The Hudson Valley has become an increasingly revitalized haven for NYC exp-pats, with towns like Hudson, Beacon, and Kingston blooming into re-gentrified versions of themselves in recent decades. But some towns, like Woodstock or New Paltz, always retained their ‘60s counter-culture vibrance and found ways to hold on to that quirky way of living even during leaner years. Driving into New Paltz these days could land you in a little traffic jam and a maze-like hunt for public parking on nicer weekend, but the trip is worth it. The cafes, art galleries, music and food, all a mix of new and old artistry coming together in the compact little town not far from the SUNY College campus. And of course, there are bookstores. By chance the two notable ones in town are right across the street from each other, and the first I visited was Barner Books.

Usually when I interview poets and writers about their favorite bookshops, it’s a quick Q&A, four or five questions, but Cheryl Rice took it another step and wrote a brief and fascinating saga about her favorite shop, one that has seen many transitions over the years and has become something altogether different, leaving Cheryl with a lot of memories and nostalgia. I hope you enjoy, and please check out Cheryl’s work and bio below. She’s a dynamic and prolific poet and writer and I’m happy to have her here!

Having lived in the Hudson Valley for over forty years, there is no shortage of bookstores past and present that I might dub “my favorite” at any given time. I’ve been employed by the finest, and patronized the funkiest. So many of them are no longer with us, and that saddens me in many ways. As I clear my bookshelves to fulfill my Pandemic goal of making my tiny house work better for me and my arts, I let many books pass through my hands and into boxes headed for our local used goldmine, Halfmoon Books in uptown Kingston. Credit will be due there, and used gratefully to refill those recently emptied shelves, of course.

I often come across books in my collection with odd little prices penciled in the upper right-hand corner of the first page: 23¢, 43¢, 78¢. I immediately know where the book came from. Back in the early days, when I first arrived to attend SUNY New Paltz in the early 1980s, there was an outstanding used bookstore & art supply shop, Manny’s, in the heart of town, next door to P&Gs bar, and across the street from a book shop that some might have considered a rival but was actually the perfect complement—Ariel Booksellers.

Manny’s was really Manny’s back then, as the man himself, Manny Lipton, still held court. He was a loud New Yorker who’d come up from The City in the 1970s and, rumor had it, opened a bookshop to offer the many art students in town a place to buy supplies. The origins of the business are still shrouded in mist, since the original façade was clearly that of a ‘60s cocktail lounge, and the phone number was listed as “Manny’s Lounge” for many decades. The front of the store was pasted with photos and clippings, a community-created collage that got shabbier and thicker every semester. He frightened me really, since I was newly away from home and still finding out who I would become. But the draw of cheap books was too much to resist. I bravely slipped by Manny, perched up front, pontificating to a new crop of freshmen, and headed towards the deepest depths of the store.

You would mainly find me in Biography or Fiction. I was not yet a dedicated poet, although I’d been writing for most of my life. The art supplies were equally attractive to me, but not as big a bargain as the paperbacks. The stock overflowed the shelving, and piles of books sat in front of shelves overwhelmed by their loads. I remember getting a mass market edition of “The Other Side of the Rainbow,” Mel Torme’s tell-all about behind the scenes of “The Judy Garland Show.” You could find old copies of novels used in classes, but the textbooks, cleverly updated every couple of years, were worthless. Now and then a crumbling Henry Miller would pop up, and I’d snatch it quickly before the authorities showed up.

Eventually it was not the authorities, but the local fire commissioner who arrived. The place always was a fire trap, as well as a physical hazard should the shelves suddenly topple down onto some beatnik engrossed in a book of prints by Dali. Volunteers from the community came in to clear the aisles. Portions of rug that hadn’t seen daylight since the Camelot days of Kennedy winced at the brightness. It was cleaner, it was safer, but it was never the same treasure trove of gems. The pearls of Manny’s wisdom still flowed, but could the clean up have taken something out of the master? I’ll never be sure.

Graduation, marriage, divorce, and movement all led me away from Manny’s in its declining years. The business is still there, calls itself “Manny’s,” but the books are gone. Manny’s daughter and son-in-law took over the business some time ago, and it is a fine place to get a picture framed or to purchase a souvenir. Art supplies fulfill every student’s needs. But when I go in, now for fancy paper to make chapbooks with, I still wince a little. I still expect to see the Man himself, sharing his observations. I wish I’d listened then to what I’ll never know now.

Cheryl A. Rice’s poems have appeared in Home Planet News, Rye Whiskey Review, Up The River, and Misfit Magazine, among others. Recent books include Until the Words Came (Post Traumatic Press), coauthored with Guy Reed, and Love’s Compass (Kung Fu Treachery Press). Rice’s RANDOM WRITING WORKSHOPS travel from town to town at request. Her blog is at: http://flyingmonkeyprods.blogspot.com/. Rice lives in New York’s Hudson Valley.