most of the War in the Air Corps in the
Aleutian Islands; first as a radio gunner in B-24's, later running
radio direction finding equipment requiring him to spend days on end,
skiing over frozen terrain solo, and as radio man on crash boats in
the Bering Sea. Of couse Marv also played guitar in various bands and
groups in the area.

Like a lot of GI's he returned home to marry and start a family. Marv
and his younger  brother Anatol went to jewelry school on the GI
Bill. His older brother Norman was playing piano and accordion at
Sardi's, in the Rush St area. That connection was the beginning of
his four decade presence in that unique and vibrant scene. With a few
side trips feeling out other gigs he stayed mainly at Riccardo's. He
also played innumerable private parties, weddings and affairs. He
built classical guitars and designed instruments for the Regal Guitar
Company.During his entire Chicago career Marv worked other jobs to support
his various families. First selling tires and pots and pans, later as
an optician and jeweler. He managed the Devon Ave. House of Vision
for many years and lin the late sixties owned and operated the
Jewelry Store in Piper's Alley. Later he worked for Perl Vision and
had his own optical business.

He moved to Colorado Springs twelve years ago and was active playing
with a country band in clubs and old folks homes. He played
frequently for the last few years at the Pike's Peak Hospice.

Marv was preceded in death by his parents, Ralph and Bronia Berkman;
and his brothers Norman Berkman of Marco Island Florida, and Anatol
of Hoffman Estates. Marv is survived by his first wife, Harriet
Farkas, their children Howard Berkman and Felice Sage; his second
wife Barbara Berkman and their children James Berkman, Brenna
Hopkins, and Pamela Berkman; and his beloved life partner of the last
twenty-five years, Judy Scholz and step-daughter Katie. He left five
grand children.

Marv touched many lives and had many friends.  Marv loved books and
story telling both short and tall.  Marv loved women and many loved
him. He was loved by his children. He was a wonderful uncle and
surrogate grampa, a great companion and teacher inspiring such singer
songwriter Steve Goodman and almost all the working guitarist of his
era. He was a father and comrade in arms to his son-in-law Darrell
Sage, and an uncle and grampa to Jen and Ken Farmer and their two
sons. He gave the gift of a profession to Master goldsmith Neal
Pollack, and his musician son Howard Berkman. Sadly, as a father and
husband, like many entertainers, he was spectacularly ill equipped.
Happily he was loved by his children and partner, all of whom save
one were with him in his final hours. His music and charm will be
missed by many.

I had been holding out on buying The Books about selling books online. My budget is extremely tight, and the books all sounded so good and helpful, I didn’t want to have to choose just one. Wouldn’t they each have a slight different take, contributing new insights to my quest to succeed at finding books to sell? A few weeks ago, I got paid for a job, and the first - I mean it - the first thing I did was order the most recommended one from Amazon; and discover the other one was available from my library.

All along, I’d been telling myself that once I get these books, and read them, I will have a much better idea what bookselling is all about. People on the bookselling forums recommend them as basic start-up equipment, so I felt sure there would be a wealth of information to absorb: ideas I didn’t have the experience to discern on my own, forumlas for understanding postage reimbursement, or strategies for stocking books. Finally, the cartoon light bulb that hovers over my head would light up. Through the quality information in these books, I would be On My Way to being a Real Bookseller.

By now, you have probably guessed the punchline. Alas, there were no such revelations. Indeed, the internet is full of generous souls willing to tell you, for free, as much or more than I paid to read, plus they will answer your questions in kind emails full of encouragement just for you.

In fact, the aftermath of reading these books is the exact opposite of what I anticipated. I realize I am just alone, making mistakes for as long as I make them, uncertain of how to learn to do anything else. Only one of two conditions can be true: Finding saleable books absolutely as quick and certain as these books claim, and I am a big dummy; or finding saleable books is much harder and less certain than these books claim…and I am a big dummy. As my dear friend say, “It’s called the School of Hard Knocks, Brenna.” She’s Chicago. She tells it like it is.

I would rather have bought a book about online bookselling that said, here is how it is to re-sell used books online: You will mostly buy unsaleable books, for at least one year, maybe longer - possibly forever if you can’t admit to yourself you are book deaf. Some of you will figure out workable strategies for understanding your market and your scouting will improve. Some of you will never forge these strategies, and you will have a lot of lugging to do, clearing out the deadwood, and you should search your soul at the same time to see why you keep spending energy on something you are not succeeding at. You might sell 100 books in your first year, but you might only sell 10.

Sure, that book would not have held the promise of success, so easy and so close. But at least I wouldn’t feel crazy after I read it.

Despite a brief flirtation with no-name canned goods during the Carter Recession, American culture is religiously brand oriented. Other societies grapple with the nature of being in monastic silence, search for the mystical self through shamanic visions, or contemplate the shifting stars for clues revealing the human side of Mystery. In the U.S., we brand ourselves. It’s what we do.

Painfully aware as I am of the high stakes attending each and every customer contact, in the quest to create an indelible brand identity, the thought of twisty packing tape and uneven corners fills me dread and anxiety. With my brand the only thing standing between me and oblivion, the idea that customers may not even notice such things is too terrible to even contemplate! Plus, I’m just a natural fuss-budget; I like things to be pretty.

I also like things to be cheap. Pretty, Cheap and, it goes without saying, Good. Uh-oh. My criteria suddenly sound awful close to the only useful principle I have ever learned about project management. Everyone wants good, fast, cheap. In reality, you have to pick 2 of the three. Substitute pretty for fast in this equation, and any first year MBA can tell you that this project is headed toward a crisis.

Thus, I found myself hunched over the kitchen counter, struggling with the cheapest packing tape ever (you could not kidnap a kitten with this stuff); pre-scored bookmailers that I bought to save my hands from stapling (which hurts them), wielding a razor and straight edge. The results were not pretty. Not pretty at all.

Love my packages, love me. Perhaps this is an equation that needs re-examining. After all, this business is about purveying a product we are specifically instructed not to evaluate by its appearance. (I can find 3 syllable words to say anything, including “don’t judge a book by its cover.”) With all its blemishes, my packaging will absolutely deliver the book unscathed.

If the basis for personal identity has become so enmeshed in the commercial and manufactured, maybe twisty packing tape and obtuse corners are the only way to transcend the illusion of perfection that seduces fuss-budgets and MBAs alike. A little wabi-sabi in the mail. That’s what I keep telling myself.

Over the weekend, my first Amazon listings expired, and I received a nice note from to let me know. Unfortunately, the notifications appeared in my inbox as a cruel joke. I was crestfallen when I realized they were not “Sold, Ship Now” messages, but “Dreck - Relist?” messages. Oh, well. At least it was a trip down memory lane.

Currently, I have to admit, I’m not having any fun selling books.

Wait. That’s not entirely true.

Selling books is a stone-cold blast. What I am actually not having any fun doing is buying books that don’t sell. And don’t misunderstand…my expectations of fun are not as wild as, say, an ALA conference (if you know any librarians, you know I am not being ironic; those people can party). The name of the game, however, is bookselling and so far precious little of that is happening.

It’s not that hard to discourage me; but I don’t give up easily on things I want to do. This is a winning combination of personality traits; essentially, it means I’m likely to get to the finishing line, whining all the way. Futility is not a reason to give up, no matter what the dictionary says.

So, what am I going to do? This is where the author should list at least three, perky actions that will help her surmount her challenges, and teach herself what success is really all about.

To which I say, oh please. What can a flurry of action fix that time won’t also correct, and with a lot less effort on my part? Why do I have to rush out of this murky, formative time into the bright perfection of the correct answers, when I don’t know for sure that I’m even asking the relevant questions?

I don’t see a lot of things that surprise me. That doesn’t mean I don’t find a lot of delightful surprises - quite the contrary. Still, if you’re 43, grew up in a big city, and mis-spent your youth as thoroughly as I did, it’s just coy to act like the highs and lows of human behavior are unexpected.

I found some reprinted Victorian erotica today. That did not surprise me. I found 2 video games simulating how to kill people from helicopters. That did not surprise me. I found a book of stories selected by known literary giant, Shirley Temple. Still, not surprised.

The sweaty men who should have been bathing instead of shopping for books; the bag lady lying in the middle of the sidewalk sipping a cup of coffee in the most relaxed manner imaginable; the fact that I did not get any good books at the bag sale? Noteworthy, but well within the norm.

The patterns for needlepointing on FLYSWATTERS, though. That stopped me in my tracks.

Yes, needlepointing ON the flyswatters. Stitching through the mesh of the flyswatter. On purpose. Creating patterns of kitties and chickens and geese. Making flyswatters into objects of delight in your home.

And then killing flies with them.

I still can’t believe it. This is almost my best find ever.

The mental image I have of an unsung army of women, earnestly plying their needles, unaware of the artistic significance of MAKING NEEDLEPOINT OUT OF FLYSWATTERS - well, now that takes my breath away.

Shine on you crazy diamonds. Shine on.

I promise what you are about to read will all come back to my new endeavors as a bookseller, but it won’t start out looking related at all.

This year, I’m on my own again after ending a 17 year partnership that included 8 years of marriage. Financially, this means a loss of more than 50% to me (software trumps most other professions, still.)

When I dreamed up my scheme to focus on finding books to re-sell online, I imagined I’d be adding enough income to my life to pay for my own health insurance. I know - me and my crazy ambitions. I’d start out supplementing eBay sales with books in other venues, over time building the books as a more regular business, and keeping eBay for the occasional lucky jack-pot. Thus, I could afford to see a doctor if I was foolish enough to get sick or hurt.

This seemed like a pretty low-pressure scenario, fitting right in with my desire to change as little about my life as possible besides the - you know - husband. (A wonderful man, but his wife didn’t understand him.) My business has been steady for the last 4 years, and I had enough work on the books to cover the basics. For me, this was an unusually mature, prudent approach to managing change in my life.

Things have not gone according to plan.

A week before I was due to start my largest single job of the year, the client took their work elsewhere.  My work is fairly highly paid, but my market is a relatively small pond. With luck, I might pick up a few odd days, but replacing that job, on such short notice, just wasn’t going to happen.

Suddenly, selling books took the lead in my revenue streams. Clueless or not, I was in a position of having to make money appear out of nowhere. I decided to stick to my plan, and try to sell books.

Before you get your hopes up, be forewarned: it doesn’t turn out that through sheer determination and a heap of good luck, I was instantly successful, saved the farm, and lived blissfully ever after. That’s not the way this story goes.

The way this story goes is: I got a taste of how dead easy it is to spend money on books that are, essentially, roughage. I had time to discover that bookscouting is an even more elusive skill than I’d feared. I did sell a few books, which helped round out the other stuff I sold on eBay, which paid my essentials for the month. That’s it. I squeaked by.

In short, I am not a bookselling prodigy. Does this bode well for my future bookselling endeavors? In all likelihood, it doesn’t bode at all. Pressure doesn’t necessarily make outcomes more significant or meaningful. If it turns out I’m “book-deaf,” I’ll have to accept it. Meanwhile, I am better prepared to be clueless for quite a while longer. You can only learn things as fast as you can learn them.