Memories of My Bookshop Memories, Dreams, and Nightmares Thank You, Maple Street Book Shop Growing Up in a Bookshop

Memories of My Bookshop back to top

Memories of My Bookshop
by Consuelo Abaunza Faust

My mother Mary Kellogg Faust (now Mary Kellogg) and her sister Rhoda Kellogg Norman started Maple Street Bookshop in 1964. I’m pretty sure it was an act of spontaneity for them, at least it was a huge surprise to me when Mama came home one evening and told me she had bought a bookshop. (Actually they had leased the building at that point — with bookshop intentions.) I was 11 at the time and I remember jumping around the house and running everywhere telling everyone in the neighborhood. I couldn’t contain my excitement at the idea of having a real store! And I did always see it as my store. Over the next few years my mother would sometimes let me sit behind the desk and take the money, figure out the change and write down the name of the book and author in a notebook that was kept on the desk. Those were pre-cash-register days at the Bookshop.

I really felt like royalty. I would bring all of my friends to the Bookshop after school — from Allen School and then from McMain Jr. High. Mama would hand us money to go get hamburgers and snowballs at Miss Amy’s down the street — to get rid of us no doubt, but we would happily stuff ourselves and come back to the Bookshop for more entertainment. I remember having no patience at all for customers. The idea that I couldn’t say something to my mother exactly when I wanted to was frustrating — so basically I interrupted those exchanges she’d be having every chance I got. I’m not sure I ever really got over the habit of thinking that the customers were less important than me communicating with my mother.

I had always been a reader. My mother read to me all the time until I started reading my own books. Later she coined the word “bibliotherapy” — at least I think it was she who invented the word… at any rate that’s what it always was for me, a need to read, along with a desire — but more of an emotional need.

One of my early memories is of lying on the couch at our home on Joseph St. as my mother read Charlotte’s Web to me one hot afternoon. I’m not sure where my sister and brothers were but it seemed that we were in the house alone. As we came to the end when Charlotte dies, I was sobbing and making involuntary choking noises. As I looked over at my mother she lay there with tears streaming down her face. She kind of smiled at me. I had never seen her cry before. And her smile and maybe her tears made me laugh. Then she laughed. Then we cried harder than ever and again we laughed at ourselves.

One of the great privileges of owning a bookshop as I did, was being able to take whatever books I wanted home with me and there was always a huge stack at the end of the day as my mother and I packed up to go home. Many of the books I chose at age 12 or 13 were books I heard my mother and her friends from the Tulane English Department discussing. I remember Carl Jung’s Man and His Symbols was one. Also John Lennon’s A Spaniard in the Works, as well as The Annotated Alice and something by Freud. Also periodicals: Ramparts and The Evergreen Review. I would read little things from these books and magazines and sometimes even begin a book and make myself read more than a few pages. But mainly they looked good on my bookshelf.

I knew that after a few days or a week my mom would gather them up and bring them back to the shop – but it didn’t matter because I could always bring home more.

Memories, Dreams, and Nightmares back to top

by Chris Wiltz (on the occasion of Maple Street Book Shop’s thirtieth anniversary)


Bright Lights On Maple Street
(November 24, 1992)

In 1965 I bought my first book from Maple Street Book Shop. It was 50 Poems by e.e. cummings and I still have it. Mary Kellogg and her sister Rhoda Norman opened the store earlier in the year, and the bookmarks boasted “Five Rooms of Paperbacks,” something the city of New Orleans never had before, a shop dedicated to stocking the greatest and latest in paperback books. Before the year was out, the book shop was well known for something other than its growing stock and willingness to special order books.

Because Mary and Rhoda Norman felt like fish out of water in mostly conservative New Orleans, the bookstore became a place the left wing and avant garde could depend on as a source for their books and as a meeting place. They would hang out on the screened side porch—where the travel section is today—schmoozing until after dark, sometimes well after closing hours if anyone had enough pocket change to run down to Bruno’s and buy a few beers to fuel the conversation.

In my memory it was all glamorous, everyone wearing dark glasses, black turtlenecks, and long hair (my memory may not be so reliable on some of these finer details) except for Mary who always seemed to have on a crisp white cotton blouse, wore her hair short and frosted, and had sunglasses with cool-green lenses.

Part of the glamour too, I’m sure, had to do with my being younger than those I perceived as the hip intelligentsia, the college professors and students who dressed in black and talked about Neitzche. I was only a high school senior, beneath the notice of that group, and not only that, Rhoda and I were usually tearing in after school, out to do some “blazing” as we called it (which usually meant checking out some boy’s house or whereabouts) and looking for some extra funds. Mary would ask Rhoda what we were up to, get absolutely no satisfaction that I can recall, and only in self defense finally open the cash drawer and hand over a few bucks.

Hard to believe, but it was thirty years ago that Rhoda and I met at Fortier High School. One of the teachers there, Charles Macmurdo, put us together as editor and managing editor of the school newspaper. I remember his telling me before he introduced me to Rhoda that I would like her very much and that we would be friends for a long time. Prophetic, indeed, because thirty years later we are still the very best and closest of friends.

As it turned out, Mr. Macmurdo and Mary Kellogg were two of the most influential adults in my life, Mr. Macmurdo for introducing me to Rhoda and allowing us to be rather creative, shall I say, with the school newspaper. Students used to congregate in the halls on the day the paper came out to see what Rhoda’s survey was that month (she covered topics such as “What historical figure would you like to be and why?” Morgus was a popular response) and to find out what I was taking to task on the editorial page, none of which I remember now. It was also due to Mr. Macmurdo and his consuming love of literature that I became a novelist.

But it was Mary Kellogg who ended up having the most prolonged influence. I’d never known women like Mary or Rhoda Norman before. They were both glamorous and smart; they owned a book shop. And they were mothers. I didn’t see Rhoda Norman as often as I did Mary, and anyway, Mary was the mother of my best friend. I spent a lot of time at their house.

I watched Mary handle Rhoda and her sister and two brothers (a major handful, believe me!) without ever raising her voice, though I did see her go up to her bedroom and lock them out a few times. But Mary and Rhoda Norman let us smoke cigarettes in front of them (on one special occasion) and talked about men in front of us. I was enthralled.

The summer after high school Rhoda and I spent three months blazing, playing chess, and getting into Mary’s hair. There was a very brief part of that summer that we made some sort of pretense of working at the book shop, but I think it wasn’t long. I don’t think Mary could stand it. She probably paid us to stay away.

Then Rhoda and I both went off to college. We wrote letters every now and again and kept up with each other during summers. The summer after our freshman year we came home to discover that Mary had hired Marigny Dupuy to work in the shop. Rhoda had already met Marigny and hated her on sight, mostly because Mary spoke so well of her and clearly liked her a lot. Also, Marigny was on territory Rhoda perceived as hers.

So one day while we were out on a blaze, Rhoda suggested we go over to the book shop and give Marigny the business. We arrived at the shop with our toughest attitude only to discover that the object of our attitude was intelligent and funny, and though we didn’t want to admit it right away, we liked her. All that was left was to shed the tough we’d put on as gracefully as possible.

Marigny, because she is a nice person, made it easy, and Rhoda and I formed another lasting friendship. Some years later Rhoda asked Marigny to manage the Maple Street Children’s Book Shop, and I named my daughter after her.

Before that happened, though, the three of us worked in the book shop together, separately, and on and off, and there were some pretty wild times. It often seemed, in fact, that the shop wouldn’t survive us. During one period, our days began with the landlord, Mr. Applewhite, bringing us Tom Collins drinks from Bruno’s, and the crowd that congregated on the side porch started scaring off customers. But Mary, who was off being a political activist, came back and saved the store.

Then Marigny, Rhoda, and I went our separate ways for a few years, Marigny to the Northeast, while I went to California and Rhoda stayed in New Orleans, though eventually she spent part of a year in Okinawa.

I was in San Francisco for my last year of college when my mother wrote and enclosed a Times- Picayune article about a Mardi Gras ball, and there was a picture of Rhoda as one of the maids of Momus! Rhoda, you have to understand, personified “hip” to me in those days. She was a rebel, a female James Dean—and now a Momus maid? I couldn’t believe it and immediately sent off an expressive letter of my disbelief.

Later I found out that Rhoda had failed to attend the Queen’s Supper—an egregious insult to Mardi Gras royalty. Now that sounded like the Rhoda I knew, the Rhoda who eventually made sandals and peace signs at the first Love Shop in the French Quarter, and became a successful hippie entrepreneur, a total contradiction in terms, but Rhoda is very much like the city where she grew up, full of contradictions.

After college I lived in Los Angeles for about a year, but my roots called me home, and I packed up my VW bug and trekked across the Texas desert one more time. I got a job at Tulane Medical School and waited for Rhoda to return from Okinawa.

Once again, the book shop became a focal point of my life. Soon, though, Mary and her daughter Consuelo and Rhoda Norman decided to do some traveling.They hit the road, driving first to Florida, up the East Coast, across the country, eventually to arrive where I’d just returned from, California. While they were gone, they left the management of the shop to a young man named Ricky Coxe, who I could tell was in love with Mary.

We didn’t know at the time that Mary, Rhoda Norman and Consuelo would never return. Shortly after Rhoda Faust got back from Okinawa, she got a call from Mary asking her if she wanted the book shop, and telling her that if she didn’t, then she was going to sell it. It didn’t take Rhoda long to decide; she told Mary yes and called me to see if I would quit my job at the medical school and come help her. I gave notice that day.

We could see that Ricky Coxe was hard hit by all this news, first that Mary wasn’t coming back, and second that Rhoda was going to take over the shop. He gave us a half-hearted tour of the stock and the paperwork, but I had trouble staying tuned in because Rhoda had told me that Ricky had a bubble of air trapped in his brain from a deep sea diving accident and he could die at any moment.

Ricky stayed in New Orleans for a while but ended up in New York. It wasn’t long before we heard he died there, sad and terrible news. I never forgot Ricky, though, and 18 years later when I wrote The Emerald Lizard, I gave a character Ricky’s ailment.

Our 30th Anniversay Party

I’m not sure that either Rhoda or I listened very closely to Ricky, and I’m not sure that even if we had it would have saved us from all the mistakes we made running Maple Street Book Shop over the next couple of years. Customers were interested in new books, so we stocked more hardbacks than the store had normally carried, but we didn’t know anything about returns. The first Christmas we didn’t order nearly enough and with no time left to supplement what we had, we ran out of Christmas stock. The next Christmas we over-ordered fiercely and lost money when we didn’t return books in a timely manner. Not only that, we had no idea that the book business entailed the amount of paper work it did. Systems had to be developed to keep up with it all, systems which over the years Rhoda has perfected. But we muddled along as best we could, miraculously didn’t go under, and things began to look up by the third year. Rhoda had found her niche in life and once things were running smoothly at least, I went off to try my hand at writing novels and found mine.

Many of the most pivotal events in my life happened at the Maple Street Book Shop: I met my first love; I learned of the suicide of a good friend; I made the two most enduring friendships of my life; I learned about books and the world of publishing. And I know that my story is only one of many that center around this atmospheric hub of bonhomie for book lovers of all persuasions; I am one of many thirty-year frequenters of the shop.

When Mary Kellogg and Rhoda Norman opened Maple Street Book Shop thirty years ago, they were celebrating their independence as women and free thinkers. When Rhoda continued the tradition they began, she tempered it and balanced it and turned it into a thriving store that has been written about many times as one of the best independent book stores in the country. May the tradition continue.

Thank You, Maple Street Book Shop back to top

Jennifer Levasseur’s, beautiful piece, entitled Thank You, Maple Street Book Shop.

Growing Up in a Bookshop back to top

March 15, 2017

Anis Mojgani
Multi award-winning US slam poet Anis Mojgani writes about the things which captivate us as children, the magic and promise books hold, and how it is to grow up in a New Orleans children’s bookshop.

The pages of my childhood turned while turning the pages of children’s books inside a store that sold them. To grow up in a children’s bookshop, what is it like? Here.

The light falling through the arms of the birch and oak trees of Lowerline Street. The afterschool walk beneath them.

The banana trees bursting their bodies over the railing and steps of the porch. The leaves outside heavy and wet and warm.

The smell of books mixing with the air conditioner during the hot months, or mingling with the scent of the furnace burning dust in the cold ones. Under the metal grate set in the wooden floor, you could see its tiny blue flame dancing.

The infinity of imagined reaches stretched across the shelves. The allowed avoidance of homework because you were reading books and the afternoon of this would pass soon enough.


If the means for us to be what we are – humans – is the holding and sharing of story, and I do believe it is, then how we do this is of the utmost importance for us, whether through poem or song, through tale spun at the hearth and passed from person to person, whether told beside the fire or put down on paper and placed inside a book. And if the first part of our lives is when and how we learn how to move our hearts through this world amongst all these other hearts, then those stories we brush up against in those young years have a certain type of magic indeed.

Children’s stories and the reading of them by children are rubies in sand.

Children’s stories and the reading of them by children are rubies in sand. There is no place which feels more of home to me than when I am surrounded by books for children. The boundless possibility of story, and the gentle and undefined curiosity that moves towards that boundlessness.


My folks were buying a house so Mom was looking for a job, and the only place she really wanted to work was the bookshop she frequented on Maple Street. There were two buildings for the bookshop, situated in two shotgun houses side by side – one that housed new and used books; the other housing children’s books. And as serendipity would have it, the position in the children’s shop opened, as well as the opportunity to be a co-owner, something Mom did from the time I was three until I finished sixth grade. And so it was.

When the last school bell rung, we’d either walk straight the ten blocks straight down Willow Street to home, or cross Willow and it was six blocks down Lowerline before turning right on Maple to walk two more blocks to the bookshop. An eight block walk took what sometimes felt like hours. There were shadows to inspect and insects to marvel upon. So many stones to kick. And sometimes a book to read while you made the walk, for stories didn’t stop just because you had to walk somewhere.

What surrounds us as children shows us what the rules and boundaries of our future worlds may be.

What surrounds us as children shows us what the rules and boundaries of our future worlds may be. What I saw as a child is that there are many books bound and bought. Many books written and told. Many pictures drawn to tell a story. What I saw is that a person, like my mother, does not have to go into an office and sit and do something for someone else. That they can, like my father, and that is fine, but it is not the only path. That one is allowed to step into a job surrounded by things that bring you joy – my brother’s crib sitting ten feet from the bookstore door. Us bursting through it to ask for money for candy, before scattering amongst the shelves to see what there was to read that day. Watching your children quietly sitting in corners of a small building engrossed in the same things that had sprinkled magic into your childhood.


A wrought-iron painted black fence surrounded both shops and separated their yards. On the porch of the children’s store was a swing shaped like a strange horse – you’d grip your hands around the wooden handlebars and pull your arms to your chest and thrust your feet in the stirrups outwards, and rock back and forth like such. The steps to the porch were flanked all around by the giant, elephant ear-sized leaves of the banana trees. Between the two houses was a wide driveway (at least to childhood eyes) that stretched into the backyard. In the home of my memory, the grass, the leaves, everything green and of the earth, shines as if just washed in rain with the sun pushing its light through, showing just how thin all the bodies of the world are. The grass glows the colour of the brightest little lizards.

A bag of jelly beans from Squirrel Cage on the corner. Eating the red ones while reading. Avoiding the licorice ones. Then liking them. Then not. Then liking them and not liking them at the same time and not being sure how that is possible.

I was very particular about making sure any book I pulled out to read was put back in the exact same spot I had found it.

A cheese danish and a cup of milk with a little bit of coffee poured into it, how it became the same colour as my skin. An open book in my lap, its smooth cover touching my knees. Being mindful of the crumbs. So long as we were careful, we could read any and every book we desired. I was very particular about making sure any book I pulled out to read was put back in the exact same spot I had found it. Learning the want to leave everything, not as it was left – for anything we hold we touch – but not worse for the wear from the time spent with us.

When done, being careful to slide it between the two books on the shelf from where I had first pulled it out from, setting it back to rest the same exact distance from the edge where I had found it.

There is a doorway in the bookshop, covered in photographs pinned, taped, stuck to the wood, of people who had passed through its walls. Customers, parents, kids, authors. Arnold Lobel in an armchair, surrounded by children on the floor. Maurice Sendak, before his hair was white. Cartoons drawn by Tomi Depaulo and James Marshall.


My sister and I worked for books. I spent hours unpacking, organizing, and shelving in order to get the giant book of Brian Froud’s The Goblins of the Labyrinth. Its 25-dollar cover price seemed unachievable but I had to have that book. Mom would plunk down a box of books that needed to be sent back to the publishers. We had to tear the covers off, mail those back, and destroy the books. But we never destroyed them, that seemed a waste of still perfectly readable story. So scattered through the bookshelves of our house were also numerous coverless paperbacks.

The classical station would play over the radio. At closing time Mom would put the public radio station’s news on. It became my job to shut the tall wooden shutters out front that stretched from the porch’s floor to its ceiling. Mom entrusted me with the small key used to unlock their locks and to re-lock them once closed.


Come fall, the night would come in early. The sky turning, becoming bluer until indigo, while the wind picked up and the stars watched from some other place. The crispness of the New Orleans dark, matching the crispness of its leaves. How like a candle on cold nights the shop was.

It was a triangle of life. Sure, there was more outside the shape, but life at its core, for me and my family at that time, was our house, our school, and our bookshop. All nestled in the bend of the Mississippi River, all nestled in the trees that grew rich from the dirt heavy with its water. All mere walks from one another. The different points of the triangle blurring into one.

Life at its core, for me and my family at that time, was our house, our school, and our bookshop.

Going to the shop on the weekends, not just to read but to play on the jungle gym in its front yard. Whiling the Saturday sunlight on its porch.

Exploring the alleyway behind it, overgrown with vines, finding small treasures in the red dirt: old keys, sparkplugs, scarred coins. The body of a rat; terrified and fascinated by the worms eating their way through its bones.

Witches and clowns amassing there on Halloween. Balloons and streamers. Bobbing for apples out of the big metal washbin.

Being in the bookstore on afternoons for a signing, or on nights, when it was usually closed, for the same reason. Watching grownups gather around trays of cookies and plates of cheeses to celebrate an author completing a book and travelling to share from it with others. Turning bites of fig under my teeth, its different and delicious texture and taste. Afraid to like it, but liking it all the same.

Carrying books to school, new ones just arrived, excited to share with my classmates. Books came home with us – ones we had started and hadn’t finished yet, ones newly arrived, old favourites. And so it was. Just like back in the shop – care given to a thing, which like much in this life, was only ours for a small passage of time. Held in our hands softly, the pages turned with a soft respect, and once our time with them was done the covers brushed of any starry dust, before being returned to where they had found us.

Anis Mojgani is the author of four books, most recently, The Pocketknife Bible, a fully illustrated poetry memoir. A United States and international Poetry Slam Champion, and TEDx Speaker, he has been awarded residencies from the Vermont Studio Center, AIRSrenbe, and the Oregon WITS Program. Anis’s work has appeared on HBO, NPR, and in journals Rattle, Forklift Ohio, and Bat City Review, amongst others. Originally from New Orleans, he currently lives in Portland, Oregon.