Viktor, a Ukrainian immigrant, paid a visit to the floating bookshop today. He ran a postage shop in his country until the collapse of the Soviet Union put him out of business. He did well compared to most folks in the eastern bloc. Only professionals, doctors, architects, etc. were making more rubles than he was. "Things change," I said. He agreed, shrugging. He asked what I thought of his English. I had to listen closely to understand him. The only thing I didn't get was a term he was searching for that describes people who share the same first name. He was unable to come up with its Russian equivalent. I've never heard of such a thing, but it wouldn't surprise me if there were an obscure English word for it too. There are so many words, so many things we will never know.
Steve stopped by again. A poetry magazine that has published his work many times has extended its deadline by a week to accommodate him. The theme of its next issue is American History. He is working on a poem about the Kent State shooting, which always brings to mind the Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young song, Ohio: "Ten soldiers and Nixon coming...Four dead in Ohio." It was an ugly time in America. I hope we are not headed there again. Eventually, I expect the Marxists and Anarchists among the naive protesters to incite violence.
A kind Russian woman bought a couple of books on needlepoint and another on wild flowers. She is a friend of Peter Benchley's brother. Naturally, we got to talking about our mutual admiration for the film adaption of Jaws (1975). My buddy Bags and I were on a long line outside the Marboro Theater, beside one of the side doors. We could hear the audience inside screaming. 36 years later I still remember it. When the film finally made it to TV, and the famous head scene aired, my mom jumped and let out a "Mamma, Maria." I laugh about it 'til this day. Thanks for the memories, Mr. Spielberg, and thanks to that woman.
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