I forgot to mench that the younger book dealer bought this silly ass book on wrestling that I had. from the 80s, with all the rich cornpone prior to the sophisticated travesty of Vince McMahon's Kingdom. I knew he was buying that sucker for himself. this afternoon, I heard a car horn out front, and discovered that sickly elderly woman in her car beckoning me. she found a photo in one of the books she bought. not a treasured picture, I must've used it for a bookmark. considerate of her to come over. we had put what books that the library couldn't/wouldn't take out for trash pick up (sorry, everyone, but we had no choice), and she was inspired to work her way out of her car and peer amongst the offerings. she picked out several gardening books and a fruit basket for her friend, a few items for herself. she talked about the EB White book that she bought, and about Cape Cod. she seemed like someone who wanted to be happy. and yet. she mentioned the death of the longtime accordion player for Lawrence Welk (the Happy Norwegian Myron Floren). yesterday she told me how her car door somehow slammed into her, loosening teeth, breaking her cheek and knocking her hip out of joint. as she picked amongst the boxes I feared she'd topple over. she only had a cane, should have a walker. we've been wicked busy packing and cleaning but I couldn't not accomodate her.