Bruce Valley, Author

Zen and the Art of Collecting Old Cars

Zen and the Art of Collecting Old Cars

From the Introduction: This book is not about Zen. Nevertheless, Zen pervades its pages. Anecdotally, it’s about the hunt for and occasional capture of unique motorcars by one man over a period of six decades.

This book details a lifetime of searching, finding, buying, transporting, restoring, enjoying, and eventually selling the products of a hobby gone wild. Reading these true stories of one man’s lifelong car-collecting avocation, you’ll find the journey seldom follows the anticipated path.

As with life itself, there are sudden turns, frequent stops, and frustrating conditions, events, and outcomes. It’s probably better to recognize these through others’ experiences, rather than stumbling into the pitfalls and darker elements of car collecting on your own and without preparation. As I did. After you’ve read the car stories, and had an opportunity to observe mistakes made, and the adverse results that often follow, the book’s concluding chapter will offer lessons learned across a ­car-collecting lifetime. Take heed. These lessons could help prevent similar mistakes in your own collecting pursuits. Who knows, they might even save you from yourself.Looking back, I wish I’d found something similar sixty years ago to better prepare for the hobby’s rigors. Many wasted hours and dollars might have been saved. Above all, these stories should illustrate the difference between learning as you go – flying by the seat of your pants – or gaining information and knowledge before stepping into the rewarding, but also daunting, hobby of collecting old cars. Take the lesson. — Bruce Valley

“… a ‘must read’ for those of us who truly love the automobile.” — Jay Leno

“This fine literary effort teaches us about collecting old cars, but much more about living.” — Roger Byam Nold

“Bruce Valley’s car stories … are informed by a deep appreciation for not just the machines, but also for the people who make them come alive.” — Robert Ross

“This enlightening book allows the current generation to better understand the luminous memories of their parents’ and grandparents’ early lives.” — Carl Manofsky

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SEAHAWK: Confessions of an Old Hockey Goalie

The author’s personal memoir of a youngster’s late 1950s participation on a championship New England town hockey team composed of WWII veterans, and traces that boy’s life and connection to hockey across almost sixty years. It is a ground-breaking study of aging while playing contact sports and reflects upon the famed WWII generation, pond hockey, black ice, and the hockey towns and teams of New England. Few books are written about hockey; fewer expound fully on its special qualities as a sport. SEAHAWK is such a book.

A fine literary descendant of Jack Falla’s Home Ice and Peter Gzowski’s The Game of Our Lives. Like any good hockey book, it teaches us more about the world than hockey itself.

–Dave Bidini, author of Tropic of Hockey and The Best Game You Can Name

A compellingly intimate sports book that will hopefully become a movie, Seahawk has the breadth, depth, and power to be read for generations.

–Tom Clarie, author of the award-winning Explorers educational game and an Egyptian history titled A Lighthouse for Alexandria.

Rye Harbor

Rye Harbor, Poems of the New Hampshire Seacoast

This small volume of poetry is intended to describe the stoic, hardy magnificence of seacoast New Hampshire—and the experience of growing up in its world of granite stone walls, crashing breakers, and soaring gulls.

Rye Harbor reprises a long-unavailable poetry book written five decades ago about growing up on the seacoast of New Hampshire. A former Navy test pilot and former chief executive of an aerospace corporation in Alexandria, Virginia, Bruce Valley lives in Rye Harbor, New Hampshire, plays jazz trumpet, and writes of matters which touch heart and soul.

Rye NH

The Skater

Skating on a solitary grey afternoon
Through a soft blanket of snow crystals,
I saw a tiny speck.
Swiftly it traversed the frozen expanse,
The lumpy birched shoreline outlining its motion,
Then disappeared around a bend.
Another skater had picked this day
To chill his hands and warm his thoughts
On the Mill Pond ice.
I followed.
The speck became a figure
Weaving along the fickle path
Of an errant stream.
Bound as I in heavy clothes,
He lumbered in an awkward rhythm
Like maples bent with icy load
By frosty winter winds.
As I drew close, he heard the sound
Of his pursuer and stopped,
His breath whitening in the air.
As he brought a pipe to his mouth,
My father smiled.