Lost Art Press

The Cabinetmaker’s Triangle – A Fairytale

Posted on by saucyindexer

By Suzanne Ellison

He was deeper in the forest than he would normally venture and felt a sense of unease in this unfamiliar wood. The weak daylight of late October was fading away, and he didn’t see the tree stump until it was too late. He caught his foot on the stump and fell hard onto the cold ground. As he got himself up he saw the trunk of a tree and several logs scattered nearby. Not seeing any markings identifying the logs as belonging to the King, he packed them on his sled and, with a a sore ankle, made his way home.

As he came through the door of their small cottage he saw his young daughter tending to a small kettle hanging over the fire. She turned toward him and exclaimed, “Papa, you’re home! Jacob and his grandfather came by this afternoon, and we are having rabbit stew for our supper!” He was relieved they would have a hot meal and felt ashamed he wasn’t providing for her as he wished. He smiled at his little girl and saw how much her eyes were like her mother’s and her smile like his. She continued, “Jacob’s grandfather asked if tomorrow you could help him repair their roof.” “Yes, of course I can. I’ll head over first thing in the morning,” he replied.

After their supper he spread a heavy cloth on the floor in front of the fire. He brought the logs over to examine them in the light. The bark was smooth and dark with a scattering of bumps. The edges were not fresh, and the weight of the logs indicated they had probably been cut a season or two before. He trimmed one end of a log, saw the wood was a pure white and was fairly certain this was holly. On two of the larger logs he could just make out that each had been incised with an ‘Θ.’ This was strange as trees and lumber for the King’s use were marked with white paint. He ran one finger over an ‘Θ’ and with a sharp intake of breath quickly pulled his hand back. Had he been stung by a wasp? His finger stung and bled and he saw a splinter lodged in his fingertip. “I hope you have no more surprises for me,” he said to the log. “A sore ankle and now a finger. That’s quite enough mischief from you.” He gathered a few tools from a small chest in the corner and started to process the logs. He thought there would be more than enough wood to make a small table.

The table would be plain, nothing fancy, a place to have their meals together. His daughter could set out her sewing, sort the herbs she used for cooking and they could play games. It would make their home more comfortable. Before he knew it, his daughter was saying good night and climbing the ladder to the loft where she slept. A few hours later he had the stock he needed. He cleaned and put away his tools. Tomorrow, he would try to match the wood to make a pleasing pattern on the tabletop.

The next day he helped his neighbor repair his roof and a stable wall. His daughter helped in the garden and kitchen. In return, they came home bearing fresh bread, pots of berry jam, a basket full of vegetables and a couple more rabbits. That night they had a merry time over their supper.

After supper, he sat back in an old upholstered chair, the last piece of furniture they still had from their old home in the city. Although the cottage was warm his body kept a memory of the cold day. His face stung from the sharp wind and his hands were sore. Well, he thought as he sat up, I can at least sort and match the stock for the tabletop. After a few tries he called his daughter over. “What do you think?” he asked. Yawning, she came to take a look. “That will make a fine table,” she said and asked, “How will you remember which pieces of wood go where?” “I’ll make a special mark to help me match them again when the pieces are glued and put in the clamps,” he explained. “A special mark? Is is magic? Can I see it?” she asked. “No magic and you can see it tomorrow morning. Now, get to bed and Good Night!” he answered.

With the matched pieces laid out on the floor he drew the cabinetmaker’s triangle. To the unfamiliar eye, it looked like a fancy triangle with a center line and some loops. To him, it was a enjoyable reminder of another time. When he was first introduced to this method of marking wood he thought it was magic, and in saying so, received a smack on the back of his head from his master. Sitting back on his heels he laughed at the memory and said aloud, “I said it back then and I’ll say it again, it does look like a witch’s hat.” He glued the wood together and set the clamps. That done, he sat back in the old padded chair with his feet toward the fire. He dozed.

“You were not wrong, it is a witch’s hat,” said a low and dusky voice. He woke with a start. “Who said that? Show yourself! We have nothing worth stealing!” His eyes cleared and the room seemed smoky, but not from the fire. The clamped wood for the tabletop seemed to move. The point of the cabinetmaker’s triangle tipped outward as it would if someone were about to rise from a seated position. His eyes cleared, and he saw the entire mark lift out and up from the wood. On either side of the mark two long-fingered hands emerged and appeared to push away from the wood as a shimmering figure formed in front of him. He saw a woman with long, black hair wearing a gray gown. The air around her moved like a veil making it difficult to see her features. He stood up and saw she was almost as tall as he. “Who are you and what do you want? How did you get in?” he demanded. She laughed at him, “You just saw me come hat-first out of the wood. I am released!” She flung her head back and twirled around causing the air in the room to swirl around her.

“What are you?” he asked. “Oh, I was ‘a who’ and now ‘a what.’ How rude!” she remarked. “Answer the question!” he demanded. “As you can see, I’m wearing the hat and I am a witch.” She twirled around once more. Stepping closer to him she raised her hand and pointed one long finger toward him. He could now see her face. It was thin with high cheekbones and flat, black eyes. Her lips were full; her chin came to a rounded point. “Like what you see?” she teased. He thought she was repulsive and answered, “Not in the least.” Moving a step closer, she extended her hand and with a long, black fingernail gave a sharp tap to his chest. “Oh, that is too bad,” she said with pouted lips. “You,” she continued with a low laugh, “drew the mark and released me from the holly.” Stunned, he stepped back and almost stumbled. “That’s impossible!” he countered. “Holly is used to ward off witches not conjure them!” “For me, the holly was used for another purpose. It took the power of six wizards to bind me. They locked me into the holly to prevent my escape. I was legendary,” she explained with a note of pride in her voice. In a much lower and anguished voice she added, “It was agonizing.”

“When did this happen, how long were you in the holly?” he asked, not that he would believe anything she said. “In your measurement of time, about 200 years. The tree was marked with a warning to never cut it down. It seems someone forgot,” she explained. He didn’t want to know what she had done to be magically bound and locked in the holly. He thought about the two marked logs. “That’s why,” he started to say and stopped. “Why, what?” she asked. “It was almost dark when I found the logs and didn’t see any markings. Later, I saw that two of the logs had a mark carved into the wood, a circle with a line in the middle.” “Ohh, too bad for you and too good for me!” she laughed and added, “That is an old symbol meaning death and a warning to stay away from the tree. It seems it was ignored.” “Or not recognized to be a warning. I’ll take the wood back to the forest in the morning,” he replied and wondered to himself where would he find more wood.

“The wood is fine. Now that I’m released the wood is harmless, well, harmless to you. I never again want to see a holly tree. Make your table,” she said and turned to look around the cottage. He watched her touch and turn a few objects before she turned back to him. “As you released me from the holly I am required to give you payment,” she started to explain. He quickly cut her off, “I don’t want anything! Just go and leave us alone!” he responded. “By us, you mean you and your young daughter? If nothing for you, what would you like for your daughter? It’s a dangerous world for young girls. I can protect her and make sure she is happy,” she offered. He shuddered at her words. “We want nothing of your witchcraft! I won’t make a deal with you! Go!” he shouted. She had seen this reaction from ungrateful humans many times before and was non-plussed. She drew herself up and looking him straight in the eyes said, “Have it your way, for now. I will see you 20 years from this night, and on that night you will thank me. And, I promise to curse you!” Then, she was gone. The air cleared and the tension left his body. He sat heavily in his chair and slumped back. What had just happened?

The next morning he woke with a start and rushed over to the clamped wood. The cabinetmaker’s triangle was still there, but the lines were smudged and not as sharp as when he first drew them. Before starting work on the table he cut pieces of holly and went outside to nail some over the cottage door and each window. Over the next few days he worked the wood and made the table. With the table finished, he returned to the forest and brought back more wood from the fallen tree. He used the holly to make tall cases for either side of the fireplace. And, he kept track of the years by making a small mark on the highest shelf of the case closest to his chair.

When others saw the kind of work he could do he was asked to make tables, chairs and chests. With each job he was able to buy wood and no longer needed to scrounge in the forest. Years later, when his daughter married, the holly table was part of her dowry. On the day his daughter and new son-in-law drove away with their wagon loaded with the holly table and other furniture he had made, he tied several small holly branches together and handed them to his daughter. “Remember,” he started to say. “Yes, Papa,” she smiled and continued, “nail one sprig above the front door and above each window. We won’t forget!”

Days before the 20-year mark, he pulled an old blanket chest before the fireplace. Every few years he and his daughter would decide which piece of furniture could use a new coat of paint or a new design. The blanket chest was a faded blue with white, red and yellow flowers dancing across the top. He ran his hand over the flowers, remembering when his daughter painted them. He pictured her little face serious with concentration and the tip of her tongue just sticking out. Oh, I can’t paint over her flowers, he thought, it will have to be something else. He looked around and his eyes settled on the tall case by the fireplace. You’re next, he thought, but not tonight, I’m too tired.

He was in the cottage the night that marked 20 years since the witch had first appeared. The tall case was propped up on two sawhorses and he was removing the shelves. Still undecided on which colors to use he had placed several paint pots and brushes to the side. With the shelves out he sanded a few rough spots. The room cooled, a faint whiff of smoke stirred in the air and he knew she was about to arrive. Suddenly, she was in front of him. Her hair was no longer black, rather the gray of weather-beaten wood. Her face was thinner, almost skeletal, and her eyes held great malevolence. He thought she must have done terrible things to have gained that degree of evil. “Oh, I see you are still busy making things! What is it?” she asked as though this was any normal evening and she had just popped in for a friendly visit. Her voice was still low, its dusky tone replace by a creak. “It’s a case to store things. I took the shelves out before freshening up the paint,” he answered. “Well, that sounds like a dull job,” she remarked in a flat voice.

“Would you like a drink? A brandy?” he offered. “Yes, please. It would be welcome on this cold evening. After that, as I told you 20 years ago, you can thank me,” she answered. While he poured the drinks she looked around the cottage and asked about his daughter. “As you well know, she is fine. I heard an old woman would occasionally stop by and ask for a drink of water. There were also times when I was told about strange happenings, such as the ground around her cottage being perfectly dry just after a heavy rain. You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, his voice steely. “Oh, there was no harm, just making sure she was happy and healthy.” she replied. “So, she doesn’t owe you anything?” he asked. “No, well, maybe just a little bit,” she said as though she was teasing. He knew better. She had come to collect something she wasn’t owed.

They each had a second brandy followed by another. He smiled, leaned back and hummed a tune he had recently heard at a wedding. “I like that, what it it?” she asked. “A country dance tune, do you want to dance?” he asked and stood waiting for her to join him. He took her hands and swung her around and around in smaller circles until he had her in his arms. She threw her head back and laughed. His arms tightened a bit around her. “What are you doing?” she gasped. “Dancing, just dancing,” he smiled back at her and held her closer. “You go too far! I will curse you!” she warned, “I will curse you to oak!” He laughed at her, unfazed by her threats, “Oak? A good, strong wood.” He looked down into her eyes, challenging her, and she saw he had no fear of her. She hissed. In moments, he felt the back of his neck tighten, followed by his shoulders and arms. He watched, fascinated, as his arms became wood bringing her tighter against his chest. She twisted frantically and demanded to be let go. He looked down at her, “I can’t, and now you are coming with me.” She screamed and struggled as the his oaken arms slowly squeezed her. His legs heavy, he lurched toward the tall case and leaned so as to tip them into it. Her screams grew more strident. “It’s holly!” she shrieked and writhed in agony. “Yes, holly from your old trees and, thank you,” were the last words he spoke before he turned entirely to oak and she to holly.

Her father had been in poor health in the last month, and she worried he was not eating enough. She entered the cottage, feeling the cold and saw the fire was out. Stepping forward, she called out to her Papa. Another step took her to the edge of the tall case. She remembered when they had painted the cases. They had just finished when, laughing, he had said, “When my time comes remove the shelves and use my case as a coffin, but please repaint it! This rose-red will not do!” Through her tears she looked down at him and promised, “Oh, Papa, I will paint your coffin your favorite blue.” She leaned closer and stroked and kissed his cheek. His mouth was curved in a half smile and a small holly log was clutched tightly to his chest.

Jonathan Fisher: A Comfortable House

Posted on by fitz
The home Fisher built signifies his success on the frontier.

The following is excerpted from Joshua A. Klein’s “Hands Employed Aright: The Furniture Making of Jonathan Fisher (1768-1847).” Fisher was the first settled minister of the frontier town of Blue Hill, Maine. Harvard-educated and handy with an axe, Fisher spent his adult life building furniture for his community. Fortunately for us, Fisher recorded every aspect of his life as a woodworker and minister
on the frontier.

In this book, Klein, the founder of Mortise & Tenon Magazine, examines what might be the most complete record of the life of an early 19th-century American craftsman. Using Fisher’s papers, his tools and the surviving furniture, Klein paints a picture of a man of remarkable mechanical genius, seemingly boundless energy and the deepest devotion. It is a portrait that is at times both familiar and completely alien to a modern reader – and one that will likely change your view of furniture making in the early days of the United States.

[Jonathan] Fisher didn’t die an active cabinetmaker. About the time he recorded paying off his debt, his shop activity waned. By March 1820, when he wrote “I am free from debt to earthly creditors,” he hadn’t made a chair or a stand for almost a decade. He had reached the ambition of every frontiersman – in the most literal sense, he had built from the ground up a comfortable life for his family and himself in a thriving coastal community. As Richard Bushman has pointed out, “Beyond the physical side of comfort – warmth, good food, restful chairs, and accessible conveniences – comfort implied a moral condition achieved through retirement from the bustle of high life and retreat into wholesome domesticity.” (1)

Being able to take moments of leisure has long been seen as a sign of success. There are few objects that signify this more powerfully than a comfortable chair.

With all the labor he expended to get to this place in life, Fisher appreciated being able to reap the rewards. Not every family was so fortunate, though. On one visit to a struggling family whose father had been recently imprisoned, Fisher sympathized with them when he wrote, “Mrs. David Carter had with her 4 little children, three of them sick with whooping cough. Not a chair in the miserable cottage to sit in and her husband recently gone to prison for shooting some of his neighbor’s cattle and she professed to believe him innocent … Oh when will the benign sway of pure Christianity banish in some good measure from this earth this mess of human misery!” For Fisher, the lack of a chair in the Carter home symbolized the family’s economic, social and spiritual poverty.

For Fisher, though, comfort was not simply about retreat from the “bustle of life” Bushman refers to – it had much more to do with contentment. On a visit he made to the exceptionally fine house of a Mr. Codman, “Mr. Fisher was greatly surprised by its beauty and luxury and exclaimed: Brother Codman, can you have all this and heaven too?” (2) Fisher wrote in his journal on one occasion: “So craving is the disposition of man, that his wants in general increase with his riches. And besides this, his anxiety increases for what he possesses, which is a farther source of unhappiness. If riches conduce not to unhappiness, what then is wanting to make me happy? I tread on as good an earth, as the richest, I survey as fair a landscape. And breathe as pure an air, as they; yes, and may contemplate the same glorious heavens; nothing is wanting to make me happy, as happy as man can be in the world, but a good heart, a heart that delights in virtue.” (3)

To have a house furnished tastefully in a frontier town was no small feat. Rather than achieve this through purchasing articles from established artisans, Fisher built his domestic environment with his hands.

It’s not that Fisher lost interest in creative work. Instead, he fixed his focus on the production of his book, Scripture Animals (4), a compendium of all the animals mentioned in the Bible, complete with his own woodcuts. This project took dedication and more than 10 years of effort to complete. Not only is the volume a fascinating insight into Fisher’s mind, it is an incredible example of the attention to detail of which the man was capable. The homemade engraving tools, though crude and primitive in appearance, were delightfully manipulated to form the finest details of hair, feathers and eyes on the boxwood blanks.

Even though these tools appear crude, they were used to engrave exquisite woodcuts for the books he wrote. – Jonathan Fisher Memorial.

It was only a couple years after the 1834 publishing that Fisher fell into the period of his life known to all as “the long sickness.” The inside of the small cupboard door (Cat#6, p 142) twice records the event by this name, and in his letters to family, the regularity of which the event was discussed suggests it was something akin to a near-death experience. This sickness was disruptive enough that he decided to retire in 1837 at the age of 69. The church agreed to give Fisher $2 per week for one year after his retirement. After this support ran out, Fisher wrote in a letter dated November 1837, “I am now thrown upon the kind hand of God, and the avails of my own industry. I think it probable that for the present I shall work on the farm and at mechanics, and preach now and then a Sabbath and a lecture in Bluehill and vicinity … As respects temporal concerns, I may remark that I have at present a competency. I owe but little, and I have about $200 due to me ….”

The relentless work of his hands afforded Fisher a comfortable life.

The “avails of his own industry” appear to have been sufficient for satisfying his financial needs – he credited manual labor with the restoration of his physical condition: “I am able to perform nearly all the work on my farm, cheerfully and with little weariness. My labor conduces to my health … The ax, the saw, the plane, the shovel, and the hoe may many times add life and vigor to our composition as well as add years to the number of our days.” He was, by 1838, in “almost perfect health.”

“Blue Hill, Maine” by Fitz Henry Lane, circa 1853-1857.

Throughout his furniture-making career, it seems Fisher benefitted from a monopoly in his rural market. Undoubtedly, some Blue Hill residents preferred to order furniture from “the westward” and have it shipped to Blue Hill bay because local options were limited. The only local furniture maker documented to have worked in the first quarter of the 19th century in Blue Hill was Fisher. In R.F. Candage’s Sketches of Blue Hill, he made a mention of the “old Curtis furniture factory” on the stream at the head of the bay. This is, apparently, a reference to Robert T. Osgood (a cabinetmaker) and Ezra Curtis (a wheelwright) who shared a shop there from 1835 to 1842, although no other period resource mentions the “factory.” (5) If Osgood and Curtis were making furniture at the head of the bay, it is probable that Fisher would not have been able to favorably compete with their efficiency in division of labor and waterpower.
David Jaffe (6) has shown how the New England “move from craft to industry” began for chairmaking with countless small workshops operating “chair manufactories” on mill streams much like the one in Blue Hill.

Fisher viewed his workshop as a place of meditation and rest. He was not desperate to escape the trade like some of his contemporaries.

Like most artisans, Fisher was driven by complex motivations that must be appreciated if we are to understand the role furniture making played in his life. His devotion to God was the core of all he wrote, did and made. For Fisher, the mere ability to work produced emotional gratitude: “Brisk S. mild and cloudy. Spent most of the day burning brush by the side of new field. While my hands were occupied in needful labor, I was led to exclaim in heart, hands, what a blessing they are when employed aright. The fingers are adapted to such a variety of useful occupations that they give man a great superiority over all other creatures.” This moment of reflection perfectly captures the relationship between Fisher’s manual, spiritual and intellectual activities. His manual labor provided the opportunity to ponder the glories of heaven and marvel at the beauty of the created order. The relationship among the head, heart and hands of Fisher were clearly intertwined and complex.

The permanence of Fisher’s work is a testimony to a life well-lived. The man made a lasting mark on his community.

What was furniture making to Fisher? It was, in one sense, an avenue to indulge the artistic and creative impulse woven through the fiber of his being. In his shop, Fisher was free to design and build functional objects of beauty that still reflect his complex mind to this day. His furniture is distinctive for its perplexing fusion of micro-focus attention to detail and humble pragmatism.

The clock in his hallway illustrates Fisher’s sophistication in its mechanical complexity and his humility in its understated built-in “case.”

Furniture making was also a way for him to make ends meet. With nine children at home, the demands on his pocketbook were real. His modest salary as a preacher was not enough to ensure everyone was fed and educated while continuing to develop his farm. Making furniture was one of the many services Fisher offered to his community. The surveying, book publishing, sign painting, pipe boring and even hat braiding were all important contributors to the flourishing of the Fisher family. The Puritan work ethic to “work with your own hands” forbid wasting time in idleness, and Fisher seems to have taken this seriously. His hands were ever employed aright.

1. Bushman, Richard L., The Refinement of America: Persons, Houses, Cities, Knopf, 1992, p 268.
2. Candage, Rufus George Frederick, Memoir of Jonathan Fisher, of Blue Hill, Maine (1889), Kessinger Publishing, 2009, p 224.
3. Smith, Raoul N. The Life of Jonathan Fisher (1768-1847) Volume 1 (From His Birth Through the Year 1798), self-published, 2006, p 42-43.
4. Fisher, Jonathan, Scripture Animals: A Natural History of the Living Creatures Named in the Bible, Pyne Press, 1972.
5. Hinckley, William, “The Weekly Packet,” Oct. 5, 1978.
6. Jaffe, David, A Nation of New Goods: The Material Culture of Early America, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011, p 189.

Books & Tools in the Works

Posted on by Lost Art Press
Some cricket tables from Derek Jones’ imminent book.

Here is a quick-ish update on products we hope to have in stock before the holidays – including three I haven’t announced before.

“Cricket Tables” by Derek Jones

This book should arrive at the warehouse any day now. Is the cover cloth going to be that bright green? I hope not. But if it is, we’ll include a warning label. Retail $33.

Letterpress poster.

“By Hammer in Hand” letterpress poster by Brian Stuparyk

We should receive our press proofs today. Unless something is dog-a-whumpus, these will sell starting in mid-November. We ordered 500 (probably too many). Retail $25.

The “2024 Workbook.”

“Workbook 2024”

This is something I’ve been thinking about doing for a long time. I record all the things I build in an antique “Daybook” – an old accounting ledger. I also write down design changes for my chairs, how much they sold for, the exact finish I used and where the customer lives. It is an invaluable record of my work. 

You can’t buy a decent ledger shaped like this anymore, so we decided to make one. The “Workbook 2024” is a 64-page ledger printed on lovely #60 smooth and undyed paper. The pages are sewn and casebound in thick, cloth-covered boards. (We are using the same printing and bindery plant that does all our color books.) The book measures 4-1/2″ wide x 11-1/4″ tall.

An interior spread of the “Workbook.”

The interior pages are printed with blue and red lines that help you organize your information. And, because we can’t leave well enough alone, we added a short quotation to the bottom of each entry page. Megan selected all the quotations on the left-facing pages (verso). I picked all the ones on the right-hand pages (recto).

We are only printing 1,000 of these. Then we will see if we should do this again for 2025. Retail $27. (Note: Our margin is terrible on these and we don’t think we will be able to sell them wholesale.) These will be in stock by the end of November.

The A-square in maple.

The Anarchist’s A-square: A Kit

This is a fun project I have been working hard on. We are trying to create a three-piece kit of parts that you can assemble to create your own A-square (the tool shown on the cover of “The Anarchist’s Tool Chest”).

The parts will be made of Baltic birch and have all the joinery and embellishments cut. You will just need to do a little fine fitting and then glue the parts together. I have made dozens of these squares for customers and friends and love them. And they are useful tool as well.

We are waiting on a prototype this week and hope to start production as soon as possible. Retail: under $50. But I don’t know enough to state a firm price.

Wooden bookmarks.

Wooden Bookmarks

My daughter Madeline is itching to get back into the sticker business. So I created these lovely wooden bookmarks that are printed in the US on a two-ply veneer. The bookmarks are 2” x 6” and come in a variety of species. The woodcut at the top of the bookmark is from Rudy Everts. The quotation is from John Brown.

Our logo on the back.

We have long been asked to make a nice bookmark. These are nice. Retail $5. Maddy will set up an SASE (self-addressed stamped envelope) system this week and should start selling them next week.

— Christopher Schwarz

P.S. The Anarchist’s Gift Guide starts Nov. 10. If you want a preview of one of the items, check out today’s substack entry.

An Uncomfortable Request

Posted on by Lost Art Press

One of the six tasks I’m juggling now is a refresh of the Lost Art Press website. It mostly will make the site easier to search. And it will categorize our products to help new customers make sense of the things we make (we make more than 100 things).

One of the recommendations from our consultants is to add what is stupidly called “social proof” to our site. “Social proof” is basically kind words about the company from customers.

My inclination has always been to let the products sell themselves through word of mouth. But the consultants have reams of data that show that new customers need and want social proof before they’ll make a first purchase. 

So I relented.

This is me wearing out the knees in a pair of jeans (i.e. I’m on my knees). If you are so inclined, could you write up two or three sentences (no more, there’s not a lot of space for this) about Lost Art Press or Crucible and what you like about us (writer cringes; feels dirty)? It helps if we can use your name, too.

If you could send them to fitz@lostartpress.com, that would be highly appreciated.

Sorry and thank you in advance.

— Christopher Schwarz

On Discontinued Books

Posted on by Lost Art Press
Look how fancy we are. A metal sign (from Covington’s Sign Works/Todd Engraving company).

I don’t like to take books out of print. In fact, we have spent the last 16 years trying like hell to keep everything possible in print.

Recently, we took “The Solution at Hand” out of print, and our email lit up with people asking “why?” Interestingly, many of these people had not bought the book and were disappointed they couldn’t buy a copy. Which is one of the reasons books go out of print.

There are many reasons books are discontinued. Here are the common ones.

  1. The book is a translation or reprint from another publisher (think “Grandpa’s Workshop”). When you buy foreign rights, it’s typically for five years. After that you have to re-up with a new and expensive advance. You do the math and realize you won’t make a profit until 10 years, so….
  2. The author dies or becomes incapacitated. And the author’s literary heirs don’t want the book to continue in print.
  3. The book stops selling. And it gets to the point where you lose money every month paying for storage. 

To reduce our storage fees (and get more control over our operations), we bought the Anthe building in downtown Covington, an old factory. According to the inventory analysis we did, we had plenty of room on the first and second floors for our books.

Someone, somewhere made a mistake.

We were told we had three semi loads of books. After we unloaded the third semi, we sighed with relief. Everything fit, barely. Then John got a phone call. There were two more semis coming.

We don’t have elevator access to the third floor (yet), so we had to rent storage lockers to hold the 40 pallets of books on the last two semis. 

So we are in a bit of a bind right now. Until we get the third floor ready for storage, we barely have any room to move. We have pallets of new titles on the way. “Cricket Tables” by Derek Jones should be here in the next two weeks. 

Where are we going to put them?

And that’s another reason we have to discontinue books. John and I are working on a lot of ideas that should get us the space we need. But until then, we have to be careful. Otherwise, I’ll end up storing books under every bed, chair and table in my house – just like we did in the beginning years of this company.

So if I had any advice for our customers it’s this: If there’s a book you want to own someday, buy it now. I am still trying like hell to keep all our titles in print, but right now it’s an almost impossible task.

— Christopher Schwarz

P.S. Some of you have asked if we could sell the pdfs of discontinued books. Many times the contracts we sign make that impossible. But it might be possible for some titles. So thanks for that suggestion.