Truth in Advertising?

It’s been rainin off and on here since Monday. Guess Mother Nature decided to break the drought all at once. I was tired of bein cooped up indoors, so I was rummaging through a box of old newspapers. Most of them are from January and February of 1937, and document the catastrophic flood that inundated the Ohio and lower Mississippi valley that winter. The town of Paducah, where the paper was published, was devastated. Roughly 30,000 folks were evacuated from there and many lost everything. You can still see the effects at antique shops and auctions. There are old chairs that are just a tad shorter than normal; and dressers, tables, and pie safes, etc. that have had several inches sawed off the bottoms of their legs, due to sitting in the floodwaters. Easy way to tell that these items were around before “The Flood”, as locals refer to that time. But that will be fodder for another post. I picked up one paper that was dated Thursday morning, January 10, 1929. Inside was this ad, that shows how much times and the public’s attitude have changed.

After reading this star athlete's endorsement, I had to know if smokin cut short his career, and destroyed his health. Apparently not. But I do wonder if he had to explain to his grandchildren about his irresponsible youth, and the vices he indulged in to keep his slim physique. Here is a link to his obituary in The New York Times. Is it just me, with my twisted, dark sense of humor, or does anyone else see the irony in a golfer taken out of the game of life, by a "stroke"?

Voices From The Past

From March through early October of this year, we were engaged in what was, to me, a bittersweet venture. We had contracted to disassemble a two story farm house built in the 1870’s. The home had been built by the first member of the family to migrate from Virginia. It was occupied by him and his descendants until the 1970’s. I have an overabundance of natural curiosity, and have since learned enough about this particular family to just about write a book on this branch. Well, enough material for several posts, anyhow. There are a couple of “things that make you go hmmm” discovered while taking the house apart also. This one will be about some things I found in the attic before de-construction began. I say the attic, but it was really an unfinished portion of the second floor, that served as a storage area. To the casual observer, it would have appeared to be empty. But I had to know for sure. The roof beams sloped down to meet the floor, up against the outside wall. There were a couple of places where the floor boards didn’t quite reach the wall. So, flashlight in hand, I got down on my knees and crawled over to inspect. I didn’t really expect to find anything, but lo and behold, my flashlight beam lit up some folded papers that had turned a nice shade of tan with age. When I saw the style of writing, I felt a thrill of discovery. I very carefully retrieved them, and continued my search. There were several more places where letters lay below the floorboards. They weren’t damaged by vermin or rodents, so I have not yet figured out how they got there. The one I would like to share today is from the father of the man who built the house, to his sister. This man’s name was Richard Ivanhoe Cocke , and he was born August 13, 1820 on the family estate, “Clover Pasture”, in Powhatan county, Virginia. His sister was Rowena Glowina Cocke, born there also, on January 1st, 1823. This letter is dated October 15th, 1835. He was 15, and away at school, and writing home to encourage his younger sister, then 12, to continue her education, as well.

This last image is the way that letters were addressed and mailed back then. Envelopes were not in use. You wrote your letter, folded it, and then "backed" it. The address was simply written on the back and then the letter was sealed with a drop of sealing wax where the folds came together.

If you click on the images, you should get a version large enough to read. It is a fascinating glimpse into a time that will never come again. It is very difficult to read these beautiful words from a young man on his way to becoming a cultured, genteel gentleman, and then to realize that the privileges afforded him and others of the planter class were paid for by the bondage of an entire race. On the 1860 census, he is residing in his beloved Powhatan county. He owns real estate worth $44,410, and personal property worth $15,622. Rowena is married with 2 young daughters. The Civil War, needless to say, wipes out that way of life. On the 1870 census, Richard is living in a small township in Buckingham county. He owns real estate worth $10,000 and has personal property valued at $5000. His son, John, is finishing his schooling at the University of Virginia, at Charlottesville. Also living in Richard's household are Rowena's 2 daughters. Rowena departed this life on March 17, 1861. Sometime after this census, Richard and family migrated to land in Kentucky that he had inherited from his father in the 1850's. He died here in Ballard county on August 30, 1873. His beautifully written letter though captures a moment in time, of a young man with his whole life before him, taking time to write home to an adored younger sister. I'm not family, but I think he would be pleased that these letters will be preserved, instead of lost, like that long-ago way of life.

A Night to Remember

Decided to go arrowhead hunting Sunday evening. We have to go in the evening now, because various hunting seasons are in and the river bottom fields are prime deer and turkey habitat, along with being the site of ancient villages and camps. There are shirts in webstores printed with “I am NOT a deer”, but I don’t know as some of those hunters would take the time to read before pulling the trigger. So it’s evening hunting for now, with the occasional midday during the work week hunt. The night was clear as a bell, with a ¾ moon and countless stars shinin. Jimmy Buffet described it perfectly in “God’s Own Drunk”—“ God's yellar moon was a' shinin' on the cool clear evenin', God's little lanterns just a' twinklin' on and off in the heavens”. As soon as we shut off the 4runner,we could hear the coyotes discussin our intrusion into the quiet evenin they had planned. They were callin to each other from all around us. I love listenin to em, and as long as you are hearing em, it’s ok. It’s when you suddenly don’t that they are prolly close up and lookin at you without your knowledge. All the night creatures started back up within a few minutes of our arrival. Barred owls were familiar calling back and forth. There was one bird that sounded like a kitten mewing. Ain’t figgered that one out yet. Anyways within 10 minutes of startin to hunt we found this:

It was laying right on top of the soil on a little pedestal where the surrounding soil had been washed away by recent rain. The right side is the side that was still in contact with the earth. We only hunted that field for about an hour and a half, and that is the only intact projectile point we found. It sucks hunting by flashlight. We turned around and started hunting our way back to the truck. I was up front about 20 yards ahead of my companion. I had been walkin the edge of the field and had just decided to angle uphill a bit to cross over the ruts a combine had made. The distance from me to the weeds at the edge was about 15 feet at this moment. I heard a rustling in the weeds and could tell something was headed my way kinda fast. Naturally I turned that direction, and what should appear??? Any guesses? Ok, I’ll tell ya. A full grown, not to happy to see me, skunk. Yep, he or she bounded right out in the field a few feet, hoppin on stiff front legs and tail straight up in the air! We were staring eye to eye and I raised my arms out from my sides slowly and began sidesteppin up through the field real easy-like. I spoke my companions name softly, and for once, he heard me the first time. He was a little ways back like I said, and still at the edge of the field lookin down. He stopped dead, and so did I. I always liked those pepe le-pew cartoons when I was a kid, and I’ll be damned if that isn’t what ran through my mind when our black and white buddy appeared. He had the stiff legged bounce, and raised tail down pat. After seeing that we got the message, our furry friend retreated back into the weeds, and we continued towards the truck, unmolested. I told my companion I was glad he heard me the first time I spoke. He said when he looked up and saw me side-steppin, he knew it had to be something. One thing I never have been, is afraid of the dark. In fact, I love the river bottoms at night. No other humans around for miles, just yourself and nature and the night creatures—nothin like it. Drop me on any street in a big city that late at night, and that would be a whole nother story.Humans get up to much more “no good” than nature anyday. Only found the one point, but I’ll always remember the time we found this one.

We Must Be Livin' Right

Weather is all important here in the “hearland” as our local news calls this part of the country where Illinois, Missouri, and Kentucky come together. Last evening, severe weather was predicted, and did appear for some parts of the area. There were high winds and torrential rainfall scattered all around us. You would think any rain would be good rain considerin the drought conditions hereabouts, but not so. If the rain falls too fast and too hard, it really doesn’t help. The dry ground can’t absorb it and it runs off, creating gullies in the fields, and washing away valuable topsoil. It clogs the creeks with silt, and floods low-lying roadways. The accompanying winds take down power lines and uproot trees that are already unstable from standing all summer in dry ground. There isn’t a town in this county with more than 3,000 folks in it and only one that’s even close to that. Small towns, for some reason, are quick to pass judgement on each other for anything at all that happens. A well-known sayin whenever bad luck or trouble arises for one town, but not the others is “Y’all must not be livin right.” The way the weather played out yesterday evenin, I had to grin to myself when that sayin ran through my mind. Out here in my neck of the woods we did not get a single drop of rain, and the winds were tolerable. Plus look at the show Mother Nature put on right outside my door…

You Can't Judge a Book by it's Cover (or a dwarf, for that matter)

I was sittin here this afternoon, waitin on the severe weather the local weather service has been in a tizzy about for the past two days. We did have heavy rain last night, with lightning and thunder, but today it has been mostly sunny, albeit very windy. The friggin heat index (in October?) was 87 last time I looked. Something has gotta give, and I’m pretty sure we’ll get more thunderstorms, if not the tornados we are supposed to be watchin for. Something to post about would help to pass the time. Walkin past the oak kitchen cabinet where my prized lu-ray dishes are kept, he caught my eye. “He” being my favorite “little person” if was bein politically correct. Since he is not a representation of a real person (and I am anything but politically correct), I will call em like I see em; he’s a dwarf. This fella joined my family in august of 1993. It was during the best vacation of my life. No particular destination, so ya couldn’t get lost, no money worries, no time limit, and plenty of nature’s gift. Just wandering through my home state of West by-god Virginia. We were on the way back, in the southwestern part of the state, Huntington, to be exact. Happened to pass an interestin lookin antique and junk store and decided to give it a look-see. Browsed through, and finally made it to the counter where the proprietor was sittin. Of course, my companion cannot leave without bullshittin, so I was lookin in the showcase close by, and there he was. Don’t ask me why, but I love what they call Carnival chalk. Made from the teens to late 50’s, a lot of it was given away as prizes. I knew right away this dwarf had found a home. The owner told us what he knew of the dwarf’s past. He told us he had come from the old railroad yard in town. He turned the piece upside down and showed us where someone long ago had glued a piece of textured stuff(like roofing shingle, but thinner) to the bottom. He said they did that so that the dwarf would not vibrate off the shelf as the engines passed by. Made sense to me. Up in my part of the state, the coal trains would often have an engine pullin and one or more pushin to help em get over the mountains. Here is my one-of-a-kind find. I have looked in books and shops and on the net, but have never seen one like him.

Oh, I almost forgot (not really), the shop owner also showed us the reason that this particular dwarf seems to be workin sooo hard to transport his load of "wood"...

"Oh, You Kid!!!"

It has come to my attention that there is a movement afoot in some parts of this great nation of ours to legislate how a person wears their britches. I kid you not. And kids are the target of this legislation. I’m sure everyone is familiar with the droopy drawers trend. It has even reached out here in the boonies, so I know the rest of the nation has seen it for a while now. Maybe something is wrong with me, wait a minute, strike that, I know there is something wrong with me. Anyways, I just don’t see what all the fuss is about. In fact, whenever I see someone sporting that fashion, I can’t help but grin. I’m glad I’m not a young person now, because I can see myself getting in all kinds of trouble. There is no way I would be able to resist giving a well-timed tug, and watchin those britches collect around the ankles of one of my peers dumb enough to go out in public like that. However, I cannot for the life of me see how this trend is any skin offa my ass. Every generation has its own shocking new trend that spells the downfall of civilization, and yet we’re all still here somehow. Government, both federal and local needs to get it’s friggin nose outta folks private lives. It is glaringly obvious that they have been neglecting the work they were originally intended to do. Just a few suggestions, in case they have lost their list: safe and adequate drinking water, well maintained roads and highways, bridges that are safe for the traffic loads they now carry, facilities for health care even in rural communities, helping industry to find places to locate that benefit them and the local workforce. You know the little piddlin stuff that doesn’t matter near as much as someone’s baggy britches. In an effort to be fair to those who see this particular fashion trend as an example of the deterioration of our society, I will now present before and after photos of some dangerously wild youth of a another generation.


Here is the young lady memorializing her appearance before stepping over the line to become an example of the out-of-control youth of her generation:
























And now, our subject (on the far left, after the transformation), and her posse, showing total disrespect for societal norms of the time, and for their own appearance:





Hair (a woman's crowning glory) bobbed, calves exposed, bustles and corsets gone!

Mercy sakes alive, there oughta be a law.....!!!

Pics from Civil War Days

Here are a few from this weekend, Sunday to be exact. It was hot and sunny, so I felt for the folks in those hot uniforms. This time I decided to focus on the mounted troops, as they made for much better action shots. They fired some huge cannons and even as far away as we were kept from them, I could actually feel the percussion wave slap against my skin. And I have to hand it to the riders, none of their horses acted like they even heard the guns. As for the pics, they were taken with my digital camera. They are versions on which I have exercised creative license. Love that filter gallery in Photoshop! This 1st one is my current desktop wallpaper:

Next, a confrontation about to happen. (note; no re-enactors or their mounts were harmed in these confrontations for the public enjoyment.) In fact, I actually saw their swords bend when they slapped them together. It kinda reminded me of a little league ballgame, where the teams line up at the end, and file past each other, slapping hands and sayin "good game", whether they mean it or not, lol.

This one was taken during a short lull in the action.("Hey, where did everybody go??") The background is not obscured because of the filter, but because of the smoke from a volley from the Confederate battery on the hill.

Another charge. The dashing young soldier on the palomino makes for a lovely picture, but if I was him, and his fellow officer on the white horse, i would seriously reconsider my color choice in a mount to dash about the field of battle upon. Unless of course, they were circus performers before enlisting, and didn't mind a bit doing a complete somersault midair and landing nimbly on their feet after their mount has been shot out from under them. Just my opinion, something to think about...(smartass smirk)

And one final pic, the Confederate colorbearer. I was pleasantly surprised when, at the beginning of the "battle", the hat blew off the soldier's head, and it became clear this soldier was a young girl! This is not as unusual as you may think. There are many documented instances of females that disguised their true identities in order to serve beside husbands, to avenge family members who had been killed, or simply because they could not bear to sit on the sidelines when the fate of their respective countries hung in the balance. This particular young soldier performed her duties beyond reproach. She was constantly visible on the field of battle, and did her job by rallying the troops and pointing the way to the action. A prime example of the difference between "the man in charge, or the woman who knows what is going on."

The Message From The Stone

Well, damn, the post below this should be on top of this, but not the first time i have ever done things bass-ackward. and the print is too tiny to read. so i will try to insert the text here:

THE MESSAGE FROM THE STONE
A Tribute to the Ancients

So it is that you have now acquired me.
You have found me along with my brothers and sisters, in the midst of deep rest,
Amongst common cobbles and beneath the roots of trees.
Along dry ruts, where mighty rivers once ran swift and magnificent,
With might and glory, you have found me.
Or perhaps you have acquired me without adventure at all,
But simply purchased me for a price.
By now, you have examined me for flaws, and measured the size of me.
Under something you call glass, you have placed me.
Others of your people race to build structures and roads over me for profit.
They gather together, uncaring of the past, or of existence.
But you, you are different.
I am important to you.
And regardless of how you came by me,
You looked for me; you sought out my hiding place.
I matter to you.
And so because of this, My spirit now speaks to yours.
To share with you, and to ask that you grant me one simple request.
Here is my message to you from the stone:

Like you, I once breathed the air of the Earth.
I was a man, a woman, a child, an elder.
The Sun and the stars of the sky knew me well, and I them.
Over rushing streams of clear white-capped water I rode.
And through golden forests of great timber I passed.
My skin felt the warmth of the Sun and the cold of the snow.
By great fires I sat close.
My ears heard the triumphant cries of soaring hawks and eagles.
And my eyes saw every color of their sacred feathers.
My heart rejoiced at new birth, and wept at sudden death.
I bled, and caused others to bleed.
With fibers from plants I bound my own wounds.
And washed them clean in the pureness of the rain.
The wind was my friend.
Yes, I tasted all of Earth’s beauty.
And on every step of my paths, The Great Spirit held my hand in his.
In his goodness upon my last day, he led me to the top of a great mountain.
The vision I saw was you…
With the stone that I made in your hands…
And this was my simple request I asked of you from the top of my mountain
With my last words ,spoken to you on that day, as all that was me faded away.

‘As you look at the stone in your hands that I made with mine,
I ask you only to remember its true significance.
To know and remember always these two words of me…’


“I LIVED”
Tony Raggio/Brand X Indian

Message from the Stone

One of my favorite things to do is to hunt arrowheads and artifacts in the riverbottoms around here. We have found some paleo period artifacts, but most date to the archaic, woodland and mississippian (moundbuilder) times. All of them are before written history and before contact with European settlers. Let me clarify, there is a big difference between hunting and collecting. Anyone with money can be a collector. Artifact shows and sales take place all over the country, and the world, for that matter. You can even find them at yard sales and estate sales. I am a hunter. I have never paid a penny for any of the artifacts in my possession. Don't know how you calculate the value of the sweat and hours spent walking bent double in order to find them. In fact, I consider the hours spent outdoors, away from civilization, able to leave the day to day bullshit behind to be an added value, rather than a cost. I have no doubts whether mine are authentic or not. I am the first human being to hold them in my hand in thousands of years. A feeling like no other. There are places where you may find a couple of artifacts in an entire afternoon of walking, and others where amazing amounts of "lithic scatter" and "debitage" are visible. You can not even set your foot down without walkin on something. Lithic scatter is pieces or chunks of stone that have been broken off or broken open from material deemed suitable for projectile point or stone tool manufacture. It was the way stone was transported from a quarry to a seasonal campsite in the times of hunter-gatherer cultures, and later, to a permanent village, starting in late archaic to early woodland times. The reward for locating these places, and spending hour upon hour searching them, is to find an intact finished product of manufacture, i.e. projectile point, hide scraper, nutting stone, celt, adze, knife and so on. Hell, broken points and worn items are worth it from my perspective. I don't have the words to describe the feeling of reaching down to inspect a sliver of rock partially exposed and pulling out a recognizable object. Not a piece of history--a piece of pre-history! Knowing that thousands of years ago, another human had made this object from raw stone, and had depended on it to feed, clothe, and protect his and her family is an indescribable thrill, combined with a feeling of reverence, honor and awe. Anyways, enough of the lecture. Here is a tribute written by Tony Raggio that comes close to describing what runs through my mind whenever i find a new one, and even when i handle the ones that have been in my possession for years now. The tribute is his, the background image is mine. I made it several years ago, by laying an assortment of my pieces on the scanner bed and saving the resulting image just because. I'm glad i did, it came in right handy.

Re-enactor Weekend

This weekend is the annual re-enactment at Columbus-Belmont park. The battle of Belmont was U.S. Grant’s first battle as a commanding officer. It was rather unorganized and both sides claimed victory, but Lincoln was very happy with it. At last he had found a general who would actually make a move. Grant wasn’t really in the “old boy” network and the network made sure word reached Lincoln’s ear that this Grant fella was fond of liquor, whiskey—the water of life, to be more specific. The tattling did not achieve the desired results. Instead of a reprimand or demotion, Lincoln informed “the network” that if he was sure that whiskey would make the rest of his generals fight, he would order them to drink also.

Here are two of my prized possessions, carte de visites of Grant himself.

I have highlighted what appears to be the man’s signature on the first scan. It is also signed on the back. The second scan is the earlier picture. If I lived in a big town, I would have it authenticated, but then I prolly wouldn’t be able to afford to keep it.

Anyways, back to this weekend. This event is always very well attended. The park is pretty much like it was then, except for structures. The little building on the high point was used as a hospital then, and is a small museum now. No other original buildings survive, but the network of trenches, redoubts, and artillery placements are still there. Lots of re-enactors attend and camp out for the entire weekend. They fire the cannons, have mock battles and even a ball on Saturday night. Many sutlers set up (that’s vendors for the historically challenged), and craftsmen demonstrate the old ways of makin the necessaries. Here are some pics I took at past re-enactments.

And even soldiers have to eat, after all, an army travels on it's stomach, right?

And one final image, a montage I created. I imagine this is what went through a lot of commanding officers minds, when they were on the verge of ordering men they had come to think of as their family, into an action that might exact the ultimate sacrifice.

And, sadly, those decisions, and sacrifices are still with us today.

Just Some Pictures From My Neck of the Woods

Right down the road from the house. For those who have never seen one, this is a barn full of tobacco. The tobacco is cut by hand, then speared onto sticks that are about 4 feet long. The sticks are then hung from tier poles (just poles that run across the barn from that lowest level you can see, to the top of the barn). The poles are placed about 4 feet apart. Workers climb up onto the poles, on foot on either pole of the section they are filling, and straight above each other to the top. The wagon full of tobacco on sticks is pulled into the barn. The sticks are handed up from the wagon to the first level, then up to the next, and so on, until the top section is filled. That worker comes down, and the process is continued until the barn is full from the top down.

The tobacco will cure like this for a couple of months. This is burley tobacco (the cigarette kind). Nothing artificial used in curing, Mother Nature is allowed to take her sweet ol' time. You can see a little bit of green leaf in the upper left corner. It usually takes until mid-November for it to be ready to be taken down, stripped and sorted, bundled up and sold.

Side view of the barn. These openings are propped open with the same sticks used to hang the tobacco. They are propped open to allow air circulation on days when the air is dry enough. When it rains, they are closed if the tobacco has not finished curing, to prevent mold and mildew. If the crop is cured, they are opened when it rains, or the air has enough humidity, to bring the tobacco "in order". It becomes moist enough to be taken down and transported to the strippin shed without crumbling. You can see 3 full tiers of tobacco and towards the front, a 4th tier is bein used.

Due to the demise of the quota system, this is sight is not near as common around here as it used to be. Most of the small tobacco farmers have quit growin it and the few who still growing are growin larger crops. Alot of the small farmers counted on that mid-November to mid-December tobacco check to make for a good Christmas. Don't know what will take it's place, but one crop that was historically profitable in this area (till the big chemical companies mounted a campaign to make it obsolete after WWII) is hemp. Not the kind ya smoke, the kind ya make fiber from. Of course, federal agencies like the DEA, are too pea-brained to be able to tell the two apart, so they immediately get "up in arms" (or would that be the ATF?) whenever that movement gets any publicity. But that's a whole nother story. Thanks for your attention, and class dismissed for today.