Books for the Bookwyrm - Gay's Year on Sunset Island

 

I am reading these books one per shelf, top to bottom. On the fourth shelf are those by authors I don't recognize. Each shelf is organized by author's last name, and the first is Gay's Year on Sunset Island, by Marguerite Aspinwall. 

I could find no information about the author, other than that she wrote a small handful of books. I can find 7, and this is the first of two written about Gay Annersley. 

Copyrighted in 1926 and published by the Goldsmith Publishing Company in Cleveland, Ohio I could find precious little about the publishing company, either, There existed a Goldsmith Publishing Company in Chicago that opened in 1931, but this book predates that by at least two years. 

This is a clothbound book, with a fragile spine. The paper smells of dusty vanilla, and the spine has cracked in several places & doesn't want to open fully in most others. This was read carefully, to avoid further damage to the spine.

The book is what would now be categorized as a young adult story about a teenage girl and her adopted family, and their adventures on a tiny island near Martinique, in the 1920s. It is reminiscent of - and references - The Swiss Family Robinson, by Johann Wyss. While this family lives in a colonial house rather than a treehouse, they are cut off from civilization and make their home on the island, all while hunting for the lost treasure of Henry Morgan, allegedly hidden there. 

The writing style is dated, but the story is quick-paced and enjoyable, and there aren't an overabundance of disused words to deter someone from reading this. It's written for boys OR girls, as the protagonist is a tomboy who is more at home fishing and gardening with the boys, than in the kitchen with the girls. Having read this, I am curious to see if I can get my hands on a copy of the second book in this series; Gay's Year at Harford Hall. 

This book was an 8th birthday gift to my Grandpa Kenny, from his mother; my great-grandmother. 

Born on 13 December, 1921, in Minneapolis Minnesota, my grandfather lived in Minnesota his entire life. A career employee of Stremel Brothers, he spent his free time skippering for his son, my father, with the Lake Harriett Yacht Club in the 1950s and 60s. Skilled though private about his musical abilities, I am told he could play both the mandolin and guitar. 

I remember my grandfather as happy-go-lucky, and young at heart. Once when my grandmother was playing the carillon for her church's Easter services he took me, a rambunctiously hyperactive tot, on a walk around the neighborhood and showed me the "sweet spot" for hearing the church bells, two blocks away. 

A stroke left him wheelchair-bound when I was 6, and I remember needing to drive down to search for him several times, as he had "run away" from his nursing home, and was found making his way to the Dairy Queen, quite indignant that he'd been caught before obtaining his ice cream.

While I am told he was abusive, he was never anything but a troublemaking companion who loved to tell dry jokes and old riddles. He and I got ourselves into a world of trouble one afternoon, as I flushed my grandmother's cigarettes down the toilet in an attempt to "save her life." Never once suggesting that it might not be the wisest of ideas, he showed me all of her hiding places, and stood blocking the doorway as she tried to get at me, laughing the entire time.

He passed away on 6 November, 1987, after more than a decade of health problems. 

Being able to read a book that was one my grandpa's, and tracing the handwriting penned by my sweet Great Grandma nearly a half-century before I was even born, has been a genuine treat. I could imagine Grandpa Kenny, head under his blankets, reading long into the night, as his parents "didn't know" that he was breaking rules about bedtime. This was a fun little read, and a sweet peek back into my grandpa's childhood. 

Next will be a book from the bottom shelf; children's and young adult books by authors I DO recognize! This little bookwyrm is enjoying her trip through the family bookcase!

Books for the Bookwyrm - The Last of the Mohicans

Being a lifelong bookwyrm, I actively seek out old classics to read. This is one that has been on my list for a few decades now, so when The Last of the Mohicans was tucked into the bookcase I knew it would be one of the first to be read.

While there is no publishing date in the book, a quick online search shows that Alta Edition books were published by Porter & Coates, in Philadelphia, from 1870 through the 1890s. While literally labeled “First” editions they are in fact reprints, first only to the publishing company. Beginning in 1864 and changing names several times, Coates was in business until 1905, when it was purchased by The Winston Company.

Opening the cover the glue is vanillic, the paper is thick, powdery, heavily yellowed, and the spine crackles just a bit. The font is painfully small as well, even when using readers, so for these reasons I chose to find a digital version to read, preserving both the book and my poor crappy eyes. 

The second book of a trilogy allegedly able to be read separately, I had a hard time with this one. Given when this was written, I expected it to be grossly sexist and racist. Having read both Uncle Remus & Mark Twain, I felt properly prepared. Oh, how truly blissful was my ignorance! 

The story was slow to develop, and I couldn't connect with the characters. While the descriptions were amazingly - frequently painfully - detailed, (something I'm certain I've NEVER said before!) the Natives were the worst possible stereotypes, and there was just too much violence for me. My eyes were in danger of getting stuck from all the rolling they did as yet another "Huh!" was uttered from the otherwise nonverbal "Indians." And oh my goodness... just leave those stupid girls to their peril already! There are damsels in distress, and then there are twits that can't be trusted with a cup of tea, for danger of drowning. *sigh* These were embarrassing caricatures of the latter.

Some books don't age well. I have read hundreds, and will likely read hundreds more. I have heard that the movie is better, but no longer have an urge to even try. There is a critique of the entire trilogy, by none other than Mark Twain. Truly, the critique is infinitely more engaging than the book itself. I am crossing this "classic" off my must-read-before-you-die list, and moving on to greener pastures.

Glued within the flyleaf, are these related newspaper clippings of the "last" Mohican chief. THEY were somewhat interesting, and I love that someone took the time to save them here in the book.

This book was stamped on the first page, as belonging to W.T. Cole. Wilson Taylor Cole, my Great-Great Grandfather, was born on 13 December, 1862 in St. Thomas, Ontario; a Canadian by birth. Married on 2 March, 1887 in Palmyra, MO he became a US Citizen on 13 January, 1897.

His obituary says he was a Minneapolis printer and writer, and the owner of Cole Printing Company of Minneapolis – a business that eludes casual internet searches. I can say that a surprising number of the books in the bookcase are stamped as having belonged to him, and the Cole line has the largest amount of ephemera tucked within my archives so he WILL come up again. He died on 11 May, 1949, LONG before I was born, and long enough ago that even my father has no memories of him.

I can't wait to choose the next book for this little bookwyrm to read! It MUST be better!