Words in the Wind

The 20,000,000 year old Mystery Skull of Oregon

2012-02-08T13:00:00.000-08:00

The 20,000,000 year old Mystery Skull of Oregon

The old historical museum

I remember visiting the Old Oregon Historical Museum at Gold Hill when I was a child. It was part of a group of roadside attractions that included the Oregon Vortex, Trees of Mystery, the Prehistoric Gardens (life-sized replicas of prehistoric animals), and if I recall correctly there was an Indian Village and a petting zoo, and whatever other enterprise that could thrown up near the Vortex, which was – and still is – a major attraction.

Studies suggest that there might be something weird at the site of the vortex – some magnetic influence, perhaps. (Supposedly aircraft compasses go haywire when flying over the site.) A lot of it is hyped-up though, a case of “don’t believe everything you see.”

Paul Bunyan and Babe at Trees of Mystery

I haven’t been there for many, many years and apparently the museum has been refurbished to reflect the gold-mining era of the region. But when I was there it was a hodge-podge of weird and zany artifacts: two-headed sheep, various kinds of fetuses in jars, “mysterious objects” and so forth, along with legitimate pioneer and prospector memorabilia.

I don’t recall seeing the skull in this old postcard, and when I looked at it I was puzzled for a while. Then I realized that it is set on its “nose,” with the viewer looking at the palate with its “smiley” dentition depressions and the eye sockets from below – one of them deformed by pressure or crushing.

The caption reads: The Oregon Mystery Skull.
Estimated to be more than 20,000,000 years old.
Old Oregon Historical Museum, Gold Hill, Oregon

Having solved that dilemma, the mystery remains – I haven’t identified what it is. The Oregon coastal area was, of course, once upon a time ocean floor so marine fossils are not uncommon, but then again the card does not identify where this object was found – and Oregon is rich in fossil remains. Educated guesses are welcome. One might estimate the size by the boards behind the skull, which appear to be approximately 8 inches wide.

What Is It About Books?

2012-01-21T15:21:00.000-08:00

What Is it About Books?

It was a dark and stormy night. Wind gusted wildly andlashed the house and roof with rain that sounded like pea gravel shot from acannon. Small branches and limbs broke from the fir and oak trees around thehouse and littered the deck and yard with dark, half-seen lumps that could havebeen bodies or clumps of animated primeval sludge. OK, that’s going a bit far.But it was very dark, very stormy, very wet, and Gary was out of town.

I had planned to do some work in the studio while he wasaway, but the weather and atmosphere made me seek refuge. What better way tospend such an evening than in a room full of books, nestled into my recliner ina circle of light, cat on my lap and hot drink at my elbow?

Utterly evocative, but full of the pain
of lost libraries and disappeared books .

Even better, the book I was reading was Alberto Manguel’sThe Library at Night, with a cover illustration of a dark woods and a man in achair reading a book by lamplight.

But the question in my mind is, what is it about booksthat is so comforting to some of us? I’m not talking so much about reading –one can read in many types of media. As Manguel reveals in another title - AHistory of Reading - the methods, entitlements, and habits of reading havechanged greatly over the course of written history. The outcry about the “lossof books” to electronic media is misplaced. Electronic media provide reading:printed ink-on-paper books provide a mystique in their sheer physical presencethat is not transmitted to cold plastic.

How to explain the feeling you get in a bookshop or a library- public or private - where you are surrounded by printed volumes, of therebeing something special there for you and you alone? Something waiting for youto find it, or to find you by serendipity. The feeling that makes you say “ahhhhh”when you step into the presence of a room filled with books.

A wonderful book, full of surprises.

To be sure, there are those who don’t experience this;even those who appear to despise books. I have seen many decorating andinterior design books, television shows, and even magazine articles whereinterior designers can’t bear the thought of colorful spines and dust jacketscluttering up their theme or color scheme. Some go to ridiculous lengths todisguise books, if they must remain in the room. They’ll cover them with plainwhite wrappers (or worse, paint them!), or place them on the shelves by colorand size, or remove the dust jackets to display more uniformly plain spines, or– worst of all – display the books fore-edge out . Lacking the chance to do anyof that, they’ll imprison the books behind doors. It’s an aesthetic, but to booklovers a verywrong-headed and egotistical one.

The people who put themselves into the hands of thesedesigners claim that they want a “warm and inviting” atmosphere. Laying claimto a room in which a gigantic flat-screen television becomes a focal point,they seem happy with the result. One (who loves books) can only wonder how thisis possible.

To those of us for whom books are among life’s greatestpleasures, those many-hued dust jacket spines on our own shelves are like thefaces of old familiar friends. One glance at such a book and one is reminded ofprevious pleasures, or taken back to a moment in time fondly remembered, orconvinced that there is something more to be learned between those covers. Theemotions of previous encounters enter one again, even without touching thebook.

Bookshelves in a home speak volumes (literally) about theowner. Entering a home with books for the first time, one gravitatesautomatically to the shelves, scanning the spines for titles unfamiliar andfamiliar, deducing mutual or unexpected interests from them. A home without books seems shallow and cold,lacking somehow in personality.

Those of us with books under our skin cannot imagine atime when electronic versions will suffice. They offer cold comfort at best.The image of sitting alone on a stormy night with the glow of an electronicscreen for companionship simply does not convey the sense of safety and warmthas does the alternative picture I painted in my initial paragraphs. Will therebe a time when it is enough? Not for me.

How To Clean the Kitchen: A Soap Opera in Three Acts

2012-01-10T15:09:00.000-08:00

ACT 1: The Slippery Slope

I stepped up to the kitchen sink one morning a couple ofweeks ago and my foot came down on something gooey and slippery. I looked downand saw a white-ish gelatinous mass right at the hinge corner of the under-sinkcupboard door.

Puzzled, I thought perhaps my spouse had been pouringsomething into the grease can and missed – but when I grabbed a dampened papertowel and started to wipe at it, it foamed.

“Did we spill some liquid dish soap down here?” I asked(diplomatically, I might add. Notice the “we.”)

“Not that I know of,” he said from the table where he wasmunching his breakfast bagel. “Why?”

I opened the door to throw the soggy paper towel into thetrash, and spotted an equally gooey pile of the stuff next to the trash bin. Takinga step off the foot mat, I found myself sliding across the floor.

“We have a problem,” I reported. I took off my house shoeand limped to the bathroom, where I washed it in the sink and set it aside todry.

We had just put a new gallon-sized bottle of liquid soapunder the sink. It had sat on the garage pantry shelf for some time, and hadnot exhibited any leaks. However, Gary pulled it out and we put it on a tray,and sure enough it drooled some soap. We found a very small split in thebottom. Somehow it had been set on something that poked a hole in it.

I had been saying for weeks that we needed to clean outunder the sink again – the liner was getting wrinkled and soiled and we hadn’tcleaned to the back of the cupboard for some time. So Gary took everything out –which included unscrewing and removing the slide-out trash bin and drawer, andit got a thorough cleaning.

Be careful what you wish for!

ACT 2: Melt-Down

I had also been saying that I needed to clean out theside-by-side freezer-refrigerator. Solast week we invited some friends about to depart the country for a few months fora bon-voyage supper. We started out with some wine and snacks, and then as Ireached into the freezer for a final item in my supper preparation, I saw thatthe ice compartment was dripping. I poked a package of frozen veggies anddiscovered that it was getting soft. Uh-oh.

An image from an altered book.

I didn’t want to upset the dinner party, so I maintainedsilence about the drips, but I found myself growing more and more anxious as theevening wore on. As soon as we had wished our guests bon voyage and shut thedoor, I said:

“We have a problem.”

Investigation revealed that the freezer was not workingand we rushed madly around to save the food. Of course I had been to the storethat morning – the one where I can save a lot of money on certain things, butit’s at quite a distance from home so I go about every two months and stock up,putting a lot of things in the upright freezer out in the garage. So we crammedwhat we could in there. Fortunately, we had kept the fridge in the downstairskitchen that was my mother’s before she passed away – it has become the “beerand backup” refrigerator so we filled the small top freezer in that.

We retired around midnight, hoping that the refrigeratorside was still working.

Morning light, and I checked the refrigerator. Nope, thechill was departing from the fridge side, too. I stuck my head into the bedroomwhere Gary was still snoozing, and said:

“We have a problem.”

There was another rush to remove the beer and sodas fromthe downstairs fridge and load it with stuff from the kitchen. (Needless tosay, I pitched things from both the freezer and the fridge as we unloaded ourmalfunctioning unit. Nothing had yet grown legs, but some of it was iffy.)

Gary made a call to Sears for a repairman, and obtainedan appointment made for the following day. I had already been online checkingout new refrigerators, and after some discussion we agreed that we should gocheck some out “just in case” we had to replace ours.

In fact, we found one that we liked on sale – a French-doorbottom freezer unit that looked much more accommodating than the current one.After a good deal of discussion over lunch, reciting our previous appliancerepair experiences in terms of both money and time, we decided to just buy thenew one before the sale was over (the following day in fact) and let them haulaway the dying monument to arctic failure.

So OK – it was an expensive way to clean out the fridge.Be careful what you wish for.

ACT 3

I have been saying that I need to clean out the kitchenpantry. Nothing has happened yet, but I have a feeling I should get to itbefore it experiences spontaneous combustion or before something in there takeson a life of its own. Meanwhile, I’m holding my tongue, careful for what I wishfor.

My Soulless Shoes

2012-01-01T18:43:00.000-08:00

One of Life’s Little Moments (that we’d like to forget)

With minor illustrations in Trade Cards

Some women buy shoes right and left. They need huge walk-in closets to store their footware. This always amazes me – my array of shoes fits neatly on a small rack in the bottom corner of my closet. It’s not that I don’t like shoes, or need shoes – it’s just that I have never accepted the cost of good shoes. There are so many other things that one could spend that money on, like books. I have never hesitated over the cost of a book if I had the money for it. Between the need to find a pair of shoes that are comfortable, attractive, and suitable support for a bad back, the cost just makes my head reel and my pocket book seal itself shut.

I have been saying that I need a new pair of casual dress shoes – my current pair is falling apart. We were headed downtown to visit some favorite art galleries that were open one evening so I put on some “go to town” clothes. In Eugene, Oregon, that translates to “good jeans” and a blouse instead of a tee-shirt. Unless it’s a very nice tee shirt.) Noting the condition of my decrepit shoes, I dug out some older flats that looked as though they still had some good wear in them, slipped them on, and headed down the hall to get my coat.

The shoes made a funny swunchy on the hall floor. It wasn’t the usual squeak of rubber against wood. Squnch! Squnch! It was not like anything I had heard before, but since we had torn up the carpet and laid down new solid flooring recently, I figured it was normal for that kind of contact.

As we walked around town, though, I noticed that the sole of my shoe seemed a bit loose, but I figured that it would last at least for the rest of the evening.

We stopped in at a favorite gallery, where I became absorbed in a display and I didn’t pay too much attention when the owner dove into the back room and dashed back out with a dustpan and whisk broom and brushed furiously at something on the floor. I figured that someone had probably dropped a cracker and stepped on it. But then she came along behind me and did it again….and then again, muttering, “What is this stuff? Mud or something?”

At which point I checked the bottoms of my shoes, only to discover that they were disintegrating. Apparently they were a composite that was decomposing (which reminds me of the joke about Mozart’s tomb, but you know that one) in big chunks and smaller crumbs. I apologized fervently, removed my shoes, and limped to the door.

I’d show you a picture but I threw them away the minute we got home. I still haven’t bought a new pair although I have looked around a bit. But I’m going to have to wait for the sticker shock to wear off. Meanwhile, I wonder if I can dress up my Crocs to pass for evening wear?

Culinary Ephemera - The Book

2011-12-18T19:04:00.000-08:00

I walked into Borders just before they closed to purchase some shelving, and of course I had a look at the remaining books. It was sad, sad, sad to see such a bright and capacious bookstore closing, and little of interest was left on the shelves. But by some kind of serendipity, there was one copy left of William Woys Weaver’s book, Culinary Ephemera: An Illustrated History.

To be honest, I hadn’t heard of it even though it was published in 2010. Naturally I swept it off the shelf (the word “ephemera” is magical to me, of course.) With a pause at the cash register it became mine, and I’m very pleased with it.

This is not a price guide, and unlike other books on cooking materials it is not primarily about cookbooks and booklets. In fact, it leaves cookbooks out altogether and instead focuses on what is truly ephemera – booklets to be sure, but also almanacs, menus, handbills, labels, sheet music, trade cards – even postcards, match book covers, valentines and more. This brought categories to my attention that I hadn’t even thought of.

This Kilpatrick's Bread booklet from 1922 attempts to glamorize bread with recipes for sandwiches, various toast treatments, breaded meats, and "mock duck."

The best part of the book, however, is the way in which Weaver uses the ephemera to describe the attitudes, prejudices, and social and economic values and changes in American culture over the decades. And he not only includes cooking, but just about anything relating to food, culinary advertising, and kitchen appliances and processes.

This billhead is from True & Blandchard: Hardware, Tinware, Stoves, Cuttlery and Notions (Newport, Vermont) and is dated 1894.

The above cancelled checks are from (1) the O.A. Harlan & Co. Packer of Dried Fruits (San Jose CA) dated 1922 in the amount of 22.00; and John Batto & Sons: Wholesale Produce Shippers (San Francisco, CA) dated 1907 in the amount of $100.00. Both are illustrated with images of company facilities.

Much cooking ephemera is bright, colorful, and appealing, since most of it is advertising that attempts to draw attention to itself and the products it promotes. Canned asparagus could, in fact, only look appealing on paper! White or not.

Cooking ephmera has long been a prized collectible for its visual and graphic appeal, but this book lays out some more profound reasons for collecting these oddments of everyday life. Even if your only interest is in the history of American food culture, it is well worth reading. And after looking at the lively images reproduced in the book, it is difficult not to add culinary ephemera to your collecting interests.

A label for Mountain Brand Cherries, Salem Oregon. The "modern" maraschino cherry was, in fact, developed at Oregon State Agricultural College (now Oregon State University) in nearby Corvallis. In a bid against imported Italian cherries - and with an abundant cherry production in need of a market - one Prof. Ernest Wiegand worked for several years to perfect the product. A building on the OSU campus bears the name Weigand hall, and they are so proud of this bit of history that there is a class offered (Maraschino Cherry 102) which examines the "historical, technological and scientific aspects of maraschino cherry production." Well....yes.

The only thing that saves me is being an ephemera dealer – I can take pleasure in enhancing the collections of others rather than trying to archive and maintain a collection of my own.

Even sheet music, plays, and other images can be related to food - this is a program for the opening night performance of "The Chocolate Soldier" - which also promises some "spice."

Christmas Images 1 – The Comforts of Home

2011-12-13T13:08:00.000-08:00

The other evening we lit a fire in the fireplace for the first time this year. Baby, it was cold outside. Well, we didn’t really need the fire for warmth but somehow it seems very comforting during the dark cold months of the year. There must be something in our more primitive biological memory that responds to the crackle and pop of the wood and the dancing flames.

“It’s comforting,” I said. “Cozy. Reassuring. Homey.”

That’s a theme that is frequently conveyed by Christmas cards that feature snug cottages in the snow, smoke rising from the chimneys or windows that suggest light and warmth inside.

A review of the book American Christmas Cards 1900-1960, by Kenneth L. Ames, a professor of American decorative arts at the Bard Graduate Center in New York City where an exhibit is currently on display, mentions this and other interpretations of Christmas cards over the first six decades of the 20th Century. (I have ordered but not yet received the book.)

I usually describe my ephemera business as “cultural history,” adding that I try to find things that reveal the everyday life (rather than sociological studies) of our past. The history books do not convey all of the nuances of our social attitudes and priorities as they changed over time.

A group of carolers – smoke rising from the cozy homes behind them – convey a feeling of cheer and goodwill, of friendship and sharing.
Drawing together in the warmth of the fire is, again, a basic human need in times past, and an image to which we respond in the present. It used to mean survival of individuals and the species. Now it can encourage survival of our spirits and our sense of ease and comfort.

The cards featured here are from c. 1930s. I have never found a particular name for this graphic style – Moderne is sometimes used, although it gets confused with Streamline Moderne of the 1950s. And yet it is a big step away from the Art Deco era that preceded it. Since it so often features these stylized little bungalows, I usually refer to it as “Cottage Moderne,” but that’s a personal designation. If anyone knows a better term, please speak up. Perhaps the book will have a suggestion.

Ephemeral Word for the Day: Esculent

2011-12-02T23:22:00.000-08:00

Ephemera does require some research, and sometimes it takes one down strange and esoteric roads. Sometimes it just contains a pebble that one feels obliged to pick up and turn over speculatively…then attempt to identify.

In this case, I picked up an old advertising leaflet from Prince’s Nurseries, Flushing, New York, dated October 1, 1856 and titled “Chinese Potato: Dioscorea Batatas, Imperial Rice-White Variety.” I wasn’t too sure what a “Chinese potato” might be and so I started to read this advertisement with its somewhat extravagant claims.

Right off the bat it describes the product as an “inestimable esculent.” Okay, two things to find out. What is a Chinese potato, and what is an esculent?

The claims for the inestimable esculent contain some superlatives, including “…this combination of every useful property renders it the greatest vegetable boon ever granted by God to man, and that its introduction to our country is even more important than that of Cotton, and that in twenty years our National statistics will report the value of the annual crop as greater than the Cotton crop.” This nurseryman, identified as Wm. R. Prince, goes on to state, “…I assert that this plant alone has served to solve the enigma as to the alimentary basis of the Chinese empire, and that a statistical investigation will prove, that if that country were deprived of this one vertical root, and received in lieu every other known vegetable, more than one half of its enormous population would perish from famine.” Well, note that he said a statistical investigation WILL prove, not that there had been one.

Prince does not mince words. Further on he supports his claims by asserting, “The statements pretending to emanate from the Farmers’ Club of the American Institute, last Spring, unfavorable to this plant, were barefaced forgeries, made from malicious motives.”

What a lot of fuss, even for an inestimable esculent.

Other statements in the ad led me to believe that this vegetable must be some kind of yam, which indeed it is- although I can’t say that anyone has become wealthy from growing it, nor has it attained the popularity suggested by Prince. It seems to be on the order of the sweet potato, with light-colored flesh. (And some forms of which classified as weeds.)

As for esculent, it turns out to be a somewhat archaic – although certainly useful – word meaning “fit to be eaten” or “edible.” It could be a nice distinction, especially when differentiating between two species of a plant, one of which is edible and one poisonous, as with the camas. In fact, in the Journals of Lewis and Clark Meriwether Lewis writes, “Many of those plants produce those esculent roots which form a principal part of the subsistence of the natives.”

I’ll admit a decided fondness for garnet yams (those with the deep orange color). They don’t require much to make them truly estimable esculents. (Can you see that on a menu? “Estimable esculents in butter sauce with sea salt.” Yum.

Graveyard humor and a Misale

2011-11-13T18:51:00.000-08:00

D. Hillson published this series of epitaphs on postcards in 1907, but I haven’t been able to find out anything about the publisher or the set. The first one I saw – many years ago – was the “Listen: Mother Aunt and Me…” which contains the word “misale.” (Not to mention poor grammar!) The word puzzled me, and it does still. I can’t find reference to it, not even in my unabridged Webster’s nor in the full set of Oxford English Dictionary (nor the supplements) on my library shelves. One can assume that it means something on the order of “misjudged” but who among you can find the true definition and source?

For some reason our species has enjoyed this rather macabre form of humor for centuries. What is the attraction? Perhaps it is because we, among all species on Earth, are aware of our mortality. Knowing that each of us will eventually die, perhaps we have this need to thumb our noses at Death. Not to mention the desire – sometimes realized on actual headstones – to have the last word.

I let the postcards speak for themselves.

Sorry the layout is so sloppy! Dang HTML is hard to put in place.

What do these three books have in common?

2011-03-22T18:11:00.000-07:00

A while back I wrote about the synchronicity of finding a common thread in the diverse books one reads. So I recently finished Bill Bryson’s I’m a Stranger Here Myself, Byron Rogers' The Green Lane to Nowhere, and Alexander McCall Smith’s Tears of the Giraffe.

The first is a series of essays that Bryson wrote for a British newspaper when he moved back to the United States with his English wife and children after living in England for 20 years. The Green Lane is a writer’s life in an English Village. (And no, that’s not the thread.) The Tears of The Giraffe is a title in the "No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency" series.

The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency novels are set in Botswana, where Precious Ramotswe (a woman of traditional figure, according to her) investigates the usual domestic situations, as well as local mysteries, from the unexplained appearance of a pumpkin to a missing American and various other matters. Precious has a sensitivity and intuition that often inform her solutions. Smith, a white Botswana, obviously loves the country, the culture, and the people. In this novel, both Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni (her husband, but always referred to thus even by Precious) lament the loss of old-fashioned cultural values, traditions, etiquette, neighborliness, etc. in the face of modern “progress.” And this is where we find our theme – the loss of culture and community.

Bryson nails it with his essays on an America that has changed much even in the time he has been gone. Neighborhoods, he says, are no longer communities. You may know your nearest neighbors, but you usually have very little in common. Gone are the small communities where everyone not only knew, but supported each other, where neighbors came together in times of need, helped each other, watched out for each other’s children. Shopping areas have become faceless malls, local businesses have withered under the onslaught of chain and discount stores. As for common courtesies, even their memory is fading.

Rogers echoes this subject in this very interesting and amusing book which is, again, drawn from columns published in a British newspaper, this time The Sunday Telegraph. Writing about his small village in geographically strategic Northamtonshire, Rogers tracks the region’s early history, pointing out, for instance, that the current A5 highway traces the path of an ancient Roman road. But throughout he mourns the loss of community, stating that “city people” have bought up most of his village’s real estate for weekend retreats, pricing the locals out of the neighborhood. He muses on this as the village clears out after the weekend, leaving a handful of permanent residents during the week. A man in a tavern is mourning not only the loss of a parent, but of the tradition that once brought neighbors to the homes of bereaved families, bearing food and comfort. Most of the small community traditions and observations have been forgotten.

Some will call this progress, but each of these authors suggests that the world could be a better place with a little bit of return to some of the traditional ways of caring for each other, of respecting each other, of aiding each other in times of crisis, of forming communities of common interests and vesting in common welfare; even of just plain politeness. I’m convinced that most of us who remember some of the earlier ways mourn in similar fashion. The question is, what are we going to do about it?

The Creepiest Postcard I Have Ever Seen

2011-02-16T15:25:00.000-08:00

Over the years I have handled many types of postcard, from the earliest chromolithograph cards offering scenes, greetings, sites, events such as World Fairs and expositions, and on through the eras of photography, color printing, and linens.

I have seen postcards made of cactus wood, celluloid, redwood, leather, burlap, embroidered silk and other materials. Many cards were made that incorporated elements such as feathers, ribbons, bows, buttons, “rolling” eyes, horsehair tails, fur, plant materials, etc. There have been puzzle cards, transformation cards, “hold-to-light” cards, and other gimmicks.

Just about any subject under the sun has been stuck on a postcard! But in all that, ONE stands out as the weirdest, creepiest, oddest card I have seen. I have kept it just because it is such a puzzle. It is an image of a cat, mailed in 1910 and probably produced around that time.

Of course, cats have always been popular as subject-matter, as much as they are today.

Some were sweet, like a colorful chromo-lithograph card of kittens mailed from Toledo, Ohio, in 1911.

Photographers loved the subject, as a photo card of two kittens and straw hat from the Rotograph Co. with a copyright date of 1905 demonstrates.

Cultural biases notwithstanding, a black cat with googly eyes purports to be a “good luck mascot” on a card mailed in 1915.

But there is just no explanation for this evil-looking cat dressed as a woman, and with the caption, “There is’nt [sic] an honest man living. I hate ‘em all.” The publishing information is K.V.I.B, 12 “serie 1255” on a divided back. I can’t find much information about this company, which seemed to be fairly prolific in production at the turn of the century. The card was no doubt printed in Germany. It was mailed in 1910, somewhere in Eastern Washington, probably Tacoma. (The cancellation is only partial, although “T” is visible and the sender describes having gone to Yakima for dental work.) She sent the card to her sister in Broken Bow, Nebraska.

There is no indication of the artist, although he or she must have been somewhat – um – odd to have produced this message and image. I had thought that it might be by Louis Wain, a postcard artist whose schizophrenia caused him to create some devilish cats later in his career, but a Wain collector has assured me that this is not his work. Perhaps it was an attempt to imitate him. The cat itself looks rather evil, with fangs visible, ears like devil horns, and glassy, staring eyes. I do love the effect of the tail thrown over the arm, the only bit of comic relief on the entire card. I still find it very, very creepy though.

A Book That Explores the Altered Heart

2011-01-30T14:19:00.000-08:00

For all of us who do artwork with “repurposed” materials, it is sometimes hard to explain the sticks, stones, bark and bones; the rusty thing-a-jigs and discarded parts and things picked up in parking lots; the packaging and papers and ratty old books and labels and tickets and….well, all of it. Dubbed “packrats” and “magpies,” we excuse our mania in the name of art, but the little tides of guilt as spouses complain of overflow and friends try to reassure themselves that we are just a little bit sane still sweep over us from time to time.

Now here is a book that offers not only forgiveness, but which also commends our ardor and eggs us on:

Art Making – Collections and Obsessions: An Intimate Exploration of the Mixed-Media Work and Collections of 35 Artists, by Lynne Perrella.

Most of us can only aspire to such “collections,” but the ones in this book are bound to inspire new heights of mania in those of us already touched with the “gift” of seeing beauty in discarded things. While the work of every artist will not appeal to everyone, there is such a wide variety of artistic vocabularies, methods, and themes that there is a lot to appeal to anyone. Seeing how others gather and harvest and organize or store their materials is bound to inspire.

Best of all, we find ourselves in very good company. We no longer have to cringe when someone says “but WHY do you have all this stuff?” or “what do you DO with it?” or worst of all, when a spouse inquires, “what are you going to use it for?” Now we simply wave this book at them and shout THIS! THIS!

Feels good.

Will Bradley Kicked off the 20th Century in Style!

2011-01-11T18:48:00.000-08:00

Born in Boston, Massachusetts in 1868, William H. Bradley was already working as a printer by the time he was 12 years old. A man of many talents, he worked as a wood engraver, typographer, publisher, editor, illustrator, poster artist, type designer, book artist, film art supervisor, designer, and he even designed several family homes.

Often compared to Aubrey Beardsley, Bradley developed a style that drew from the Arts & Crafts movement and William Morris, Japanese woodblock prints, and he is often credited with developing and popularizing the Art Nouveau style in America.

He had wide influence as a poster designer, but also did numerous magazines covers for Collier’s, Good Housekeeping, the Inland Printer, and others. He became a consultant to the American Type Founders, designing type faces (among them Wayside Roman, Missal Initials, Bewick Roman, and others) and he also edited and wrote for their The American Chapbook.

In 1915 he went to work for William Randolph Hearst, among other things serving as art supervisor to a series of Hearst-produced films, and subsequently acting as head art supervisor of the Hearst empire of magazines and newspapers.

Much of Bradley’s illustrative work is done in strong black-and-white images, flat tones, and with the fluid and nature-inspired lines of Art Nouveau. His artwork is as much appreciated today (if not more) than it was 100 years ago.

In 1954, the AIGA (American Institute of Graphic Arts) awarded Bradley a gold medal, the highest award for a graphic artist. He died in 1962 at the age of 94.

Remarkable Creatures: The Fictionalized Story of Mary Anning

2011-01-10T20:24:00.000-08:00

Right before Christmas I was zooming through a new bookstore looking for a particular gift book, and as I passed the end of a gondola my gaze fell on this: Tracy Chevalier’s Remarkable Creatures. The cover is attractive and the title provocative, and when I flipped the book over and read that it was a novel about Mary Anning it went directly into my shopping basket.

What could be better than a novel based on one of the 19th Century’s most significant fossil hunters? Mary Anning was an uneducated working-class woman in a culture where social stature, breeding, and education were part of a severe caste system. All of which mitigated against her receiving the kind of acknowledgement and acclaim that her discoveries deserved. She discovered the plesiosaurus, the ichthyosaurus, and other fossils that turned early 19th-Century assumptions inside out. (Not only did she find the fossils, she recognized them as being different from any living creatures, or previously-discovered fossils.) This was an era when the Church of England was still steadfastly sticking to Bishop Ussher’s proclamations that the world was created in 4004 BC. These fossils, and others like them, led British scientists to examine the concepts of evolution and the great geological history of Earth.

A middle-class spinster - Elizabeth Philpot, who was farmed out with two of her sisters to live in Lyme Regis when their brother inherited the family property and married - developed an interest in fish fossils and became Mary’s fossil-hunting partner and her champion to the scientific community. Mary’s talent for discovering specimens in the fossil-rich cliffs and outcroppings along the Lyme Regis beaches drew many scientists and amateurs to her, without attracting the recognition she richly deserved. A number of recent biographies have helped to rectify this lack of acknowledgement.

Chevalier’s novel captures these characters and richly evokes the atmosphere and muted excitement of the fossil beds, and of the town of Lyme Regis. Needless to say this novel would make an interesting movie, as did the author’s Girl With a Pearl Earring.

NOTE: the fossils shown are just a few of my own collection, and not intended to represent Lyme Regis material.

Serendipitous Reading

2011-01-07T19:30:00.000-08:00

My “serious” reading is often focused on a topic that intrigues me at a given time – currently I rotate between geology, history of books and reading, cookbooks, and various art and artists. Sometimes I’ll get caught up with a certain author and want to read a string of his or her books – recent candidates have been Simon Winchester, Anthony Bourdain, Anne Tyler, and Bill Bryson.

My “potato chip” reading – the light stuff that I read just before turning out the light for the night – is often from some mystery series and usually depends upon my colleagues supplying me with cartons of mass market paperbacks by certain authors or in certain categories (bibliomysteries being a favorite, of course).

In between is a category difficult to name – usually literary fiction or non-fiction. I guess I would call it “intellectually engaging pleasure reading.” This category is generally filled with books acquired through pure serendipity – inexpensive copies picked up at the flea market or yard sales or however, where the investment of a dollar or two is not going to kill me if I try something new and find I don’t like it. This is often the most fun category, for I find myself reading books that I really love but hadn’t heard about. Because in my business I deal primarily with old and antiquarian books, I don’t keep abreast of best seller lists or even book gossip as I once did when selling new books.

What is somewhat odd about this process, though, is that sometimes these books coalesce around certain subjects, be they fiction or non-fiction, and quite often their relationship is not apparent from their titles or obvious subject matter when I pick them up. A few years ago a number of my “serendipity” reads turned out to relate, in one way or another, to the American Civil War. Not to the battles and warfare itself, but to some of the issues that led to, fed, and resulted from that conflict. So books such as The All-True Travels and Adventures of Lidie Newton, by Jane Smiley; John Bailey’s The Lost German Slave Girl: The Extraordinary True Story of Sally Miller and Her Fight for Freedom in Old New Orleans; a biography of Fred Harvey, and a couple of other random picks at the time surprised me by reflecting some Civil War issues between them.

Of course, if books are published within a short time-span you can understand some similarities – author imaginations are stirred, editorial departments are alert to, reader interest is fueled by, whatever issues are in general discussion or investigation at the time.

So it may not be surprising that several of my recent reads by European authors reflect upon the Second World War and subsequent Cold War years – again, not in terms of warfare and battles but more about the human factor and how lives were affected by these events. So consider these brief reviews:

Markus Zusak: The Book Thief. I had no idea what to expect when I snatched up this one to include in some purchases and bring home, but I was very pleased with it. The protagonist (book thief) is a young girl who is fostered by a couple in a town on the outskirts of Munich during WWII. Although illiterate, Lisle Meminger has arrived with a copy of The Grave Digger’s Handbook that she discovered in the snow where her younger brother, who died on the train trip to their new home, was being buried. Her foster father, a likeable accordion player and professional house painter, undertakes to teach Lisle to read, using the Handbook as her first reader. She subsequently steals a book off a Nazi burn pile, and from the library of the town mayor. The life of her adoptive family is complicated when they hide a Jew in the basement where Lisle has taken her reading lessons. Written in a clear prose style that still sometimes borders on poetry, the most surprising element in this book is the narrator. Zusak is an Australian author whose German mother stimulated his interest in this topic with stories from her personal history.

Jim Powell: The Breaking of Eggs. A debut novel by this British author, this one concerns Feliks Zhukovski, a Polish Jew expatriate who took refuge in Paris during the days of Communist idealism. There he has supported himself by publishing a frequently-revised travel guide to Eastern European countries, and has managed somewhat spectacularly to avoid his own history, his family, and change of all sorts. Sometimes this oblivion is quite amusing, in a similar vein to Anne Tyler’s obtuse travel guide writer in The Accidental Tourist.

Of course, by 1991 when the story takes place, the Berlin Wall is gone and Communism has collapsed. Now in his sixties, Feliks is suddenly forced to confront a half-century of personal history. Along the way he finds a long-lost brother and his family, the real story of what happened to his mother, his own unsuspected legacy, and the fact that his idealism obfuscated truth and reality. It is, in a sense, a “coming of age” novel of the second coming – the elderhood that sums up our lives. Feliks not only survives this exposure, he emerges victorious and a good deal more cosmopolitan.

Per Petterson: Out Stealing Horses. This novel takes us to a Norwegian riverside cabin with Trond Sander, a sixty-seven year old man who has retired to reflect on his life and perhaps to test himself in this rustic environment where he must learn to fend for himself, often using skills that his father taught him when he was still a teenager. A novel that unfolds in the mind of the protagonist, part of this story is set in the period of World War II where Trond’s father was clearly a member of the resistance, helping to smuggle political prisoners out of the country; and part is in his present, where shadows of the past become solid flesh and blood. There is a good deal of understated passion in this book, and a certain unsentimental poetry. It’s the kind of story you feel in your bones. And, of course, like the last one it’s a late-life “coming of age” story.

Another synchronicity, and I have to wonder if these books appealed because the characters are similar in age to myself.

White-Washing Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn – Should They Kill the Nigger Word?

2011-01-05T17:59:00.000-08:00

News that a new edition of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer (combined) will substitute the word “slave” for “nigger” has raised a ballyhoo of controversy among scholars, educators, booksellers, and others interested in these iconic American novels.

In fact, Huckleberry Finn is the nation’s fourth-most-banned book. It has been censored for a wide variety of reasons, from atheism and antisouthernism to obscenity and lack of morals and manners. The current thinking is that the term, “nigger,” makes people too uncomfortable, and that it would be more acceptable for reading in schools if it is changed.

Let's think about the context of the book. Twain wrote Huckleberry Finn as a protest, not only against slavery but against the social attitudes that accepted it, and all of the perceptions of blacks that regarded them as less than human beings. This book is NOT just a boy's adventure story. It's more than a coming-of-age. It's a coming-of-conscience story. In the end, Huck has to choose between what is "right" legally, and what is "right" according to his conscience and newly-developed moral integrity.

If the book is properly taught, that is the message that students should be reading for. That message is much more strongly carried by using the offensive language that was none-the-less standard for the time, and that carried all of those social implications of blacks, and especially slaves, being subhuman creatures. Huck is surrounded by abusers, hucksters, rascals, thieves, scallywags of all sorts. The one true and honest friend he has is Jim. Does he allow Jim to be tried and hanged for murder, or does he - knowing the truth and that it will not be accepted by society - rescue Jim and break the law?

I admit that reading it as a teenager I was very uncomfortable with the language, since none of this was explained. I figured it out on my own, but I'm guessing that most of today's students, who no longer are exposed to some of those attitudes and prejudices that still lingered in society in my youth, would understand the protest aspect of it.

We older white folks took a great deal of the African-American experience in mid-20th-Century America for granted, even if we did not subscribe to the prejudices of the times. Growing up in a city with a large black population, I just accepted that the jobs that they filled - railroad porters, stevedores, shoeshine men, elevator operators, maids, cooks, etc. was the natural way of things. Only later did I learn that many of those people (including some who relocated during WWII for jobs in the shipyards) were professionals in many fields who could not find work in their occupations. I didn't really think about how difficult it was, for example, for African-American entertainers to find lodging in the places they traveled to for performances (or restaurants or bars to serve them), or for a black family to travel across the country by car and find accommodations and meals and garages and other services along the way. A recent article in the Ephemera Journal about the Negro Motorist Green Book - a guide that served the black community for many years - described that situation in a way that made my heart ache.

I have lived through eras in which the referencing terms changed, from "nigger' (always deprecating in my experience) to the more "correct" "Negro," which was replaced by "colored" in some areas or used more informally, to today's African-American. What has been important has not been the changing of terminology. What matters is that social perceptions have changed. Early television programs perpetuated some of those perceptions, only gradually breaking them down as African-Americans were portrayed in occupations and social situations on an equal plane with their white neighbors.

One of my favorite lines in a TV show ever was in an initial episode (the first, I think) of "Julia," in which Diahann Carroll had been looking for a nursing job, to no avail. She finally calls one last ad - to the doctor played by Lloyd Nolan who needs someone right away and indicates that she is hired. She tells him that there is just one thing....she's colored (the reason she has been turned down so many times previously) and he responds in typical curmudgeonly fashion, "Well, what color are you?" In fact, Julia was the first TV show to feature an African-American woman as something other than a domestic servant, and it became so popular that there was a Julia Barbie doll and various other themed products such as children’s lunch boxes, coloring books and paper dolls and more.

That show did a lot to break down some of the stereotyped perceptions of the era (it ran from 1968-1971). The fact that Julia was the widow of a pilot shot down in Vietnam helped to make it palatable – not to mention that Carroll was an incredibly beautiful woman and talented actress. While some decried the role as “white negro,” Julia went a long way to portray a black woman living a “normal” life but having to overcome many kinds of prejudice and bigotry that still lingered. White Americans became a little more aware of the inequities and premises that previously had existed unnoticed, they were so ingrained in the culture. One other insightful scene in the show that I remember – the young son, Corey, comes home and tells his mother that his friend called him a “name.” Of course Julia immediately is certain that the term used was “nigger,” but as it turns out, it was a word that referred to Corey’s weight (he was on the pudgy side).

Which brings us back to Mark Twain, Huckleberry Finn, the slave Jim and the term “nigger.” Does it belong in the book? Would it be a better book without it, or would it lose a great deal of its purpose and meaning? Should that purpose and meaning be retained as part of our history and social conscience, or should it now be buried in favor of making an iconic piece of American literature less controversial?

In 2002, Oregon residents were asked to vote for or against removing some “obsolete” material from the State Constitution. This Constitution was written in 1857 and Oregon became a state in 1859, but nearly failed in its bid for statehood because of what has been called the “Negro exclusion act.” This was a complicated matter, put to the citizens who were voting to adapt the Constitution, and with two articles (one dealing with whether or not slaves should be allowed in the new State, the other whether or not suffrage should be allowed to free negroes.) People were uncomfortable that these issues were in the original Constitution, and voted to expunge it. I felt strongly that it should be left – it was a piece of our history and for better or worse, it reflected some of the social issues that were prevalent at the time Oregon became a state. How can we understand our present if our history is cleaned and polished to reflect a later period in time?

So I guess I’m also against changing the terms that Twain very carefully used in his books, for these very reasons of historocity and social implication.

Marianne Macdonald’s Dido Hoare Bibliomysteries

2011-01-04T11:51:00.000-08:00

So far I have read the first three books in this series:
Death’s Autograph
Ghost Walk
Smoke Screen

London antiquarian bookseller Dido Hoare is a bit different from the usual “cozy” bibliomystery heroine. Sharp, modern, independent, she likes a good drink, a good roll in the hay with the right man (at one that seems right at the moment) and not long into the series finds herself a single mom with a son by her ex-husband (who is killed before the child is born). In addition, she worries about her father Barnabas, a retired academic (and one-time member of Signal Intelligence) with a strong interest in Dido’s business (both personal and professional) who has previously suffered a heart attack but seems no worse for wear.

Dido, of course, consistently refuses to turn mysterious issues over the police and to stay out of obviously dangerous situations. In fact, her involvement in each of these cases seems inescapable at the outset, a refreshing change from contrived mystery plots. While Barnabas expresses dismay at her antics, he often brings his insights, as well as his professional associations, to bear on the cases that Dido falls into.

For backup, there is babysitter Phyllis who takes baby Ben off Dido’s hands when she’s busy getting herself embroiled in yet another misadventure, and Ernie, a burly young black student from Sierra Leone who is a computer whiz, setting up Dido’s catalogs and insisting that she sell books online. (Ernie also cheerfully offers himself as a bodyguard when the occasion calls for some brawn.)

There is, as well, the obligatory book dealer’s cat, Mr. Spock – who so far does little in the series besides providing the opportunity for a joke about naming him because “his ears are pointed.”

Macdonald makes a good effort to understand the ins and outs of used and antiquarian book buying and selling, the peculiarities of book dealers, and the range of interests (and the oddities) of a bookshop’s customers.

Additional books in the series:
Road Kill
Blood Lies
Die Once
Faking it

NOSTALGIA IS NOT WHAT IT USED TO BE

2011-01-03T11:39:00.000-08:00

Christmas morning, 2010. I of course spent a good deal of time in the kitchen, preparing food. I watched out the window, remembering so many similar Christmas mornings when children would start tumbling out into the street, trying out new bikes or skates or scooters or showing off new sports equipment, or just running to tell each other about their gifts.
This year there was not one child. Presumably they were indoors enjoying their wii’s and x-boxes or whatever it is that they do these days. The day outside remained cold, gray, caliginous, and devoid of childish laughter and excitement. I found I missed that.

I remembered some other traditions fondly. Like saving wrapping paper. You really can’t save much these days – the stuff breaks and tears even when you’re trying to use it the first time. But the old stuff held up well – sparse use of tape and careful unwrapping kept it intact. Smoothed out and stored it could be reused year after year. Some favorite pieces were passed around so much that they grew thin and rather limp. As a child, I was always thrilled when one of my favorites came back. I still remember one sheet with an image of reindeer on it – it grew smaller and thinner as years went by but I was always pleased when it came back to me. (As it often did, since I was a child isolated between two generations.)

I got to thinking about other things that have changed….not especially for the better, or worse, just different. Such as wearing a sweater around the house in winter. I don’t see that many cardigans in clothing stores these days – but then, I don’t really shop for clothing much so I could be missing their season. But there was a time when having a sweater (or a few, because they were popular gifts) for winter housewear was just standard. We didn’t expect homes to be heated to tee-shirt temperatures in winter. Socks and sweaters go a long way to keep a body comfortable when the environment is chilly around the edges.

I miss letters – real, physical, stamp it lick it stick it in the mail letters. I miss glass bottles of Coke and Orange Nehi pulled from a cooler with bits of ice and water running down their sides, and milkshakes served in big metal mixing containers with a soda fountain glass to pour into. I miss gas stations where attendants raced to clean your windshield, check your oil and water (and sometimes tire pressure), and handed you a free road map if you needed one.
I miss courtesy – holding open a door for an elder or someone with an armload of packages. Stepping into single file on a sidewalk to let others pass. Making way for other shoppers in the grocery store (these days the aisles are often clogged with people who have stopped to natter on their cell phones while leaning on their shopping carts). Thank you notes.

For some reason now I’m craving a cup of cocoa. I never crave hot chocolate but I seem to be having a nostalgia attack.

If only there were some snow, I’d go make a snowman and then come in for the cocoa. And Campbell’s chicken soup. Well, doesn’t that take you back to childhood! Red mittens – for some reason I feel a need for red mittens……

HAPPY NEW YEAR! See it in Postcards!

2011-01-01T13:22:00.000-08:00

Over the years many images have been used to convey the turning of the calendar year. Calendars, clocks, myths and legends, fables and superstitions have produced a wide variety of imagery. One of my favorites is “Father Time.” My children used to put their shoes outside their rooms on New Year’s Eve in hopes that Father Time would fill them with small treats and coins. (He never failed.) Sometimes the connection between image and holiday are oblique, or lost, or just spring from an inventive imagination.

In the years of the “postcard craze many greetings were sent on a postal card. In the early years they mailed for one cent and the colorful cards were eagerly exchanged and collected. Here are a few to indicate some of the range of iconography, with my good wishes for a healthy, happy, peaceful, and prosperous 2011. (Now where did all that time go?)

And yup, I see that one image reversed on me - well, you get the idea anyway.

Fearfully Asymmetrical: Her Fearful Symmetry

2010-12-28T23:09:00.000-08:00

I loved The Time Traveler’s Wife so passionately that I couldn’t wait for Audrey Niffenegger’s next novel, Her Fearful Symmetry , and I actually broke my rule (used copies only) and purchased a new trade paper copy. And was awfully disappointed. I had looked forward to the setting – London’s Highgate Cemetery, where Niffenegger is a guide and where are buried some significant Victorian authors and artists. I suppose that I expected too much from the book in my anticipation.

In fact, I felt very uncomfortable with the characters and the story – as I suppose could have been the intention with what amounts to a ghost story. Even the font employed for the chapter titles made me uneasy, with its sketchy lack of symmetry – again, perhaps an intended effect. That is not to say that the novel is not well-conceived or well-written: it is both, although Niffenegger’s prose tends to be static and visually-oriented. But even that makes sense since she is primarily a graphic novelist.

For some reason this book reminded me of Tim Powers’ 1989 novel, The Stress of Her Regard. That one also left me feeling disturbed in a similar way. (Enough so that I still shudder when I think of it, and I read it when it was published.) I guess the operative term for both novels might be “creepy.” Which, of course, some people really love. I have just never relished that kind of creepiness – like Stephen King’s Pet Sematary. I can neither believe it nor enjoy it.

The novel also ends on an ambiguous note that I always feel is a bit of a cheat.
I think my favorite character in this book is Martin, whose OCD is so bad he can’t leave his apartment, but who eventually pulls himself together (with a little help from his friends and some medication) to make the journey to Amsterdam to join his estranged wife. The main characters never really seem to have much gumption or purposefulness, except perhaps for the one who is dead.

This font style that I mentioned puzzled me, though. I can’t tell if it is supposed to look like Victorian iron work or script, or if it is just intended to be unsettling. If the latter case, it achieves its goal. It is both difficult to read at times, and kind of … well….creepy.

The Death of the Book as We Know It

2010-12-13T20:46:00.000-08:00

Well, there is a lot of doom and gloom among booksellers about the future of the book – meaning the printed codex, of course – with the onslaught of digital reading devices. I saw them as evil incarnate in the beginning, but having listened to many arguments pro and con, I’m now revising some of my preconceptions.

Our thinking about books is somewhat entrenched in the way we have regarded them in the past: As repositories of knowledge and literature, as primary tools for access to information, as objects that we enjoy for their beauty, as means of entertainment. In fact, the only thing really missing from that list in digital format is the tactile aspect – the beauty of fine printing, lovely reproduction of artwork and maps, the feel of paper and cover materials, the smell of a freshly-printed or old book. And it does remain to be seen if digital copies can outlast good old paper and cloth. The technologies seem to move along very rapidly and a lot of things can get left behind and lost.

But when I think about the implications of the progression of technology, the future of the electronic reading device seems to warrant some respectful consideration. We need to realize that the current examples – Kindle, Nook, and the rest – are just baby steps into the possibilities. At some point they will surmount the need to replicate the codex, and take the concept of “book” much further. We already see some applications on the Internet that can be incorporated. If you’re reading about a certain type of music, you can click a link and hear an example. Some e-books already provide dictionaries (I’m always jotting words onto scraps of paper or post-it notes, if handy, and inserting into the book I’m reading to look up later), and they could provide many more layers of research and reference, including videos, 3-D maps and applications, and other scholarly or entertaining aspects.

In the grocery store parking lot the other day we were about to open the rear hatch of the van to load our purchases when a woman walking by spotted my Tomfolio magnetic sign and asked what it was. I explained that Tomfolio is an independent bookseller’s co-op website, and she was excited, declaring herself a “book nut.” I mentioned e-books and she threw up her hands, swearing she would never touch one. “I love my books! They’re MINE! I like to write notes in them. I like to share them with friends. I like to read the notes they write so we can discuss our thoughts about various passages. I want to KEEP them where I can SEE them and TOUCH them!”

The following night we were at a party, and I fell into a lively discussion about books with Mary Lou, another passionate reader. And then she mentioned “Kindle” and I stuck my fingers in my ears and went “neener neener neener” but she made me listen. Her arthritis, she said, made it impossible for her to hold a hardcover book for long, and paperbacks became difficult to hold open. But her Kindle could be propped up for reading without pain for as long as she wished.

About then our party host mentioned his Kindle, and I asked to see it. I admit I had never looked at one before. He has the “Third Generation” (I guess that means something). In response to my questions he showed the dictionary, the ability to make notes and retrieve them as footnotes, and the option to listen rather than read, with a choice of voices even. (I imagined sitting through a boring meeting with the earpiece in, listening surreptitiously to a book being read.) He also had the cover, which incorporates a reading lamp, so the absence of backlighting is not a problem.

I thought about some applications that others have mentioned – frequent travelers can take a “suitcase full” of books along, but all in this small device. Books that are difficult to obtain in certain parts of the world are easily downloaded – without having to pay heavy shipping or customs costs. And so forth.

I may take a look at some of the other devices out there. The Kindle seems unnecessarily restrictive with its proprietary downloads, etc. But I understand that there are some now that will download library books and purchased or free digital texts from a variety of sources.

In other words, it looks as though e-readers could become useful tools. I’m so hardwired into codex reading habits that it would be difficult, I think, to derive the same pleasure from a “tool.” And there are certainly many types of books that would not translate at all. I just received a letterpress-printed calendar and spent five minutes just stroking it. You can’t get that tactile satisfaction from a little plastic box. But there is no denying that the e-reader has a place in the future. I cannot agree that it will replace the printed book altogether, and perhaps not even to a significant degree. It’s going to be an interesting phenomenon to watch, in any case.

A LITTLE BIT ABOUT LITTLE BLUE BOOKS

2010-12-12T15:41:00.000-08:00

Little Blue Books are a series of small staple-bound books published by the Haldeman-Julius Publishing Company of Girard, Kansas (1919–1978). In size about 3½ by 5 inches (8½ by 12¾ cm) the booklets were designed to fit easily into a shirt or pants pocket.

The Little Blue Book series were published by Emanuel Haldeman-Julius and his wife, Marcet. Emanuel Haldeman-Julius was a socialist, a Jewish atheist, , and a newspaper man. The couple purchased the Appeal to Reason Publishing House in Girard, Kansas (a failing socialist newspaper for which H-J, as he is known, had been editor) in 1919 and set out to publish easily-affordable booklets.

The original version was Appeal's Pocket Series, printed on cheap pulp paper with stiff red wraps. Over the next several years the name and cover color changed several times, including the People's Pocket Series, the Appeal Pocket Series, the Ten Cent Pocket Series, the Five Cent Pocket Series, and finally Little Blue Books in 1923. The price remained at five cents per copy for many years and the Little Blue Book name stuck.

Little Blue Books attempted to provide a "University in Print" for the working class. Many notable authors began their careers in the Haldeman-Julius stable. Many other noteworthy works by the more famous appeared in these booklets for the first time. The subjects covered everything from literature and fine art to basic language and math skills, home improvement, mental improvement, history, and social issues such as abortion, racial issues, religious issues, the KKK, evolution, etc. The series provides truly significant peek at cultural standards in the first half of the 20th century.

Some of the titles are available on my website:

http://www.kirksbooks.com/bookmem.asp?subid=1382

While I have hundreds more available but as yet unlisted. (Just inquire if you have particular needs!)

THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE CLUELESS CUSTOMER PHONE CALL

2010-12-12T15:06:00.000-08:00

Sometimes a telephone call is so oblique, I wonder if the caller and I live on different planets – or perhaps just different planes!
Riiiing!

Me: “The Prints and The Paper.”
She: “Yeah – I found….I see….I…um…..It says here you have RARE BOOKS?”
[warning alarms…..]
Me: “Well, I do sell USED and rare books.”
She: “Right. So you have RARE BOOKS?”
Me (reluctantly): “Well, I have some….”
She: “I have this book…..”
[LOUD warning alarm….]
She: “I’m trying to find out….like, why this is a RARE BOOK.’
Me: (feeling a bit lost): “Well – uh – what book is it.”
She, proudly: “It’s LITTLE BLUE BOOK!”
[oh dear oh dear oh…….]
Me: “uh, well – which one is it?”
She: “I TOLD you! It’s LITTLE BLUE BOOK.”
Me: “Well, there are a couple of thousand Little Blue Books. Most of them aren’t worth much – I have hundreds I would sell for $1 apiece. So what title is yours?”
She; “I TOLD you! LITTLE BLUE BOOK. You mean it’s only worth a dollar? How can a RARE BOOK be worth a dollar? And you have hundreds of it?”

Me: (I spend considerable time trying to explain that there are many authors, many titles….some are scarce and worth a little money, most are not….there are some collectors, but not many….I keep trying to determine what she has and/or what her question is….)

She: “Well I saw this book you have for $8. It’s the LITTLE BLUE BOOK so I’m trying to figure out why a rare book is $8.”

I’m not too sure how the conversation finally ended – I was pretty confused by then and I remember only that she was rather hostile and ended our discussion abruptly.

I’d like to ask “what’s next?” but I’m afraid I’ll find out.

FAME, NOTORIETY, OR WHATEVER OF AN EPHEMERA DEALER

2010-12-09T13:43:00.000-08:00

Well, probably “whatever,” but this morning I received a telephone call from someone in the UK who is working on a TV program about “interesting things” and they were researching ephemera, particularly aviation ephemera. Of course the questions were mostly ingenuous – who buys it? What is significant? and so on, but I managed to give her a small portrait of some aspects of aviation ephemera and collecting, some insights into who collects it and why, and suggest a few more contacts for her to pursue.

She had, of course, called me because of a piece that I have listed online, which is really ephemeral and probably unique, and will take just the right person to discover and purchase it…a Qantas airline trip log that was signed by most of the crew.

Airline ephemera is collectible – partly because of nostalgia for “the way it was.” Remember when you received a whole packet full of souvenir items when you boarded a plane? Brochures, postcards, stickers, maps, “wings” for the kids, luggage tags, chewing gum, and what-all? Heck, remember when you could count on a full meal, usually with several choices, beverages being served constantly – or even just going to the gate to board without all the scanning and delays? Of course we miss those days!
In my experience, there are a thousand and one reasons for collecting anything, and the next person who purchase aviation ephemera from me will have reason 1002. That’s why I love it!

Here are links to my listings for these items on The Prints & The Paper. I can't seem to get them to publish as clickable links, but if you're interested I guess you can copy/paste them into an the address line:
http://www.kirksbooks.com/bookdetails.asp?bkid=1341792
http://www.kirksbooks.com/bookdetails.asp?bkid=1338457

Coming Back

2010-12-04T12:41:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you can just get blindsided by Life and knocked right off the rails. Throw in some illnesses, deaths, injuries, obligations, and even house renovations and it's hard to stay on track. Getting back on track is another hurdle - I'm somewhat surprised that I could even remember how to access this blog! So this is a test run.

In spite of all the disasters we have pursued our house updating plans and seeing what we did in the last year in encouraging - new floors in main rooms upstairs and down, a new front door, a remodeled fireplace (from ugly big rough concrete brick to a plastered surface with glass tile inset and slate hearth) and freshly-painted walls. With my mother's death we gained acess to much more space in the house and so we moved Gary's den downstairs and at last I have a dining room! We have only just moved furniture into the living spaces the past couple of weeks - do not yet have many pictures on the walls or other decor in place, but it's liveable.

Well, If I have figured out how to post here again I hope to stay "regular" with some upbeat or interesting comments, notes, opinions, crotchets, announcements, observations, research, and mutterings on books, ephemera, life, the universe, and everything.

Wild Turkey, Rolling Thunder

2008-08-27T12:31:00.000-07:00

A thunderstorm swept through to the Northeast of us the other night. It wasn't close enough for the CRACK! but there was plenty of rumbling, grumbling, rolling thunder.

At the first big rumble Fiona the Princess cat dashed into the house from the cattery. Memories of July 4th fireworks, perhaps. She wasn't taking any chances.

On the second rattle and roll, I stepped out onto the deck. After several days of inversion, with temperatures at 100 or better and not a breath of wind, I was hoping for at least a fresh breeze - perhaps a little rain. So I sat and waited, watching the distant flashes and counting seconds, and worrying about fires in the Cascade mountains to the East.

On the third big rumble, the wild tom turkey who was apparently battened down in the woods next to the cul-de-sac down the hill let loose with a very irritated GABAB-
GABAB-GABABBLE. The rumbles and bumbles continued almost non-stop, and with each introductory boom old Tom voiced his warning: gabbletygabblety gabble.

Thunder: rolling basso profundo
Turkey: full-voiced tenor descant

After a few of those verses, the very large dog next door added his WURF WURF. The nearly-as-large dog down in the cul-de-sac joined in: RORF RORF.

thunder: basso profundo
turkey: tenor
dogs: baritone

THUMBLE Rummmmmble GABBLEGABBLE Wurf! Wurf! Rorf....

Needless to say, something more was needed, so the little yap dogs further down chimed in: alto and soprano. YIPPITY YAPPITY BARK BARK BARK.

You get the idea.

By now it was almost 11 pm and time for the Chorus: The voices of several dog owners, calling in their pooches.

The barking stopped, but the thunder and the turkey went on. And on.

A small breeze kicked up and I lifted my nose to appreciate it.

I have to wonder if turkeys always react this way to thunder, and if so, do turkey hunters every use this as a ploy to locate the birds at night?

I couldn't say....I only hunt with the camera.

The Mystery of the Sacking Bottoms

2008-03-30T11:30:00.000-07:00

Now and then a piece of ephemera comes along that just tickles my curiosity. So it was with an innocuous little early-20th Century receipt from a Portland, Oregon laundry. In list of otherwise normal-sounding items there were a couple of head-scratchers: life preservers, and sacking bottoms. The customer name was also odd: Undine. Who or what, I wondered, was Undine? And what, pray tell, were sacking bottoms?

I put the fragile slip into an archival sleeve and backer board, and lodged it in the row of things at the back of my desk “for future research.” Now and again I would clean the desk (that doesn’t happen too often, to be sure) and it would pop up again. Undine. Sacking bottoms. Hmmmm.

In the course of events, I acquired as customer a museum whose curator asked me to watch for images of sternwheel steamers that plied the Columbia River. In going through a batch of postcards, I used a loup to read the names on some of the boats. And thus was the mystery of the “Undine” solved! It was one of the fragile-looking but sturdy little sternwheelers that plied the river in the late-19th and early 20th centuries.

That explained the life preservers, and the museum purchased the receipt when I described it. But, I asked the curator – what were sacking bottoms? He had no better guess than I – which was that they might have been pieces of sacking (burlap or sailcloth) used to wrap around cargo. It still didn’t seem likely that the steamboat company would go to the expense of having such items professionally cleaned, though.

(The images here are of the Bailey Gatzert, a steamer that was contemporary with the Undine.)

I did some research in books on maritime and dictionaries, as well as on the Internet, but found no clues.

And several more years passed. Then the other day a bookbinder on one of the mailing lists I subscribe to raised a question about some book boards on an old book he was rebinding – boards that were black and that appeared to be composed of a “fibrous substance impregnated with tar.” A reply offered a link to a description of “tar board” - a millboard “manufactured from old tarred rope, sail cloth, sacking, etc.” Sacking?

That sent me off to explore the Internet again, knowing that many items have been added since my last search. And my first attempt yielded another clue in a description of Georgian Campaign furniture on an antiques site, “elegant Four Post & Tent Bedsteads, with Lath or Sacking bottoms." Ha! So, sacking bottoms were part of a bed, cloth used on the bottom of the bed frame to support the mattress. And finally the use for sacking bottoms on boats was revealed in an article on the “Eye Witness to History” site. Describing the sleeping arrangements on an Erie Canal boat, an historical account notes:

“The way they proceed is as follows - the Settees that go the whole length of the Boat on each side unfold and form a cot bed. The space between this bed and the ceiling is so divided as to make room for two more. The upper berths are merely frames with sacking bottoms, one side of which has two projecting pins, which fit into sockets in the side of the boat. The other side has two cords attached one to each corner. These are suspended from hooks in the ceiling. The bedding is then placed upon them, the space between the berths being barely sufficient for a man to crawl in, and presenting the appearance of so many shelves. Much apprehension is always entertained by passengers when first seeing them, lest the cords should break. Such fears are however groundless. “

Of course I sent the description off to the curator, who probably thought I was nuts for persisting on this topic, but who expressed appreciation for the effort. And one more little “curiosity” itch was scratched for me.

The Comfort Hip Corset

2008-03-07T22:52:00.001-08:00

Found on the back of an old trade card, advertising the “Comfort Hip” corset. Presumably to be sung to the tune of “The Old Oaken Bucket.” If you have ever wondered why so many women suffered “the vapors” in old novels, the corset was to blame. One great outcome of WWI was that women contributed their corsets to the war effort (steel stays were being used by then). For some reason, the fashion never came quite back into style.

How dear to my heart is the “Comfort Hip” Corset,
A well moulded figure ‘twas made to adorn,
I’m sure, as an elegant, close fitting corset,
It lays over all makes I ever have worn.
Oh, my! with delight it is driving me crazy,
The feelings that thrill me no language can tell;
Just look at its shape, -- oh, ain’t it a daisy!
The “Comfort Hip” corset that fits me so well.
The close fitting corset – the “Lock Clasp” corset –
The “Comfort Hip” corset that fits me so well.

It clings to my waist so tightly and neatly,
Its fair rounded shape shows no wrinkle or fold;
It fits this plump figure of mine as completely
As if I’d been melted and poured in its mould.
How fertile the mind that was moved to design it,
Such comfort pervades each depression and swell,
The waist would entice a strong arm to entwine it, --
The waist of this corset that fits me so will.
The close fitting corset, -- the “Lock Clasp” corset –
The “Comfort Hip” corset that fits me so well.

Of course I will wear it to parties and dances,
And gentlemen there will my figure admire!
The ladies will throw me envious glances,
And that’s just the state of affairs I desire;
For feminine envy and male admiration
Proclaim that their object’s considered a belle.
Oh, thou art of beauty – the fair consummation –
My “comfort Hip” corset that fits me so well.
The Five-Hook corset – the “Lock Clasp” corset –
The “Comfort Hip” corset that fits me so well.

The Ajanta Caves

2008-02-29T22:38:00.001-08:00

It helps if you spell a word right. There are many websites about the Ajanta Caves, mentioned in my last post. It's worth looking up. While Petra is undoubtedly the most famous carved cave site, the Ajanta caves are no less remarkable, especially as they are on a hillside.

Click here
and here

An even more fantastic story, though, is that of Oberto Airaudi, an Italian businessman who dreamed of fantastic temples and a benign culture, and who initiated the creation of secret underground recreations of his vision. This installation was revealed only in 1993, but already a spiritual community has grown up that includes organic farms, eco-friendly homes, and a commune operating as an independent "Federation of Damanhur."

It's too rich a story to try to summarize here - go to:
See Damanhur

Trapped in a Web of Words

2008-02-28T22:22:00.000-08:00

Last night I was reading about the Deccan Traps and I distinctly heard my Grandmother’s voice saying, “Don’t forget your traps.” Grandma has, of course, been gone for many years, but her quaint sayings, as well as her admonitions and words of advice linger on. Grandma was not, in any way, referring to animal traps. But before I get to that, let’s return to the Deccan Traps for a minute.

Although this term sounds rather threatening, in fact it refers to a volcanic formation in India. In this case, the word comes from the Swedish trapp, meaning steps. The Deccan formation consists of layers of lava flow in huge terraces, laid down over a period of years. The jury still seems to out on the duration of this period (somewhere between 1.5 and 4 million years) but the major eruption occurred about 65 million years ago - about the time of the dinosaur extinctions. Some scientists theorize that the gases from this eruption may have contributed to that extinction, possibly in combination with a meteor strike in the Yucatan. (This combination poses an interesting scenario, which so far I haven’t seen addressed.) At any rate, it is estimated that the original flows covered up to 600,000 square miles. Today they cover about 200,000 – about the size of Oregon and Washington together. This is still one of the largest volcanic features in the world.

In a valley high in the Deccan Traps, the caves of Ajunta were discovered by a British horse officer in the 19th Century. These caves are carved out of the solid lava, with amazing statuary, including life-sized elephants, many figures of Buddha, and even a free-standing two-story temple; as well as many well-preserved frescoes. The caves were carved between the 2nd and 7th centuries A.D. – then abandoned and forgotten until their rediscovery.

Grandma’s word “traps” had nothing to do with geology or Buddist carvings. She would say “Don’t forget your traps” when you were leaving after a visit, and she was referring to your belongings – usually coat, hat, purse, whatever you had brought with you. I always assumed that it came from the word “trappings,” which it does, although both are shown as dictionary terms. We do sometimes come across “trappings” in older literature – phrases like “their elegant trappings.” The term also sometimes refers to caparisoned horses, and the word can also refer to a small horse-driven wagon. But I don’t recall ever seeing or hearing “traps” used the way Grandma did. Apparently the word – along with “trappings” – is slowly fading from use.

Me and my Grandma, Vera Green, fishing in Arizona when I was about five years old.

Frequently Grandma would say, “Company is coming, so I have to redd up the spare room.” The only other place I have heard or seen “redd” was in a book by a Scottish poet. that puzzled me, since most of Grandma’s phrases came from her Pennsylvania Dutch background. In fact, *redd* is Scottish dialect (from Old Norse rydhja) and brought to the American midlands by Scottish immigrants. “Redd up” is a particularly Pennsylvania use of the term. As a child, I was used to hearing “kaffee” for coffee, “pruins” for “prunes," and grammatical constructions such as “I’m going to take the broom out and sweep the walk around.” Mind you, Grandma spoke no German, but these inflections carried into everyday English for her family. Although her “dubishy” may have been a purely Grandma word – it meant “dubious.”

Pages from an altered book that I did, honoring my grandmother

What’s in your back yard?

2008-02-16T23:43:00.001-08:00

Well…after a week of sub-freezing weather, a week of snow and snow-begone, a couple of weeks of rain….we have had our usual second-week-in-February “spring break.” It happens nearly every year….clear sunny days, warmish (50s) temperatures, crocus and camellias and heather starting to bloom, irises and other bulbs poking through the ground. We enjoy it while we can, because we KNOW that winter is not over. We KNOW the weather will be crap again. It’s just that little window of hope that gets us through the rest of Flabuweary and the muck of March.

Something else happens this time of year. As Valentine’s Day rolls around, there is a certain romantic influence in Nature.

I finished up a bunch of chores the other day and decided on a rest break on the deck to enjoy the sunshine. I let my gaze wander across the yard, past the labyrinth and over the rock garden boulders into the woods beyond. I admit that my gaze was somewhat swimmy – so at first I didn’t notice anything unusual. I was just admiring the sunshine on the basalt rocks out there on the perimeter, when one of them said, “Bork!”

There is nothing like having a medium-sized boulder say “Bork!” to get your attention. It was then that I realized that there were actually far more rocks out there than usual. It was a moment later that I realized that they were wild hen turkeys hunkered down and not boulders at all. I stood up and walked over to the railing where I could see more of the yard, and out there were more hens and a proud Tom, strutting his stuff in full display. Yes, it’s that time of year that a turkey’s thoughts turn to …. well, reproduction.

Normally the males don’t display – unless they are being protective and/or showing off for hens. While they seem pretty much the size of the hens when they are deflated, a puffed up male turkey with his wings spread to the ground, his hackles fully raised, and his tail widely spread makes a fairly impressive show.

I chanced going into the house for my camera – most times, by the time I return with it the birds have moved off. But no – they were undisturbed by my presence although I knew they were aware that I was up there above them. Of course as soon as I tried to get a picture of Tom, he turned away. Fine – a photo of a big fluffy turkey butt was not what I was after. He then managed to maneuver himself along so that any time he was front-forward and in full display, there was a bare-branched bush in front of him. It was frustrating. Turkey-butt, bush. Turkey-butt, bush.

Far back in the woods I could see a red head or two pop up now and then, and I figured that the young males, recently ostracized from the flock, were keeping an eye on things, too. I finally decided to make my way out the front door, around the house, and down into the yard in hopes of a better photo.

Tom stood his ground, but by now he had the hens moving along toward the fence at
the other side of the property. I got my photos – not without Tom doing that sort of booming-spitting thing that’s a bit of a friendly warning – and decided to retreat so as not to upset them any more. I could hear the hens flying over the fence and saw some of them land on the neighbor’s roof.

Back on the deck, I watched as the young males moved down through the woods. Well, I thought, it will be interesting to watch this. I fully expected some feathers to fly. But no….Tom just poked around at the ground, letting the youngsters join him. He did chase one that got a bit challenging, but that was over quickly. Eventually they faded back into the woods, and I assume that Tom rejoined his harem on the other side of the fence.

What a nice piece of passive resistance, I thought. Hang out with the boys for a while so they don’t feel totally dispossessed. Nice turkey. Nice day.

Response to a comment - Whither goest Internet bookselling?

2008-02-16T23:08:00.000-08:00

I find the following comment left on my blog on bookselling:

“I think that this is an interesting, well thought out, post but I wonder if you could elaborate on your final sentence, 'The generalist Internet bookseller, however, either needs to develop a specialized market niche, or to adapt to the realities of an online marketplace.' It seems to me to be a contradiction in terms.”

I can understand how some confusion might occur in regards to my statement. Simply rephrased, it means that – given the proliferation of books available on the Internet -- anyone who is now a generalist bookseller needs either to become a specialist with a specialized inventory (thus being no longer a generalist) or to be able to sense the direction of the general book market and take steps to move with it.

I have thought and thought on what to say regarding the general book market. But, since I don’t sell in that category, and since I don’t sell on the sites that cater to mass market books, all I could offer would be hunches and guesses about where that market is headed. I leave it to the general-interest booksellers to figure out how and why and what affects their businesses.

I don’t think we yet appreciate the profound influence that the Internet has had on contemporary culture. It is huge, it is global, it affects every aspect of our lives these days. And it is very, very young. There are still many opportunities for it to be exploited, or regulated, or used and misused.

Bookselling was one of the first successful retail businesses to make use of the Internet, but it is being swirled around now like a woodchip in a whirlpool. With so much changing so fast, it’s no wonder that we feel that we can barely keep afloat. The only sure thing is that things will not go back to the “way they used to be,” and they will continue to change at a breathtaking pace. We can only try to anticipate what some of those changes will be, and what they will mean to us as entrepreneurs (not to mention, as consumers).

A Personal Review of the Bookselling Trade

2008-02-08T00:08:00.000-08:00

Many of us earned our “bookseller badge” the old-fashioned way. We come out of an era of bookselling that drew its ethos from centuries-old traditions. Not much had changed from the time that books went into print, and much of what persisted in terms of trade standards was drawn from the European guilds of the sixteenth century on.

Then came the Internet. Some of us eagerly jumped on the opportunity to trade on the Internet. Books that were unwanted in our local areas were eagerly sought after in other parts of the world. We tried to bring our “old-fashioned” standards and ethics along with us….But!

Since bookselling was among the earliest successful Internet retail ventures, venture capitalists were quick to look for ways to jump into this small but potentially viable marketing scheme. Entrepreneurs quickly saw the potential and issued book after book about how to make money selling books on the Internet. People with little or no background or knowledge of books saw the opportunity in treating reading material as a commodity. Suddenly the old standards were at risk, or had been disregarded altogether. Websites that attempted to retain them were purchased by investors who also saw the medium as a moneymaking opportunity, not as a means to preserve a centuries-long tradition. Today, “traditional” booksellers struggle against a tide of cheaply priced merchandise. It’s market economy – supply and demand. If booksellers cannot embrace the changes wrought by the Internet, they are an endangered species.

The problem is one of making adjustments. That does NOT include lowering any standards. It does mean that ideas about marketing and business methods need to change. Efforts to retain the old models are doomed to failure. We are NOT going to go back to the old ways, at least not any time soon.

I handle a lot of ephemera and I’m always intrigued by advertising from those periods when a technology was in process of change. For many years, ice was a luxury and most of it came from ponds, lakes, and rivers (and sometimes caves) where ice could be cut and transported to markets where it was not otherwise readily available. This was a very lucrative business, and one that reared up in shock when refrigeration methods improved, and local markets could offer artificially produced ice. (The American South was primary in this development.) The “natural ice” marketers tried in vain to claim that theirs was a healthier product (never mind the issue of pollution that were present even then) but they were doomed. Artificial ice was more readily available and a lot less expensive in the areas that provided the largest market.

The advent of the farm tractor threw the makers of horse-drawn plows and equipment into a frenzy of advertising the advantages of the horse over the gasoline engine. (Cheap fuel, recyclable waste, easy maintenance, lower cost, easier on tilth.) The gasoline-powered tractor, however, allowed farmers to produce more work for less labor.

Then came the automobile. It’s interesting in some of the period magazines to see ads for buggies and carriages on the same page with ads for early autos. [See below] There were, of course, attempts to build autos that were propelled by steam, electricity, and gasoline internal combustion engines. [See below] What is most interesting is that the manufacturers who jumped onto the automobile phenomenon were the buggy and carriage makers, as well as bicycle makers. So you can see horse-drawn conveyances from Buick, Studebaker, Cadillac, Dodge, etc., companies that became some of the earliest makers of autos. Bicycle makers who turned to manufacturing autos included Pope and Columbia. In fact, it was a bicycle manufacturer (Stirling Elliot) who solved the problem of wheel-turning ratio, a solution that is still used on cars being manufactured today.

Well, the natural ice industry melted away and the horse-drawn plow still has its advocates, not only among groups such as the Amish but also with some modern farmers. In fact, as the old manufacturers abandoned their trade, and as the old equipment wore out, many small entrepreneurial firms sprang up to offer horse-powered equipment to a new generation of farmers who want to pursue this method. There is now an annual trade show called Horse Progress Days (they have a nice website) where modern horse equipment manufacturers can showcase their wares.

And yes, there are still buggy makers, and buggy whip makers, catering to a specialized market. And the horse population is larger today than it ever was.

All of which is to point out that bookselling has changed radically with the introduction of the Internet. Booksellers who cling to the traditional models are going to have to change perspective if they don’t want to follow the path of the natural ice merchants. Those who can convert their methods – as the buggy and bicycle manufacturers did – to take advantage of the new technology may prevail. There is still room for the specialist, and brick and mortar stores that have something special and personal to offer their customers (so long as they are in appropriate locations) can survive, so long as they accept a modest market share. The generalist Internet bookseller, however, either needs to develop a specialized market niche, or to adapt to the realities of an online marketplace.

The transition from Horse and Buggy to Early Autos

2008-02-07T23:29:00.000-08:00

The little runabouts were probably fairly impractical at a time when paved roads were pretty much unheard of.

White Sewing Machine Company got into the act with this steam automobile. Steam had a short burst (so to speak) of popularity.

Early Electrical Woods auto.

Ads for horse-drawn vehicles and autos often appeared on the same page in magazines, as in this 1903 page featuring an ad for a Cadillac auto along with the Babock Stanhopes and Phaeton. Not only did the names of horse-drawn vehicles carry over to autos - many of the styles did also.

Later a premier auto manufacturer, Studebaker was still building horse-drawn vehicles in 1903. This was advertised as a Station Wagon.

Another cross-over 1903 ad with Studebaker carriages and Northern automobiles.

Bicyle manufacturer Pope offered this auto in 1903.

Oldsmobile was early on the scene, with this 1903 version, advertising Mother Shipton's Prophecy, "Carriages without horse shall go!" In this ad, Oldsmobile claims 23 years "of practical experience in gasolene (sic) motor and automobile construction. Located in Detroit, they had 58 selling agencies.

Early Autos - bicycle makers to Cadillac

2008-02-07T23:12:00.000-08:00

Columbia was another bicycle manufacturer that segued into automobile manufacture, as shown in this 1905 advertisement.

By 1906, Studebaker was firmly into the auto business

Bicycle manufacturer Pope moved easily into the automobile business. They understood the appeal to women and used it extensively in their advertising.

By 1907, Cadillac was pushing for the elite market.

ATCs - Maybe Not Fine Art, but Fun!

2008-02-03T17:14:00.000-08:00

Perhaps you have heard of ATCs - Artist Trading Cards. These are tiny works of art, just 3.5 x 2.5 inches (64 x 89 mm) in size. The whole idea was conceived in 1997 by a Swiss fine artist, M. Vanci Stirnemann. He was concerned that his work was becoming so expensive that many of his friends could no longer afford it. Then he saw a sports card trading session, and he had his bright idea – miniature art works that would be traded, not sold.

The idea caught on and has spread around the world. Although the preferred method of trading is live and in person, many artists have met to share their work through the Internet when local groups are not available. (Needless to say, some have taken advantage of the interest in ATCs and offer them for sale, sometimes under a slightly different name.) The size format and idea has been adopted by rubber stampers, scrapbookers, digital artists, and others. But I happen to belong to a group that, while it does trade through a website, restricts its work to original drawing, painting, and sometimes printmaking (engraving, etc.) Other groups focus on collage or mixed media.

It can be a bit intimidating to join a group like this, particularly if you are unsure of your artistic skills. However, most groups are friendly, warm, and welcoming not to mention encouraging and helpful. Each group operates a bit differently – some have themed swaps or round robin type trades. Our little group is strictly one-on-one: if you see a card you like, you request a trade. You might not always get it but there are no hurt feelings if someone declines. It’s all about doing what we love, and acquiring artworks that we love.

And looking through the cards that you acquire can make you feel utterly wealthy – most of us keep our collection in albums and imagine what it’s like to open the covers on your miniature art gallery!

I’m including a few of my own little productions – I don’t think of myself as a “fine artist” and I certainly have no training. But it is a whole lot of fun!

If you are interested in joining the Yahoo Fine Arts ATC group I described, here's a link: (sorry if there are some "junk" words - when I tried to clean this up it was rejected.)

alt="Click here to join FineArtsATC">
Click to join FineArtsATC

The Ice Box with some Ephemera

2008-02-01T19:07:00.000-08:00

Speaking of ice and snow, as we were a couple of days ago, I overheard Emeril use the word “icebox” on his TV show the other night. And I had to wonder how many people knew that he was referring to the refrigerator, and of those who did, how many actually knew what an icebox is – or was. And of those who knew, how many had ever had to live with one.

With the kind of serendipity that often befalls an ephemera dealer, the very next day I turned up this advertising piece for an ice delivery company in San Francisco.

It was clearly made to hang next to the icebox, an early version of the advertising refrigerator magnet. The verso of it shows how to place the ice, and where in the box to put various food items. This piece was probably produced at about the time that electric (and gas) refrigerators were being introduced, since the slogan is, “A Block of Ice Never Gets Out of Order.”

That may be, but if you ever lived with an icebox, you must remember the “drip tray.”
“Drip” is a nice term for all that melted water. Now, it may be that the icebox in this image had some kind of draining device, but the one we had when I was a kid had a sheet metal tray under it that had to be pulled out and emptied.

That ice tray pretty much controlled our lives. Trips and visits were often cut short with the phrase from my mother’s lips, “Oh, we have to get home and empty the drip tray.” There were a few times that we didn’t get there in time – we’d walk in to find a stream of cold slimy water inching its way across the cracked linoleum floor.

Removing a full tray was no fun, either, as you can imagine if you have ever tried to pry a flat wobbly tray brimming with water out of a floor-level hole, and balance and lift it to the sink. A deal of bailing had to be performed before the task could be undertaken with some degree of success. Our icebox was nothing like the luxury model in the above image. It was a low box with one compartment and a couple of wire shelves. A block of ice went into the bottom of the box, and a limited amount of food could be placed on the shelves. The only advantage to having to live with such a contraption was that it couldn’t keep things frozen. The other phrase from this era that comes to mind is, “We have to eat up all this ice cream, because it won’t hold in the icebox.”

The ice was made, I knew, in the ice house that we sometimes walked past on the way to the park. It was a huge warehouse building, rather formidable and scary with unpainted wooden steps and landings and, when the doors were open, a huge dark cavern was revealed. The whole building exhaled cold and damp. In fact, everything about it seemed to be wet all of the time – the walls, the loading decks, the ramps, the parking lot. The men who worked there were big and burly and aproned in heavy leather and … well, wet. It had to be a rather nice job in summer, since air conditioning was not yet common in our part of the country.

It’s no wonder that I dearly love my self-defrosting refrigerator, with the freezer on the side and the ice dispenser in the door. It has to be one of the modern age’s most wonderful inventions, and I make no excuses when I am caught hugging it with deep affection.

The Snow Guy Heads for Home, with Mama Lee's Zucchini Fritter Recipe

2008-01-30T18:18:00.000-08:00

If Sunday was a snow day, Tuesday was any kind of weather you might want. The sun shone, the wind blew. It rained, it hailed, it snowed. The sun shone again. It rained, it snowed again. At one point there was lightning and thunder (less than a mile away from us) WHILE it was snowing! Even the news station meterorologist commented on that.

If you skip down a couple of days, you'll see the Snow Guy on our front patio. With the rain and warmer temperatures, he is now on his way to his very cool home to meet up with his friends.

(Photo revised by Australian artist, Harmut Jaeger, using some of his art work)

During last week's sub-freezing weather, it seemed that soup was the answer to the chill. With temperatures near 40 today, we were in the mood for lighter fare. I keep a lot of frozen veggies for winter, but couldn't resist some small young fresh zucchini in the store the other day. So I tossed some things together to create Mama Lee's Zucchini Fritters:

For 2:

Heat about 1 T olive oil in a small skillet on medium heat

Chop about 1/2 cup onion into small pieces, add to skillet

Chop small about 1/3 cup bell peppers (I used frozen red, green, and yellow for color), add to skillet just as onion starts to soften

Grate about 1 cup fresh zucchini, add to skillet as peppers start to soften

Turn heat low

Beat 2 eggs in a medium-sized bowl.

Add salt and pepper

Grate about 1/2 cup cheddar (or other) cheese and add to eggs.

Drain the lightly-cooked veggies of any moisture, and add to egg mixture.

Sprinkle in enough flour to make it all stick together in a loose batter.

Heat a small amount of olive oil on a griddle, add a tablespoon or two of butter if desired. (Be honest - who doesn't desire butter?)

When the butter is bubbly, drop large spoonfuls of the batter to make four fritters. Fry until golden brown, turn once and fry the other side.

You could also add chopped green onion, parsley, vegetable seasoning etc. as desired.

This was yummy with some fruit on the side! (And no, I rarely use a recipe, and yes - we rarely have exactly the same thing twice.)

About the San Francisco Earthquake

2008-01-29T11:27:00.000-08:00

A stereo view card of the Refugees' camp at the ball grounds in Golden State Park,

in the aftermath of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and fire.

Many tens of thousands of residents were displaced or homeless after this great disaster.

Card published by The World Wide View Co., Photo (screened print) by Griffith & Griffith

We tend to use terms such as “steady as a rock” and “solid ground” and “down to Earth” to describe stability and immutability. But in fact, our earth is a molten ball of melted rock covered with thin slabs of solid material that float, slip, slide, ooze, fracture, sink, collide, subside and that sometimes melt, flow, and spew. Meanwhile our little planet is whirling around our sun, in a solar system that is traveling through space at incredible speed. It’s enough to give you vertigo, and reading a book such as Simon Winchester’s A Crack in the Edge of the World can make you a lot less sure of your footing.

This book (Harper Collins, 2005) is ostensibly about the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and fire. As he usually does, Winchester uses the San Francisco earthquake as the major “character” in a story that covers a great deal more – plate tectonics, the Gaia theory, seismology, and other aspects of what scientists have come to call “The New Geology” – the revision of geological theories since the mid-1960s.

Winchester undertook a journey across the North American Plate – starting in Iceland at its Eastern perimeter, and traveling across the United States to San Francisco, thence to the northern reaches of Alaska. In order to understand what all this has to do with the San Francisco earthquake, one simply needs to read the book and make the journey vicariously with Winchester, who as always imbues his story with excitement, tension, humor, human interest and anecdote. Nor is he ever afraid to give his personal reaction to a town, a person, a book, or a theory.

Although he is a consummate researcher and made use of many experts in compiling his information, I’d have to quibble with his reference to the death of David Douglas in Hawaii. Winchester relates the old pit and bull story, which was considered to be highly suspect at the time, and has since been disproved by witnesses who came forward long after the fact to testify that Douglas was murdered and tossed into the pit with the bull to simulate an accidental death.

As for the San Andreas fault, Winchester uses a train-car analogy that make a fine clear image of what happens when it generates an earthquake. And as for timing – he brings forth a persuasive argument that another slippage is overdue and likely to occur at any time, but fairly certainly within the next quarter-century or so.

I was disappointed with the inside of the dustjacket – which cleverly unfolds the way that the jacket for The Map That Changed The World does. However, whereas the “Map” jacket had a large depiction of William Smith’s beautiful map of the geology of England and Scotland, the inside of this jacket has only reproductions of some of the disaster scenes from the San Francisco earthquake. Larger renditions of the endpaper maps of the North American Plate and of American earthquakes and volcanoes (and the author’s route), plus a better “close up” of the San Andreas fault itself, would have been far more informative.

Meanwhile, I’m not taking the ground beneath my feet for granted any longer.

How to Enjoy a Snowy Day

2008-01-27T18:11:00.000-08:00

Snow was forecast, and snow it did. It's not all that usual for us to have more than an inch or two here in the southern Willamette Valley of Oregon, but this time it was a good five inches up here on the hill.

For some reason we got very little done today - never mind that we didn't want to drive anyplace - it was just that the snow falling in fat wet flakes was so lovely to watch from the windows.

It did feel odd not to see children out playing in it - we used to see them sledding on the steep street across from us, making snowmen, tossing snowballs. Finally in mid-afternoon the kids across the street started rolling around in it. They never accomplished a snowman though.

Gary went out to knock snow from the shrubs and small trees - it was so wet and heavy that it was bending them down. He was kind of like a kid out there, messing around in it. When he didn't come in I went out to look for him. Poor guy - he stayed out there to enjoy it for a tad too long....