tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37434293874662661002024-03-18T21:12:46.768-07:00Deb GouldA blog full of bits of historical information, comments & observations, photographs (old and new), oddball ramblings and other totally random stuff.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.comBlogger161125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-46906278439749105402017-08-11T08:07:00.000-07:002017-08-11T08:07:54.519-07:00THOSE CABINETS....<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>In the infamous liquor boxes I’ve got stashed
in the upstairs closet, there must be fifty or so of those wonderful cabinet
shots—those stiff, cardboard photographs of some of my stiff ancestors posed in
various photographic studios. I love the props—the chairs and tables, the
fences and sofas—that those photographers used to set up the shots; the
curtained backdrops are dead giveaways, aren’t they?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b> At
any rate, I’ve been looking at the cabinet cards themselves, especially the
photographers’ imprints on the bottom front (and/or back): logo, address, etc.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b> Some
of them are just wonderful…<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>…two front imprints from the studios of
Chickering (on West Street in Boston) and one from Benjamin Freeman in
Somerville, both from the 1880s…<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVuvC1_7mbQod13BYkQKTyh_hUZphsez0lP37gzODW-Nn7hcwOcyTetBBXtYkVcT3sSkXLU6ROBPslvDJ-dqY4OxB41clkP1iwTI5dyscgoiK9VLB2sRt3gEDJv7rvrCWyWph1oxBkdzKI/s1600/IMG_2266.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="216" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVuvC1_7mbQod13BYkQKTyh_hUZphsez0lP37gzODW-Nn7hcwOcyTetBBXtYkVcT3sSkXLU6ROBPslvDJ-dqY4OxB41clkP1iwTI5dyscgoiK9VLB2sRt3gEDJv7rvrCWyWph1oxBkdzKI/s320/IMG_2266.JPG" width="216" /></a></div>
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<b>…and here’s a backside imprint from A.R.
Fowler in Meadville, Pennsylvania (my paternal grandmother came from there…).<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b> Look
at the flowers!!!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>Here’s the backside of a portrait of Emma
Tidd, a friend of my great-grandmother’s, taken by P.H. Rose. He was a very
successful photographer in Providence, Rhode Island; his studio was in the
Conrad building (see illustration) on Westminster Street.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>I’ve got a cabinet shot of my grandfather,
William Wescott Howell, taken in 1884 in Boston at the Ritz & Hastings
studio on Tremont Street. On the backside, there’s a fancy imprint for the
business, and a lengthy inscription written by my great-grandfather on the
occasion.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>For those of you who don’t wish
to stand on your heads, the inscription reads:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b><i>Given to his papa with a kiss one Sunday night in the Library at
Ingleside, Dec. 21<sup>st</sup>, 1884. Willie was 11 years & from June 23<sup>rd</sup>
to Dec. 6<sup>th</sup> Will weighed
Heighth 4 feet 11 ½ inches. The picture was taken in Boston Dec. 6<sup>th</sup>,
1884 on Saturday when we had gone down for the lesson on Violin.<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
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<b><i> </i></b><b>That might be more than we need to know, but
I’m awfully glad to know his “heighth.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-12719517384882602362017-08-05T05:54:00.001-07:002017-08-05T05:54:35.848-07:00The Old Goat...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyb4BUJLwiBZWwMI0wT73UpxZyUAvRfqI48SnLKH3eklOHQNQXxjkvmi1X5OFX13YXW1hkYervUC7ozqPv5gfL1SwVEWDxdb95BUnWHzCEqkLWqRc9ZWqBrTwv8D5f_epe6jqJYvy3MyRI/s1600/IMG_2259.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="255" data-original-width="320" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyb4BUJLwiBZWwMI0wT73UpxZyUAvRfqI48SnLKH3eklOHQNQXxjkvmi1X5OFX13YXW1hkYervUC7ozqPv5gfL1SwVEWDxdb95BUnWHzCEqkLWqRc9ZWqBrTwv8D5f_epe6jqJYvy3MyRI/s400/IMG_2259.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>For what are men better than sheep or goats</b></div>
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<b>That nourish a blind life within the brain...</b></div>
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<b> --Tennyson, <i>The Passing of Arthur</i></b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-81875223762795337892017-07-07T12:07:00.000-07:002017-07-07T12:07:47.994-07:00SWIM & ITCH...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNSsX-s9saU586z9qIQCHfcHjWAKLRAgwcEgMLg05EhOJOKISw1fIqLhAKMZCnZQ1GmytzB53pPKftJIPBbfRO_3QyUWF3NpZQ2-3xf2wiMUIV5POFHqzUK5hSj_5yErP9bcCS7to96vDF/s1600/IMG_2218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="213" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNSsX-s9saU586z9qIQCHfcHjWAKLRAgwcEgMLg05EhOJOKISw1fIqLhAKMZCnZQ1GmytzB53pPKftJIPBbfRO_3QyUWF3NpZQ2-3xf2wiMUIV5POFHqzUK5hSj_5yErP9bcCS7to96vDF/s320/IMG_2218.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<b>Whenever I see one of
those old visual prompts on Sepia Saturday, I know exactly where to go; I grab
a cup of coffee and head up the stairs to the boxes of family memorabilia I’ve
tucked away in a closet up there. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>There’s all kinds of stuff packed into three liquor cartons (nothing
sacred in this family!): letters, cards, programs and playlists; newspapers and
report cards; sports awards, old house keys, maps, photographs…<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b> …and my grandfather’s very first photo
album!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>It’s about 5”x7” and
has gray paper pages gathered and sewn in signatures of five inside a black
leather cover. The paper label in the back says “Ward’s Flexible Albums,” but
there’s not a hint as to when or where it was manufactured; my best guess is
Boston, but I am not certain.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>Inside, there are shots of my grandfather and his younger brothers
(Richard, Allen, Prescott, Howard) and his sister (Margaret). They’re
summertime shots, mostly, taken in East Boothbay, Maine, where the family spent
July and August out of the city heat in the early 1900s.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>These are two of my
favorites: my grandfather (Gardner) is standing on the rocks and one of his
brothers (Allen, I think) is twisting on the board (and that board looks like a
situation of child endangerment to me); another is in the water, but I don’t
know which one.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>But look at the
bathing suits!</b></div>
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<b style="text-indent: 0.5in;">My grandfather told me once that his bathing suit was the most uncomfortable
thing he ever wore—said it was made partly of wool, and when it got wet, it
itched like fury!</b></div>
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<b>That itching was bad enough, but he wasn’t allowed to scratch “in
certain places” for fear of offending the ladies…<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>“So it was swim and itch,” he said, grinning. “Swim and itch!”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-30527698849819425202017-05-26T05:28:00.001-07:002017-05-26T05:28:28.065-07:00BASEBALL CARD...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Name: </b>Deborah H. Gould<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Year of Birth: </b>1946<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Height: </b>45.6 <b>Weight:
</b>39.5<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Bats: </b>Right <b>Throws:
</b>Right<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Batting Average: </b>285<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Position(s): </b>Shortstop,
Second Base<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Home Field: </b>Boston,
MA<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Uniform: <o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Red Ball Jets<o:p></o:p></div>
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Regulation jeans<o:p></o:p></div>
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Plaid flannel shirt<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cap<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Favorite Team: </b>Boston
Red Sox<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-46730204940394307092017-05-06T06:19:00.000-07:002017-05-06T06:19:34.621-07:00THE TOURAINE, BOSTON...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQMp0suGvcClZYF3Hxo8IM8v18fCAEh_aIN1J2Ls-Vq226DOcR5QCuOzXbCZ_9RRsf_ecZXymfMC87J90TUiquzDDqWd5YeZDEFFDxNjW9aJQiYidl00G4iXMwaWE7CMhXe3BMxgMl5u9/s1600/IMG_2140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQMp0suGvcClZYF3Hxo8IM8v18fCAEh_aIN1J2Ls-Vq226DOcR5QCuOzXbCZ_9RRsf_ecZXymfMC87J90TUiquzDDqWd5YeZDEFFDxNjW9aJQiYidl00G4iXMwaWE7CMhXe3BMxgMl5u9/s1600/IMG_2140.JPG" /></a></div>
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<b>Ten or so years ago,
I inherited a scrapbook from my mother. She had compiled it in the 1930s when
she lived with her parents and sister in the Boston area. The whole family
loved the theatre (not “theater,” mind you…); they went often, and my mother
pasted programs and flyers into her scrapbook faithfully—a perfect historical
record.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>In 1936 or so, she
went to the Plymouth Theatre (on Stuart Street in Boston) to see “Boy Meets
Girl,” a new play in three acts by Bella and Samuel Spewack; she pasted the
program into her scrapbook—a program that contained advertisements for Boston
eateries, and there were plenty of them: Ye Old Pub (so close to the Plymouth
Theatre that they had a 2-minute curtain bell installed at the bar); Ye Old
Oyster House (right next door); the Copley Square Hotel bar; the Blue Room at the
Hotel Westminster, the Embassy…<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b> …you went to the theatre, you went out
for a drink and/or a bite to eat afterwards.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b> That’s just what you did.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>One of my mother’s
favorite places to go after a performance was the Hotel Touraine, a residential
hotel on the corner of Tremont and Boylston Streets in the theater district of
Boston—a big brick and limestone building with a café and bar.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Café Royal had
luncheon plates for 55 cents; dinners cost 75 cents, and were served from 5
until closing. The Touraine also had (according to this flyer) “the most
beautiful cocktail bar in Boston,” although in November of 1936, my mother was
barely seventeen years old, so I doubt she was cruising the tables.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTr58vle5ubgYe4yjEC2BmvvCku527Kf4Un1gtOGydG6gREdcXIxBfWkO2m-wRsuJbxzxbYlEiD_wexXSgnX85KeIGpucB8xyFJ4Iqi-lg9p2ebVDVKhsViX1bQvQtxmqy7a91l-AqP9tv/s1600/IMG_2147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTr58vle5ubgYe4yjEC2BmvvCku527Kf4Un1gtOGydG6gREdcXIxBfWkO2m-wRsuJbxzxbYlEiD_wexXSgnX85KeIGpucB8xyFJ4Iqi-lg9p2ebVDVKhsViX1bQvQtxmqy7a91l-AqP9tv/s200/IMG_2147.JPG" width="189" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>One of her possessions was a coffee server from the Hotel Touraine…I have no idea how she
got it (I can’t, in my wildest moments, believe she actually might have stolen
it). It’s heavy silverplate; it has “Hotel Touraine” and a manufacturing number
stamped on the bottom.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> I keep it in my dining room, polish it
faithfully.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">As for Boston’s Hotel
Touraine, it closed in 1966 and was converted into an apartment building</span></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-26465033164787747512017-04-29T05:07:00.000-07:002017-04-29T05:07:12.984-07:00CLOTHESPINS....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQs9uDxF3Z0LsD9s6yGALAW-0rd2FfbwR9ZM6dpIZ-elDtFCCUZ7Ve60jdWHK3XMBJ_-9Q7mt_rR2-NXFhlLu8ntnhrX7pcqP6AbeBzjhQTmEi18wfGHy-SEMWW5QQjqOCQJF9-q2F1i9f/s1600/IMG_0253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQs9uDxF3Z0LsD9s6yGALAW-0rd2FfbwR9ZM6dpIZ-elDtFCCUZ7Ve60jdWHK3XMBJ_-9Q7mt_rR2-NXFhlLu8ntnhrX7pcqP6AbeBzjhQTmEi18wfGHy-SEMWW5QQjqOCQJF9-q2F1i9f/s1600/IMG_0253.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>In the beginning, women
just spread wet laundry over their fence rails or the shrubs in the back yard;
at dinner time (noon, on a New England farm) they went outside and flipped
everything over. Laundry lines appeared, tied between trees, from the sides of
barns to the corner fencepost, etc.; women draped things over the lines, but had
to keep a sharp eye on the wind—your laundry could be all over the dooryard in
a matter of minutes.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>And so there were
clothespins…<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>The first were simply short pieces of sticks with a split in the
middle. They worked fine until the stick split completely; some enterprising
woman wrapped the top ends tightly in wet twine—when the twine dried, it
tightened, making a solid top that split less often.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>In the 1840s, there was a rush of clothespin ideas; inventors played
around with length and width, choice of wood (oak, cedar, ash). There was a three-pronged
design, which stuck on the line with two prongs on one side of the rope, one
prong on the other—a sort of modified paper clip!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>And in 1853, David M. Smith of Vermont, came up with the first
two-piece, spring clamped clothes pin; it could not “be detached from the
clothes by the wind as in the case with the common pin and which is a serious
evil to washerwomen.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I remember my grandmother’s
laundry yard in Boston. It was a fenced-in section of the back yard (it was
considered improper to have your laundry hanging in full view of the neighbors—goodness’
sake, they might see your underwear!). It had, as I remember, six laundry lines
that overhung a series of boardwalks; access was from the laundry room door in
the basement.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I loved the laundry
room—it was warm, smelled of yellow bar soap, powdered Ivory Flakes and bleach;
there was a shelf of colorful boxes and cans and a cloth bag of pins that
dangled from a hook near the back door; several wicker baskets; it had a
soapstone double sink big enough to get into when I was about five or six.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>So, down the back
stairs from the kitchen to the laundry room, out the door into the laundry
yard; I remember sheets hanging nearly to my knees—bright, white-walled tunnels—and
the blue sky up over my head; I remember running up and down the boardwalks, my
Red Ball Jet sneakers going <i>whop-whop-whop</i>
on the wooden slats.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Oh, the smell of those
line-dried sheets!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-69107308231041167082017-04-22T05:17:00.000-07:002017-04-22T05:17:24.994-07:00UMBIES....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSUDeCfxfakpiBD6m9c6qCE2JV2jr5bku8FKSdaHcFkHZNdh1q4kIlVxjbFnDrlXTsyTrTKS_ZMzg5UqAavpvAKIu6GQiiZBX3vcFSXDnm2LzjXFBBqDpwYQySwXXbeC2t5aDKBaSf7-1R/s1600/IMG_2130.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSUDeCfxfakpiBD6m9c6qCE2JV2jr5bku8FKSdaHcFkHZNdh1q4kIlVxjbFnDrlXTsyTrTKS_ZMzg5UqAavpvAKIu6GQiiZBX3vcFSXDnm2LzjXFBBqDpwYQySwXXbeC2t5aDKBaSf7-1R/s1600/IMG_2130.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I have a collection
of canes and umbrellas packed into a ceramic stand; it’s nestled in the corner
of my living room, tucked up near the front door. There’s my father’s old
cane—a rubber-tipped number he used for security as he got older; my great-aunt’s
hiking cane (she scrambled all over Switzerland with it in the 1920s!); there’s
even the cane I used for a month or so after my hip replacement nearly five
years ago.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>And there’s the two umbrellas (“umbies,” my parents called them!): my
father’s somber black, and my mother’s playful light-green one—it’s covered
with frogs in various shades of green, brown and rust!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Umbrella (Latin root
“umbra” for “shade”).<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>The first recorded use of umbrellas was about 3,500 years ago in Egypt,
where umbrellas were used for protection from the sun (so the name makes
perfect sense here). They were nothing fancy; think palm leaves stuck to a
stick and fanned out for maximum coverage!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Later on, the Chinese (who made multi-tiered paper umbrellas to help
identify members of a multi-tiered society) figured out how to apply wax to the
paper umbrella—and then it shed rainwater!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Early English umbrellas were made with wooden or baleen ribs, covered
with canvas; steel ribs came in around 1850, and in 1880, Robert W. Patten
invented an umbrella hat; in the 1920s, somebody invented a “pocket umbrella.” <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>For little rainstorms, I assume.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizJFYnxIBmYNDf2hXrVhMAmSJZ8Nff-URF6CgcRLvMDvrdW5GNftB9682gF14Wc5PgFPURpY4nz6MikT4plLb3Y6G7h14Neckw6YQclnGtgkAjRXJJ9j4DzFZNs1sjwGLK6tJEuQf_qaG3/s1600/IMG_2133.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizJFYnxIBmYNDf2hXrVhMAmSJZ8Nff-URF6CgcRLvMDvrdW5GNftB9682gF14Wc5PgFPURpY4nz6MikT4plLb3Y6G7h14Neckw6YQclnGtgkAjRXJJ9j4DzFZNs1sjwGLK6tJEuQf_qaG3/s320/IMG_2133.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Here’s an early
Montgomery Ward catalog offer:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>“Fancy, all silk umbrellas; amber color straight bakelite handle and
trim; or a new Punjab (light tan) with hooked handle, tips and end. Navy blue,
green, red, purple, brown, black. Rich fine silk with wrist cord in matching
color. Fashionable 16-rib gold color frame and wood rod.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> And, oh! A scarf to match your
umbrella (on right)…for another $2.10, please!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb8dft-_odmERUlAsyz9tIGjaEg3r3JuKS7RJNDiJTfM7iLP53ulFuFfFZPiw9M1YEkNBxQpre8MCVUfPg42uZoW0Iu_tak_zMlAtWTizSyLn4EgLPJrVK92KyZwMdpn_SbF1UcKtxJCWI/s1600/IMG_2134.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb8dft-_odmERUlAsyz9tIGjaEg3r3JuKS7RJNDiJTfM7iLP53ulFuFfFZPiw9M1YEkNBxQpre8MCVUfPg42uZoW0Iu_tak_zMlAtWTizSyLn4EgLPJrVK92KyZwMdpn_SbF1UcKtxJCWI/s1600/IMG_2134.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Not to be outdone, Sears,
Roebuck & Co. came up with this:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>“Genuine imported Swiss Gloria, a lustrous silk and cotton fabric
(generally known as silk and linen). 16-rib style. Gold color frame, wood rod,
‘Tearose’ handle, stub end, tips to match. Two-tone colors: Brown, navy blue,
purple, green, red or black with white combination and silver color frame.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>All that for $5.00.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Yowser!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-84885480499627972992017-04-15T07:10:00.000-07:002017-04-15T07:10:22.289-07:00TWO CHILDREN....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBAYW0EKmUAIQEb_214GpE1y9XE042Z8hBZIwq2IpzvKoe1lWHo9UIr2XKqxFCMRJS26uRJj72Rt5R86MVjvtfHWfz-_EhpKNx0zLcwhF9bYXhoUYTp_lYVmwx1DA_wEstCfu9TFhyAnYH/s1600/IMG_2128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBAYW0EKmUAIQEb_214GpE1y9XE042Z8hBZIwq2IpzvKoe1lWHo9UIr2XKqxFCMRJS26uRJj72Rt5R86MVjvtfHWfz-_EhpKNx0zLcwhF9bYXhoUYTp_lYVmwx1DA_wEstCfu9TFhyAnYH/s1600/IMG_2128.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>When I was sifting
through old photographs the other day, I was struck by the fact that I’ve got a
lot of photos of children: children in sets and clusters of two, three, four and
more; children sitting on front steps, at picnic tables; boys in pup tents,
wearing scout uniforms; girls in rowboats wearing little white blouses and camp
kerchiefs; boys AND girls posed next to their bicycles.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Most of those
children grew up to be my grandparents or my great aunts and uncles; two of
them grew up to become my parents; seven are first cousins…one of those
children grew up to be me!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I digress.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>This is a photo of my
mother and my aunt in the front walkway of my grandparents’ first house on Kirk
Street in Boston; Martha (left) and Hope Howell (my mother is the younger). </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>On the back of the photo, in my mother’s
handwriting, it says “circa 1924.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I asked her once
about the date.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> “I know it was 1924 or earlier,” she said, “because
my parents bought the house on Eliot Street, right near Jamaica Pond, in 1925—this
is definitely the Kirk Street house.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>She remembered
clearly the trellis for the roses, the wooden steps, the big rhododendron; she
remembered being told to hold Hope’s hand in a gesture of sibling
companionship.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>“I was mad about
that,” she told me, grinning. “I wanted to be on my own.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-57404658813751761342017-04-08T06:06:00.000-07:002017-04-08T06:06:39.749-07:00CHANT....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFgnpttrIpopgLLM1gKSW2LDN7hgsKtVpXRE_ffrHOKqTspSkGGEWKc324xShSrObY3DaJA4-xbTDdLKIC_s9C4lASXfcywxo2rgtChip384L-Q6zGAQaEW5VRHd5366JNovru1cq0ScpZ/s1600/IMG_2125.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFgnpttrIpopgLLM1gKSW2LDN7hgsKtVpXRE_ffrHOKqTspSkGGEWKc324xShSrObY3DaJA4-xbTDdLKIC_s9C4lASXfcywxo2rgtChip384L-Q6zGAQaEW5VRHd5366JNovru1cq0ScpZ/s1600/IMG_2125.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I found it in a flea
market, tucked away in a broken-down cardboard box that was shoved halfway beneath
a display table.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>What caught my eye was a corner of an old newspaper—and I’ve <i>always</i> been a newsprint fan—so I pulled the
box out into the aisle, sat down on the floor and went through every magazine,
newspaper, booklet, and folded broadside inside.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> There was a lot of it: a few editions
of the Boston <i>Transcript,</i> some 1930s <i>Good Housekeeping</i> magazines; there were
some old Shubert Theatre and Boston Symphony Orchestra programs. It all had
that particular smell that old paper carries…<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I found this on the
very bottom, the last piece of ephemera in the stack.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> Miraculously, it was not distressed;
there were no folds, no rips, no smears or smudges—kept flat and safe for years
at the bottom of this old cardboard box. I recognized Gregorian Chant notation:
four clef lines, single note <i>(punctum)</i>,
two stacked notes <i>(podatus); </i>although
I had no idea what any of it meant (my high school Latin long gone, long gone…).</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I fell in love with it…bought it on the spot.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> Five dollars.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I had it matted,
framed; it now hangs in my study.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I’ve always thought
that one of the most powerful moments in human history must have been when two (or
more) people realized they could sing together—sing as one rather than
independently; they must have found the sense of unification and community that
still draws us together today.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Raise your voices
high!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-55884621576952379842017-04-01T05:27:00.001-07:002017-04-01T05:27:11.870-07:00MAINE APRIL FOOL....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnxB2yDDUkGG96PEj-1f4J7IbRs8C4VaxueSROgKPLzeVc0guPLf5EI6eqak2TRXkz46yX4arivvwCUnawPQn6DPR8s-STbkpDs3gk5_lUfe6bDbGLC-vBxRBydLXAT4FB8OeSO6OS4omZ/s1600/IMG_2122.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnxB2yDDUkGG96PEj-1f4J7IbRs8C4VaxueSROgKPLzeVc0guPLf5EI6eqak2TRXkz46yX4arivvwCUnawPQn6DPR8s-STbkpDs3gk5_lUfe6bDbGLC-vBxRBydLXAT4FB8OeSO6OS4omZ/s400/IMG_2122.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-48060694411871172592017-02-24T06:27:00.000-08:002017-02-24T06:27:02.513-08:00ELIZABETH RICHARDSON GOULD...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwxy__jGooHQaj3bjiuzi7mqQMDCaqOaC9GZTjuM54mPSTiPeOU5eve51wiZoX_Q6ALLEXKKkxtPjZOnQ9doHZPpSf3GC6HDTQJPLeHadeioEyd7ecU3oiMo36u8gMFIIjBDnsqRdtR1nH/s1600/IMG_2117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwxy__jGooHQaj3bjiuzi7mqQMDCaqOaC9GZTjuM54mPSTiPeOU5eve51wiZoX_Q6ALLEXKKkxtPjZOnQ9doHZPpSf3GC6HDTQJPLeHadeioEyd7ecU3oiMo36u8gMFIIjBDnsqRdtR1nH/s1600/IMG_2117.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I’ve always loved
this painting.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>It was in my grandfather’s house; my father remembered it hanging in
his bedroom when he was growing up. At some point, my father inherited it from
his parents, and I from him.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>It’s on the west wall of my guest bedroom; the light yellow walls pick
up the soft greens and yellows and browns of the grasses and fall leaves; the mountains
rise high in the background—strong gray and blue under a pale sky.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>I’m pretty sure it’s someplace in New Hampshire—the mountains look
right to me (for those of you who don’t know, the mountains in New Hampshire
have a particular shape and heft, a sense of self that’s unmistakable).</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV11UTYosJi0-8Tu4bHL97mMfo0k6f7lJ1ugdExYls45jI944IARAXwC0rMCFsYqspHFXbcuihmp4EBeZuRiOLa1sUzCZ2sgG8H4XSBeKjeQAttfnCSTCQQMcUQuB6A5SlRSrbrRXai9oJ/s1600/IMG_2115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV11UTYosJi0-8Tu4bHL97mMfo0k6f7lJ1ugdExYls45jI944IARAXwC0rMCFsYqspHFXbcuihmp4EBeZuRiOLa1sUzCZ2sgG8H4XSBeKjeQAttfnCSTCQQMcUQuB6A5SlRSrbrRXai9oJ/s1600/IMG_2115.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Elizabeth Della Richardson was born in (English) Canada in 1887; by 1910,
she was a naturalized citizen, married to my great-great uncle Melvin W. Gould,
Jr. living in Manchester, NH, first in a rented house, but soon in a house they
owned on Maple Street. Elizabeth’s mother, a widow, lived with them.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Melvin was a foreman in a shoe factory—a good job for a man who had
only one year of high school education; Elizabeth, a college graduate, was “at
home.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>And while “at home,” she painted.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Beautifully.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-24479762166945368502017-02-11T05:49:00.000-08:002017-02-11T05:49:16.643-08:00SHELLS...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJSW4d9AR4sfJTg13VjoZFJ7gKU3nqg7cd78PFK-imjnkfAAB_bZejPYlpKDIWq-bTqctLXIJL5SUjnQ1gm5AvQvE_ecUUcX9O77S1cOZrENXiCco-DUfy7dmUMOP38wignxW7QToRThG/s1600/IMG_2102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJSW4d9AR4sfJTg13VjoZFJ7gKU3nqg7cd78PFK-imjnkfAAB_bZejPYlpKDIWq-bTqctLXIJL5SUjnQ1gm5AvQvE_ecUUcX9O77S1cOZrENXiCco-DUfy7dmUMOP38wignxW7QToRThG/s1600/IMG_2102.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Found this photo the
other day; it took me by surprise!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> It also took me back fifty years…<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Look at all those shells!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>It must have been the
1960s – in my hippie days, when Vietnam was raging, the civil rights movement
was on the rise, and I was idealistic enough to believe that my generation
could put an end to all that horrific injustice and inequality by embracing
values of love and peace, of inclusiveness and acceptance.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Just look at it! <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>A peace sign (for those of you not old enough to remember that symbol).<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>I had a pair of Peace earrings that I wore occasionally – they were too
heavy to wear every day; I gave an old boyfriend a silver Peace medallion – he wore
it around his neck on a silver chain; when I was living on the farm, we had a Jersey
cow so sweet and gentle that we riveted a leather Peace sign to her collar –
when she died, we nailed it (collar and all) to a maple in the eastern tree
line where she used to stand in the shade on hot summer days.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>As I said, I was
idealistic then.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>But not any more.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> I’m older now, a shade wiser, and I
understand that everything I have fought for in the last fifty years is on very
shaky ground.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>I am struggling to maintain my balance in a country I cannot recognize
as my own, a country where the ideals of equality, justice, and working for the
common good have been abandoned to sustain the financial and personal gain of
the very few.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>It’s an empty place,
an empty shell.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Resist.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-14701200595276923672017-02-04T08:27:00.000-08:002017-02-04T08:27:23.287-08:00ON STAIRS....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCC4tcwhT6n-4OVqeD2QR5sSUKvKgUZkJqdsT2BcJ6wI_VTJWyN-WF6jBvKuG1S3mALV-3gqOlg0xxIoC2iOjq3dYNNfo5yG7rco-mcZvv8J3-FH85WaHXJMcQNMUC46vWzwP9k3zNP0gH/s1600/IMG_2098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCC4tcwhT6n-4OVqeD2QR5sSUKvKgUZkJqdsT2BcJ6wI_VTJWyN-WF6jBvKuG1S3mALV-3gqOlg0xxIoC2iOjq3dYNNfo5yG7rco-mcZvv8J3-FH85WaHXJMcQNMUC46vWzwP9k3zNP0gH/s1600/IMG_2098.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>There are bookcases
in my living room—an upper level of five shelves that go up to the ceiling
stacked over a lower level of countertop with shelves underneath. The bottom
section has matching latticed doors that I keep shuttered at all times because it’s
always incredibly messy in there.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Every so often, I
open the doors and clean things up. I sort through photos, jigsaw puzzles,
board games, old packs of cards, books that are too big to stack on the upper
shelves, old records, etc. I pack things to donate to charity, shove others in
trash bags to hit the curb on collection day; I also end up putting things back
into the cupboards—things I’m just not ready to part with yet.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I stumbled across my 1966
college yearbook the other day.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>I poured a cup of coffee and thumbed through: page after page of young
women who looked remarkably alike…page boy hairstyles, knee-high socks, plaid
skirts, wool sweaters, Peter Pan collars and the occasional turtleneck. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>We weren’t quite “Barbies,” but it was mighty close!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I digress.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Anyway, as I was
looking through the photos, I noticed that the school photographer had taken <i>all</i> our class group photos on stairways—page
after page of sequences of young women posed (alphabetically, by surname; we’re
of so little importance that we don’t even have first names) on stairways, one
after the other, all lined up like little Stepford Wives, hands on the railing.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>We are all the same.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>The caption reads: <i>D. Gould, W.
Gillingham, E. Grant, L. Goldey, D. Gannet, N. Glesmann, K. Gardner, C. Givens.<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>And there I am, at twenty years old, standing on the bottom step.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> I am so young that it makes me ache...<o:p></o:p></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-2388379745547106372017-01-28T06:15:00.001-08:002017-01-28T06:15:47.115-08:00THE VOICE....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqfVK9o9kBeujLKHarutpuo8w6T0Wf6oHVpR-a6aB5E0_LyJrE5v08ejMNwJv6bzdeB3IVSMDb1BE6mju_RN9Fq06yF68dgk8AWR8iMSExj73Qb8Hi549ku_QgSPknMMtCAiyjdKrNCl44/s1600/IMG_2092.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqfVK9o9kBeujLKHarutpuo8w6T0Wf6oHVpR-a6aB5E0_LyJrE5v08ejMNwJv6bzdeB3IVSMDb1BE6mju_RN9Fq06yF68dgk8AWR8iMSExj73Qb8Hi549ku_QgSPknMMtCAiyjdKrNCl44/s320/IMG_2092.JPG" width="234" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Voice.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>My father adored her.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>He joined the Navy in
1940 with dreams of becoming a pilot; he had his flight training in
Jacksonville, Florida. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>After successfully completing flight school, he flew transport planes
for the US Navy during the war, hopping between Miami and Rio every few days.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> Before he married my mother, he lived in
a small house in Miami with three other US Navy pilots and a chimpanzee named
Violet (she’s a whole different story), a charismatic group of flyboys who
spent their evenings in the bars and nightclubs of Miami, slamming down drinks,
appreciating the women and listening to jazz and swing bands that toured the
area…Basie, Goodman, Dorsey, etc.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>And then along came Ella
Fitzgerald.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The first time he
heard her sing, my father was transported.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>He spent an entire night at a little table in a nightclub, smoking
Chesterfields, sipping Manhattans and listening to a voice that left him
speechless.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>When she took a break between sets, my father (emboldened, I’m sure, by
the alcohol), approached her, asked if he could buy her a drink.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>She said yes.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>He never could
remember what she had to drink; he remembered her eyes and her laugh and her
voice.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Voice.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-11643948470222957242017-01-22T08:06:00.002-08:002017-01-22T11:51:06.546-08:00ROXANNA ADAMS WILDER SABIN...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLBgcZqj2c5msVad9C6qhAP73e0g4kzw_ZBDuVOz9eSTsdc1N1Ue5BEYwU4NB-UX8si9QaCWC2FmNN-VUgW9oLmE889RfYGiAGl9KFeiIDZnjU9hbw3otw0SMgQAIu33NVZQNzXZ88ScPY/s1600/scan0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLBgcZqj2c5msVad9C6qhAP73e0g4kzw_ZBDuVOz9eSTsdc1N1Ue5BEYwU4NB-UX8si9QaCWC2FmNN-VUgW9oLmE889RfYGiAGl9KFeiIDZnjU9hbw3otw0SMgQAIu33NVZQNzXZ88ScPY/s320/scan0002.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I’m fascinated by seeing photographs of people
as they grow, as they mature; there’s something magical about this aging
process.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Here’s two photographs of my great-great grandmother,
Roxanna Adams Wilder Sabin, 1832-1926.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The first shot is Roxanna at 1850 or so, just
before her marriage; the second was taken at Newton Upper Falls, Massachusetts,
shortly before she died in 1926.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Here’s the story:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>When Roxanna’s mother died, she and her
siblings were taken in by relatives (a common practice back in the early
1800s). Roxanna was placed with childless aunt who was, unfortunately, married
to a man who wasn’t particularly fond of children; he eventually tired of the
situation and took her to the Poor Farm and left her there.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> The
entire community was outraged. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>A man named Prescott Wilder rescued
her from the Poor Farm, took her home; he and his wife raised her. She grew up
as Roxanna Wilder, even though Prescott Wilder never officially adopted her.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyhMJV7IMaELf0Sv5TZMtc2xg60bMwiw5w6U6exm6kGZKJ7WQdJfJB_MwASxBk5KLNZUcLHJSiyX1CPfLuXnvt1IdJxc6seyYJ7oJgTVrTnUPsLkqXEfkeg0kv2G5lUg90yKi7XHN2bHy2/s1600/IMG_0904.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyhMJV7IMaELf0Sv5TZMtc2xg60bMwiw5w6U6exm6kGZKJ7WQdJfJB_MwASxBk5KLNZUcLHJSiyX1CPfLuXnvt1IdJxc6seyYJ7oJgTVrTnUPsLkqXEfkeg0kv2G5lUg90yKi7XHN2bHy2/s320/IMG_0904.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Roxanna married Lucius Sabin in
1851. They lived in Ashburnham and Gardner, Massachusetts; they had four
children: Lucius (Lute) Wilder Sabin, Frances Taylor Sabin (my paternal
great-grandmother), Edwin Alonzo Sabin and Ethel Wheeler Sabin.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>One of the things I love about these two photographs is the pose -- hand to the cheek, etc. I wonder if it was intentional?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>To see what other people have found to match this young/old theme, visit Sepia Saturday, a blog that calls for others "to share their history through the medium of photographs."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>To see what others have posted, visit</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>http://www.sepiasaturday.blogspot.com</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-1563980538517894752016-12-25T06:07:00.002-08:002016-12-25T06:07:41.201-08:00DECEMBER 25...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgySYwPSYiO6Hf8cgpKt0_uXcFOsI4OdOX8LDGOQjVtjJzaHOI6mBotzcF5OhUaBZC_4rVA28NWCFAOxxdhpk_nUfOEgbp63U57s1vUnMX9Pmy28toBlP7bCIswSvJAgRJBM2VwbwKI3Fmq/s1600/IMG_2068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgySYwPSYiO6Hf8cgpKt0_uXcFOsI4OdOX8LDGOQjVtjJzaHOI6mBotzcF5OhUaBZC_4rVA28NWCFAOxxdhpk_nUfOEgbp63U57s1vUnMX9Pmy28toBlP7bCIswSvJAgRJBM2VwbwKI3Fmq/s640/IMG_2068.JPG" width="408" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-10069316191398886662016-12-17T07:51:00.000-08:002016-12-17T07:51:44.278-08:00CHRISTMAS GLASSWARE...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBgDaJ75Kn4wgsBN5n4ld0mVoxZDV-c0C_6MbTGdwBamsWhDrBf0AC6MfQ-Pqw8LVYQeHGiPDj-MIoz9HomMHE_DhIHmmh1GNuPJLGYF41so0P6hTVgoVi1Q0UURYfB_rMeSJ2m2ZMDrDf/s1600/IMG_2059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBgDaJ75Kn4wgsBN5n4ld0mVoxZDV-c0C_6MbTGdwBamsWhDrBf0AC6MfQ-Pqw8LVYQeHGiPDj-MIoz9HomMHE_DhIHmmh1GNuPJLGYF41so0P6hTVgoVi1Q0UURYfB_rMeSJ2m2ZMDrDf/s320/IMG_2059.JPG" width="165" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Christmas dinner in Boston was a mighty affair!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Grandparents, aunts and uncles, a
bunch of cousins—even a few great-uncles (one in particular who was a lawyer;
he was slightly on the shady side and smoked little cigarettes—my grandmother
ran around after him holding a tiny silver tray just in case he wavered,
spilled his ash).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember dressing up: little white socks with scalloped
top edges and what we used to call Mary Jane shoes—black patent leather with a
strap over the instep – dreadful things, but fancy enough for small children (they
were named for Buster Brown’s sweetheart in the old comic series!).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a crinoline
and a taffeta dress, too – it itched like fury, but it was gorgeous – it
changed color whenever the fabric moved. I was fascinated by that
color-changing bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a
matching ribbon for a headband.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dining room had two big windows along the outside wall; on
the inside wall, opposite the windows, there were two doors into the hallway.
There was a pantry, too, off one end—a magical space full of various sets of
china; dinner plates and luncheon plates and butter and dessert plates; cups
and bowls; drawers of silver (all wrapped in maroon or gray flannel
protectors); all manner and kind of table accessories!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The table
itself?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A
centerpiece, of course; candles and place settings: Two forks (salad fork,
dinner fork), two knives (salad and meat) and a couple of spoons (teaspoon,
soup spoon). (“Work from the outside in,” my mother coached us.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes a desert fork and spoon placed horizontally above
the dinner plate, one pointing left, one pointing right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Little bread plate to the left,
with a bread knife across; silver salts with blue glass insides and tiny little
spoons—oh, how I loved those tiny silver spoons; I imagined little people
scooping salt from them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And the biggest napkins I’d ever
seen – blazing white, with my grandmother’s initials in the corner (VMH); not a
stain on them, although I can’t imagine how that happened—probably due to Annie
Sagan’s hard work in the laundry room downstairs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi355VghfeIEWT5K9H9hMjPMALl0llogGBdkygeBnvVtTyH0eawHkkn3S64LJNU8S15w246tc40kiR7xQpoJeI8liRg1kAwAJsDA_hcoHCYzDJ_9PE_3BQFxm1mHBnz_kf6pzqQUQK1PNDL/s1600/IMG_2060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi355VghfeIEWT5K9H9hMjPMALl0llogGBdkygeBnvVtTyH0eawHkkn3S64LJNU8S15w246tc40kiR7xQpoJeI8liRg1kAwAJsDA_hcoHCYzDJ_9PE_3BQFxm1mHBnz_kf6pzqQUQK1PNDL/s200/IMG_2060.JPG" width="185" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the glassware!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Crystal wine glasses with a tapered
rim, a shaped stem and full bowl, with cut starburst and ivy pattern…after
dinner my father would set all the glasses in a row, wet his finger and run it
around the rims of the bowls, make the glassware sing!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It was magic to me back then; it is
magic to me now.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-31117781612261558712016-12-10T07:25:00.000-08:002016-12-10T07:25:37.944-08:00SNOWMEN...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg42j1GNBgI77o9mr8w_dxU_KlTyGv5hWmzdXucSlNdQedIVd-YmECgQlea52d1AQOI858slwJB1izvamNLSJhSDyb-P521dpE1ZOcTvy1nh-eE5XI3gZ60FNX0YATI3IpAge7J3Cx9Unhv/s1600/IMG_2023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg42j1GNBgI77o9mr8w_dxU_KlTyGv5hWmzdXucSlNdQedIVd-YmECgQlea52d1AQOI858slwJB1izvamNLSJhSDyb-P521dpE1ZOcTvy1nh-eE5XI3gZ60FNX0YATI3IpAge7J3Cx9Unhv/s320/IMG_2023.JPG" width="281" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Time passes…<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> …and we’ve had our first snow here in
Maine!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>A few inches fell the other day. It was barely enough to shovel, but
shovel we did—the sound of neighbors working at sweeping their cars and
clearing their drives and walkways is nearly musical to me. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>I took a break, stood at the end of my driveway and just listened.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Although I choose to
ignore the religious trappings and crass commercialism that dominate our lives
at this time of year, I still find promise in a few traditions from my
childhood—a very few, to be sure, but ones that give me small pleasure.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>And speaking of
“promise,” here’s one kept: another shot of the wonderful calendar I found for
this year.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Here’s the snowman.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>He’s refreshingly
traditional!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> He’s got a black top hat (with a bright
red band), coal buttons and a carrot nose; he’s got a scarf, knotted jauntily
around his non-existent neck! <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>When I was little, we used to stick tree branches in his sides to make
arms; the little twigs at the ends made fantastic fingers! We never had a top
hat, but used instead one of my father’s fedoras or the real bomber hat he wore
during his stint flying for the US Navy during WWII—an old, fur-lined, moth-eaten
horror that resembled a dead rodent; my mother threatened to throw it away for
years.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>She never did, though; she knew what was important.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgilYGbmmVPJ_66v04dt5cmuvaYpqf2UL15_EP_L1BI0guerpWbmEwMQdd26Gt3CpvKac0JL4FEzaOmq7AohXx0weTMO7FAXuXhNS05U874ZpPEtGaqzgkRnvgHXtu1csG6vdAdWuGC-Jm8/s1600/IMG_2029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgilYGbmmVPJ_66v04dt5cmuvaYpqf2UL15_EP_L1BI0guerpWbmEwMQdd26Gt3CpvKac0JL4FEzaOmq7AohXx0weTMO7FAXuXhNS05U874ZpPEtGaqzgkRnvgHXtu1csG6vdAdWuGC-Jm8/s320/IMG_2029.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> </b><b>I opened the little
door for December 8 right after I took the picture of the snowman: here’s the
inside.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Those eight tiny reindeer: “Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen; Comet,
Cupid, Donder, Blitzen…” (If you’re from Boston, by the way, those names are second
to those of Robert McCloskey’s famous ducklings: Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack,
Ouack, Pack and Quack).<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>On Christmas Eve, we
used to leave a bowl of dog kibble for those reindeer, right next to Santa’s
Budweiser and Ritz crackers with cheese—my father always told us that Santa
liked stopping at our house better than any other house in Maine, thanks to our
creative snack offerings!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>He was right, I’m
sure.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-8391349523882335652016-12-03T06:26:00.000-08:002016-12-03T06:26:07.213-08:00WAITING...<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I’m a lapsed <u>everything</u>
these days.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>I’ve lapsed to the point of having an atheist sticker slapped on the
backside of my Toyota Yaris.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>There’s no coming back from that.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Still, there are
shreds of my childhood that come soaring back to me at this time of year, and I’ve
learned to hold them dear: the brass angels that flew in a circle above the
lighted candles and rang little bells as they passed by; the snowflake patterns
we cut from folded pieces of paper and taped to the front windows of our house;
the smell of spruce cuttings; the branches of bright blood-red winterberries arranged
in a floor vase in our front hall.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid3Ra0oV3Hd_ZUZ_fq5-7BzoIG-hjpspl3DDzdaXx0dkanEOGqwY6mpSD3wVY7KKUd2rCTDzaydHTj2aRPYvbMOxlKru2bOYb-8S_OFGJqYW-7AckquBWJ7FqLLNXB2ttHhZGfKsuTTF7P/s1600/IMG_2012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid3Ra0oV3Hd_ZUZ_fq5-7BzoIG-hjpspl3DDzdaXx0dkanEOGqwY6mpSD3wVY7KKUd2rCTDzaydHTj2aRPYvbMOxlKru2bOYb-8S_OFGJqYW-7AckquBWJ7FqLLNXB2ttHhZGfKsuTTF7P/s320/IMG_2012.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>And advent calendars.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> I remember the ritual each December
morning: searching for the little numbers on the little doors, lifting the flap
and opening it wide to find a small surprise within.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>It was part of the magic.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I saw this one in our
local indie bookstore. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>It’s a farm scene: red barn, two-storied farmhouse with green garlands wrapped
around the porch pillars; it’s chock-a-block full of children on sleds and skis
and toboggans and flying saucers (remember those?); there are wreaths hanging
on doors and silos and fenceposts; there’s a cat on the porch, a dog on the
steps and a squirrel in a tree; warm light pours out of all the windows.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>There’s Santa in a sleigh (and his little door is No. 24, of course!). <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>But my favorite part
is the lower right corner.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> A rail fence; two cows—one Jersey, one
a small Holstein—three sheep; a manger full of bright yellow hay; that trio of geese
(the Magi?) parading across the drive; that bright red cardinal on the fence
post.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>They’re all looking
in the same direction, they’re all waiting…<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Advent.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-9068539450841248052016-09-03T13:02:00.000-07:002016-09-03T13:02:05.456-07:00THE CABOT MILL...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisOjfmDejocIMcCMgKUo4MIsKSk01BURdVYY9bwQWklQYrJ-eXyqa7m5xsokYX6wLiU6NHjv-3Q_aRIrp_dBWC7TzWRzWRHi19iy3gPs8fJO5KNZUr0TNR-M5oBlsJsw9O-4_pIjbPrjg_/s1600/IMG_1871.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisOjfmDejocIMcCMgKUo4MIsKSk01BURdVYY9bwQWklQYrJ-eXyqa7m5xsokYX6wLiU6NHjv-3Q_aRIrp_dBWC7TzWRzWRHi19iy3gPs8fJO5KNZUr0TNR-M5oBlsJsw9O-4_pIjbPrjg_/s320/IMG_1871.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It started out in the 1700s as a small trading post, but by
1809 it was known as the Brunswick Cotton Manufacturing Company. The mill,
powered by the Androscoggin River and the falls at Pejepscot, made yarn for
textile manufacturing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It changed its name a few times as
it expanded—Maine Cotton and Woolen Factory, Warumbo Company, and, finally,
Cabot Manufacturing Company. In the
1930s, more than 1,000 people worked in this mill, running the machinery that
produced textiles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In the mid-1950s, when I was a child
living in the area, it was the Verney Mill, and both textiles and shoes were
manufactured there, pulling power from the river, dumping waste back in; I
remember to this day the smell of the river, the sight of yellow-brown
riverfoam on the front lawn of our house on days the wind was right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And I remember the rumble and thump
of the machinery and shake of the sidewalks whenever you walked by; the feeling
went through your shoes and into your feet, right up to your knees.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was
dreadful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had friends whose parents worked in the mill, first- and
second-shift parents (sometimes one on each shift just to make sure one parent
could be home most of the time: I didn’t appreciate that sacrifice until I was
much older). Somebody’s mother told me once that, during WWI and WWII, there
were three shifts of workers: That mill ran all day and all night; children
were awakened in the morning by one parent, put to bed by the other parent, and
watched over by grandparents or neighbors while their parents slept.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC-znQHo2neDQc8Fgl6Orq9KxBrBQB_Cc1N4QgGR0OHGtotbbaASchkVI3NlAhVifzCY7x6o8_-kiylU4yN-niAzcNXfH5sx25hYp1MCMwJuXtQdFAgT_MyGClbYt1RVXRFhAxjO1FwUvT/s1600/IMG_1862.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC-znQHo2neDQc8Fgl6Orq9KxBrBQB_Cc1N4QgGR0OHGtotbbaASchkVI3NlAhVifzCY7x6o8_-kiylU4yN-niAzcNXfH5sx25hYp1MCMwJuXtQdFAgT_MyGClbYt1RVXRFhAxjO1FwUvT/s320/IMG_1862.JPG" width="211" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything’s different now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The river is clean (we even have fish again!) and the
building itself has been renovated; floors have been refinished, walls painted,
windows replaced. There are shops and artists’ studios and restaurants—even a
farmers’ market in the winter, a high-end antique business and a gigantic flea
market all year round! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
But sometimes, when the light is just right and I find
myself in one of the lower level hallways, I can still hear the rumble, feel
the shake and rattle of that machinery.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-61685341428051118962016-07-30T09:23:00.000-07:002016-07-30T09:23:05.204-07:00ROW, ROW, ROW YOUR BOAT...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEm2HKgj_1uprRjqo_K10v4PFyLsmhCCpwZwU-fF6UwduNvckMINfQ_9At9NCJB6fv7YVxnY37eqpapcOMTp7nUQNQ9ZWmZtGQFLQEncNlTeZSXvs4AzjjWz0wylCDtNFFm_qW6R3V86a4/s1600/IMG_1826.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEm2HKgj_1uprRjqo_K10v4PFyLsmhCCpwZwU-fF6UwduNvckMINfQ_9At9NCJB6fv7YVxnY37eqpapcOMTp7nUQNQ9ZWmZtGQFLQEncNlTeZSXvs4AzjjWz0wylCDtNFFm_qW6R3V86a4/s320/IMG_1826.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>…gently down the
stream.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Or not.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>This isn’t a stream. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>This is Linnekin Bay,
East Boothbay, Maine in the summer of 1900 or so, and the two boys in the
dinghy are my great uncles. I think it’s Richard and Allen, although I can’t be
sure—they all look pretty much the same in the summer outfits: shirts, pants,
crusher hats and rubber-soled shoes. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>There’s an old dock in the background
and seaweed-covered rocks in the fore; I can tell that it’s low tide. The
ground slopes up from the rocks and I can barely see the bottom of a house in
the background; now, one hundred years later, after too much erosion, there’s a
seawall along the shore there.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I think this photo was taken in front of what was called the Red
Cottage—it was where the Gould family went each summer to get out of the
smothering heat of the Boston area—later on, after my grandfather married, they
summered in <i>her </i>family home just down
the road.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>My guess is that this
little rowboat is the one they used to run back and forth between the shoreline
and the family sailboat, moored out in deeper water—Allen’s weight has left the
bow high and the aft end very close to the Atlantic! I’ve got lots of photos of
them in the sailboat (they’re wearing shirts and ties in some of them, for
goodness’ sake!).<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Ahhhh, summer!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Hope yours is going
well, and that you’ve got secure oarlocks to get you through!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-38382255715506371972016-06-11T05:54:00.000-07:002016-06-11T14:18:53.026-07:00THE GANG...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-g1WKQ-f44-VEj5LIQKfBifkzod8ghxFIQEhAL3cRx2kI_PMm00U3kwoIB1NgFpalk20-qsNl_Fn2TuXc0_PJb_S65wwXg3diwiJZHPV6yd12VJMKRST7xw415mO4Piaq2s5FEQzIur8N/s1600/IMG_1746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-g1WKQ-f44-VEj5LIQKfBifkzod8ghxFIQEhAL3cRx2kI_PMm00U3kwoIB1NgFpalk20-qsNl_Fn2TuXc0_PJb_S65wwXg3diwiJZHPV6yd12VJMKRST7xw415mO4Piaq2s5FEQzIur8N/s320/IMG_1746.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>More than one hundred
years ago, The Gang assembled for a group shot on the public dock in East
Boothbay, Maine; they all summered in cottages strung along the shores of Murray
Hill overlooking Linekin Bay, all learned to swim in those freezing waters, all
spent lazy high-tide afternoons diving and jumping off the public dock, keeping
cool.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> Two of those young men in the back row
are relatives of mine--the last two on the right are my great-uncles, Richard and Allen. And I’m pretty sure that one of the
boys in the front row is my great-uncle Prescott, although I can’t tell which
one. Furthermore, I'll bet the photo was taken by my grandfather, who should be in the picture...but isn't.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> The two women? I’m not sure. The one
on the far left might be Jessie Gould (a cousin)—I’m basing that guess on the
gold bracelet she’s wearing on her left arm (I have one, too; given to me by my
father on my twenty-first birthday)—but the one on the right is totally
unknown.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>But look at the
swimwear!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> My grandfather told me once that those
bathing suits were made of wool.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> <i>Wool!
<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>I can’t imagine.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> He said the “itch factor” was sky-high—not
while they were <i>in</i> the water, but
when they were out—and they spent most of their time trying not to scratch in inappropriate
places!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> I love the pale, skinny legs and the combination
of brown forearms and white upper arms—the boys obviously rolled their
shirtsleeves in the summer…<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> And look at Richard’s striped number!
Clearly, the height of men’s fashion in the early 1900s. Allen’s wearing white
bottoms, which might be another fashion trend.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I can’t imagine my
great-grandmother going for <i>that</i> bit
of foolishness!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-23243177607803435562016-06-04T05:32:00.000-07:002016-06-04T05:32:00.454-07:00OVERSHOT...UNDERSHOT<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiv2BqCTKJvhiMj85Q_ZY-T2wx4mE4cUh1M_5ksVq0CievnFLXnf5SJw0v9YN9KK-ejJc2EzBfsbcjRTUWN7wzukQv8cb0Eo3rMxZGT9LU27EivtYEL71BDkJbztCj-_Vn8x1vF8J6QjA/s1600/IMG_1743.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiv2BqCTKJvhiMj85Q_ZY-T2wx4mE4cUh1M_5ksVq0CievnFLXnf5SJw0v9YN9KK-ejJc2EzBfsbcjRTUWN7wzukQv8cb0Eo3rMxZGT9LU27EivtYEL71BDkJbztCj-_Vn8x1vF8J6QjA/s320/IMG_1743.JPG" width="204" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Stream, gristmill, undershot
(or overshot) waterwheel…it’s a standard here in New England; has been fodder
for painters and photographers—even poets and lyricists—for more than a
century.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH1KsZyAjO2tYIcTaO9TrzG91sBqMZrxQ_IvE_8BQHghr3-8LCBF_iWcnCz8mygbY2EMIB4o10bQWnhH4KyxSIj0MRXNSIssR6_fIcnYb50uRnZ73WmO8zjuUBVnqXkWkf0iV7ElSTdDbc/s1600/IMG_1744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH1KsZyAjO2tYIcTaO9TrzG91sBqMZrxQ_IvE_8BQHghr3-8LCBF_iWcnCz8mygbY2EMIB4o10bQWnhH4KyxSIj0MRXNSIssR6_fIcnYb50uRnZ73WmO8zjuUBVnqXkWkf0iV7ElSTdDbc/s320/IMG_1744.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>This postcard was
mailed in Athens, Maine on September 16, 1914:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Hello Clarence. I almost forgot your birthday was so near we got home
all right Aunt Nancy Spoffard come here yesterday & to day Grampa & I
carried her out to Skowhegan she is real smart. Now see how good a boy you can
be the whole year with love & good wishes for many returns of the day. <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i>From
Grammie.<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-550684697089425692016-05-13T13:16:00.001-07:002016-05-13T13:16:34.051-07:00A CASE OF BODONI...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv8AVk8bt58joVYE0MMnvXh8PpYxMeZEDXNa3vS0AHZKGLeFVQmobN2A3GgKC6Ia20IiucfsUtufsKlEuNtiNa_Wscwz6V3oW0aXj-DRxnZzhZWwDF6y4CFKNweCnATs3BWcPPJyEwx82I/s1600/IMG_1715.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv8AVk8bt58joVYE0MMnvXh8PpYxMeZEDXNa3vS0AHZKGLeFVQmobN2A3GgKC6Ia20IiucfsUtufsKlEuNtiNa_Wscwz6V3oW0aXj-DRxnZzhZWwDF6y4CFKNweCnATs3BWcPPJyEwx82I/s320/IMG_1715.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b>One of my favorite possessions
is a lovely compartmen-talized tray from a newspaper printer’s type cabinet;
each tray is a single wooden drawer from a chest that held a variety of
typefaces in a variety of sizes used to set type for both news copy and
advertising.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b> There used to be separate trays—or cases—for capital
letters and regular letters (which is why we call them upper and lower case
letters today), but that meant two drawers for each size of a particular font;
a combined case like this became popular in the 1800s (this shot shows only two of the three sections of the tray).<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b> </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Just as the “qwerty” layout of your keyboard is designed to
make typing more efficient, so too were the compartments in a type tray
designed for the convenience of the typesetter—the most frequently used letters
were set in boxes in the center of the tray while the others were located on
the edges and in the corners. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Numbers
and oddball symbols ($, @, + and %, for instance) were in the top boxes of the
compartments, lower case letters were on the left side of the drawer, upper case
on the right. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Punctuation
compartments were not always designated—many typesetters placed them in their
own preferred locations.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<b> </b><b style="text-indent: 0.5in;">This tray holds an incomplete
set of Bodoni bold type—one of the most commonly used typefaces in the 19<sup>th</sup>
and 20<sup>th</sup> centuries, mainly because it is so easy to read.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Giambattista Bodoni, the designer,
was born in Italy in 1740. His father was a printer, so he grew up in the
trade; he apprenticed at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Vatican</st1:country-region></st1:place>,
and later became a well-known typecutter, engraver and printer.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>In 1798, he designed this
typeface—a font that blended the thicker lines of older typefaces with the
finer, thinner ones of newer designs. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh__8ab1JlK7zHRC3XokQh6WB8ehzhozfQnv1fxUVq3iWJkrNYaDkIEjGECZOSWjvrsLFlOXhFSINgL_dUlZkfBl8o5_9adOk4rPWo_rq64l1oY-T6fuTcO4GEhx-JvCNKSQRHwrSChHA5W/s1600/IMG_1323.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="127" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh__8ab1JlK7zHRC3XokQh6WB8ehzhozfQnv1fxUVq3iWJkrNYaDkIEjGECZOSWjvrsLFlOXhFSINgL_dUlZkfBl8o5_9adOk4rPWo_rq64l1oY-T6fuTcO4GEhx-JvCNKSQRHwrSChHA5W/s200/IMG_1323.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Bodoni gains its gracefulness
from a balance between those thick and thin strokes of the letters. If designed
well, books typeset in Bodoni can produce that same graceful loveliness on an
entire page, especially when the letters have some space between them, which
keeps the lines smooth and easy to read.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Many of us read schoolbooks set
in Bodoni (easy to read, remember?) and its broad face makes for a quick read
on posters and advertising boards.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743429387466266100.post-41988426677799286492016-05-06T14:24:00.002-07:002016-05-06T14:24:46.597-07:00BY HOOK OR BY CROOK...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd4dLUxDgIj1BvFL1sCyH-vtubY27qnRDrkoeb2QLCR-zWTybrX3MIFrxpP7YdOcj_t2LHxaDR1TTztWYEAPuRYJhrUyQY5g8_ch5BYklA5zv1pXPrNzS8w68aoYWm-YydSCIj2weYO1Tx/s1600/SS329b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd4dLUxDgIj1BvFL1sCyH-vtubY27qnRDrkoeb2QLCR-zWTybrX3MIFrxpP7YdOcj_t2LHxaDR1TTztWYEAPuRYJhrUyQY5g8_ch5BYklA5zv1pXPrNzS8w68aoYWm-YydSCIj2weYO1Tx/s1600/SS329b.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>That’s the first
thing I thought of when I saw this lovely old shepherd cradling one of his
lambs…and although I knew that “by hook or by crook” means “by any way
possible,” I had no idea what shepherds actually used crooks for; a crook
looked like a pretty worthless implement to me.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Boy, was I wrong.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>Turns out, their purpose is threefold: shepherds uses crooks to carry
newborn lambs back to their rightful mothers when confusion reigns in the
lambing pen (they cannot touch the lambs themselves, or the mothers will reject
the babies due to the scent of humans); they use the blunt end of the crook to
prod sheep along the way whenever they are driving them; they hook strays
around the leg or neck to drag them back into the fold where they belong.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs069luVo0sek8KsGErLWB2mq16WRu5aRdvv3XFVSthS99gnysbjYigGMHUOuRR_pMth4JD7Mne8F261QnWGyF25amcJexgBItSPOpgJrLBFWl7TIceRBIEqfC1IQuATRuBHt18chNrxO5/s1600/IMG_1712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs069luVo0sek8KsGErLWB2mq16WRu5aRdvv3XFVSthS99gnysbjYigGMHUOuRR_pMth4JD7Mne8F261QnWGyF25amcJexgBItSPOpgJrLBFWl7TIceRBIEqfC1IQuATRuBHt18chNrxO5/s320/IMG_1712.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> </b><b>My trusty 1902 Sears,
Roebuck and Company catalog had a shepherd’s hook for sale—a metal one that fit
snugly over a pole (you supplied the pole).</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i>The Montana Shepherds’ Crook</i>
was “the best and strongest crook that has ever been placed on the market.” It
consisted of a pear-shaped loop with rounded curves on the inside to prevent
hurting the sheep. Thousands (they say) were in use in the United States.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> Cost?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> A mere seventy-three cents.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>And there was, of
course, a <i>Bo-Peep Crook,</i> which was
the same as a Montana, but lighter. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b>For the ladies, I guess; for the shepherdesses.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>There was more
equipment, too: three different styles of shears—the Western, the Eastern, and
the Celebrated Burgon & Ball’s (each in three different lengths of blade);
two equally disgusting jars of salve (for those “worrisome nicks”); there was
fleece detergent and a sheep dip (for “vermin”).<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZOzPTbW0b9pjfWtLFdBpfeD5SAV9yd-tfX0xY_JYvyZlzMav6LJQYDu_cG5O_L6AAMME0mwsY6JpDItcvuJABkiO1ejNoD4OFsKAtPkZ7v-R8RP6dUbH1HGjr2TXZ-uPHezboczj6ZhPC/s1600/IMG_1710.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZOzPTbW0b9pjfWtLFdBpfeD5SAV9yd-tfX0xY_JYvyZlzMav6LJQYDu_cG5O_L6AAMME0mwsY6JpDItcvuJABkiO1ejNoD4OFsKAtPkZ7v-R8RP6dUbH1HGjr2TXZ-uPHezboczj6ZhPC/s320/IMG_1710.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The best item,
though, was the <i>Montana Special Sheep
Shearing Machine</i>, “…considered one of the best by a great many of the large
sheep growers throughout the United States and Australia.” It had a large
wheel, mounted on a solid post; an enclosed gear in a fixed frame that ran the
cutters.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>So, one man turned the wheel, the
other sheared the sheep; they got the job done, all right – by hook or by
crook!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> <o:p></o:p></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658880722411505714noreply@blogger.com15