Cold Snap

Wednesday was warm and rainy. I had fans on and the windows and doors open. The temp topped out in the low 70’s. About 6 in the evening, the cold front blew in. Thursday the temp ranged from 41 to 37. The sun did not deign to show his face. Today will be much the same. Due to the opening of waterfowl season, there is the occasional flurry of a group of pick-ups, as hunters go to and from the pits and blinds. Farming traffic is pretty much finished for the year. No more mega-tractors, combines, or bizarre looking 3-wheeled spray rigs. And just the other day, I saw a pick-up pass by pulling 2 flat bed wooden wagons loaded with tobacco ready to be stripped. Now is the time for the reappearence of the one big truck that will become a familiar sight on back roads throughout the land. Kinda like our version of lighting the tree in Rockefeller Plaza to mark the official beginning of the holiday season. One that country folks everywhere can identify with. We have a weird kind of love/hate relationship with it. In the boonies there are no natural gas lines. But damn near every yard sprouts a “could this thing be any friggin uglier?” propane tank. I love Eric “Slow Hand” Clapton’s music. This song has absolutely nothing to do with him, but it is a parody of one of his hits. Pinkard and Bowden, you have a unique and wonderful talent. So roll up a page of newspaper, twist it tightly, apply the Zippo, and hope like hell it will stay lit till you can ignite that pilot light designed with professional contortionists in mind.Then fire up that furnace, kick back and give this a listen. And keep your ears open for that welcome/dreaded rumblin sound...

Get this widget | Track details | eSnips Social DNA

A Cautionary Thanksgiving Tale

YOUTHS ORDERED TO CLEAN UP RUBBISH MESS
LEE -- Because they couldn't find a dump open in Great Barrington, two youths threw a load of refuse down a Stockbridge hillside on Thanksgiving Day.

Saturday, Richard J. Robbins, 19, of Poughkeepsie, N. Y., and Arlo Guthrie, 18, of Howard Beach, N. Y., each paid a fine of $25 in Lee District Court after pleading guilty of illegally disposing of rubbish. Special Justice James E. Hannon ordered the youths to remove all the rubbish. They did so Saturday afternoon, following a heavy rain

Police Chief William J. Obanhein of Stockbridge said later the youths found dragging the junk up the hillside much harder than throwing it down. He said he hoped their case would be an example to others who are careless about disposal of rubbish.

The junk included a divan, plus nearly enough bottles, garbage, papers and boxes to fill their Volkswagen bus.

"The stuff would take up at least half of a goodsized pickup truck," Chief Obanhein said.

The rubbish was thrown into the Nelson Foote Sr. property on Prospect Street, a residential section of Stockbridge consisting largely of estates on the hill across from Indian Hilil [sic] School.

Chief Obanhein told the court he spent "a very disagreeable two hours" looking through the rubbish before finding a clue to who had thrown it there. He finally found a scrap of paper bearing the name of a Great Barrington man. Subsequent investigation indicated Robbins and Guthrie had been visiting the Great Barrington man and had agreed to cart away the rubbish for him. They told the court that, when they found the Barrington dump closed, they drove around and then disposed of the junk by tossing it over the Stockbridge hillside.


Unidentified newspaper clipping, reprinted in This is the Arlo Guthrie Songbook, New York, NY, 1969, p. 39.

Most of us never saw this account, but here is the way most of us were introduced to the story:

Get this widget | Track details | eSnips Social DNA

Lyrics as reprinted in This is the Arlo Guthrie Songbook, New York, NY, 1969, pp. 91-95.
Additional lyrics (chorus) from Digital Tradition (file name: ALICREST)
© 1966, 1967, 1969 Appleseed Music Inc.

And if you want to follow along, here are the lyrics:

CHORUS:
You can get anything you want at Alice's restaurant
You can get anything you want at Alice's restaurant
Walk right in, it's around the back
Just a half a mile from the railroad track
You can get anything you want at Alice's restaurant
RECITATION:
This song is called "Alice's Restaurant." It's about Alice, and the restaurant, but "Alice's Restaurant" is not the name of the restaurant, that's just the name of the song. That's why I call the song "Alice's Restaurant."

Now it all started two Thanksgivings ago... two years ago, on Thanksgiving, when my friend and I went up to visit Alice at the restaurant.

But Alice doesn't live in the restaurant, she lives in the church nearby the restaurant, in the bell tower with her husband Ray and Facha, the dog.

And livin' in the bell tower like that, they got a lot of room downstairs where the pews used to be, and havin' all that room (seein' as how they took out all the pews), they decided that they didn't have to take out their garbage for a long time.

We got up here and found all the garbage in there and we decided that it'd be a friendly gesture for us to take the garbage down to the city dump.

So we took the half-a-ton of garbage, put it in the back of a red VW microbus, took shovels and rakes and implements of destruction, and headed on toward the city dump. Well, we got there and there was a big sign and a chain across the dump sayin', "This dump is closed on Thanksgiving," and we'd never heard of a dump closed on Thanksgiving before, and with tears in our eyes, we drove off into the sunset lookin' for another place to put the garbage.

We didn't find one till we came to a side road, and off the side of the side road was another fifteen-foot cliff, and at the bottom of the cliff was another pile of garbage. And we decided that one big pile was better than two little piles, and rather than bring that one up, we decided to throw ours down. That's what we did.

Drove back to the church, had a Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat, went to sleep, and didn't get up until the next morning, when we got a phone call from Officer Obie. He said, "Kid, we found your name on a envelope at the bottom of a half a ton of garbage and I just wanted to know if you had any information about it."

And I said, "Yes sir, Officer Obie, I cannot tell a lie. I put that envelope under that garbage." After speakin' to Obie for about forty-five minutes on the telephone, we finally arrived at the truth of the matter and he said that we had to go down and pick up the garbage, and also had to go down and speak to him at the Police Officer Station. So we got in the red VW microbus with the shovels and rakes and implements of destruction and headed on toward the Police Officer Station.

Now, friends, there was only one of two things that Obie could've done at the Police Officer Station, and the first was that he could've given us a medal for bein' so brave and honest on the telephone (which wasn't very likely, and we didn't expect it), and the other thing was that he could've bawled us out and told us never to be seen drivin' garbage around in the vicinity again, which is what we expected.

But when we got to the Police Officer Station, there was a third possibility that we hadn't even counted upon, and we was both immediately arrested, handcuffed, and I said, "Obie, I can't pick up the garbage with these here handcuffs on." He said: "Shut up kid, and get in the back of the patrol car."

And that's what we did . . . sat in the back of the patrol car, and drove to the quote scene of the crime unquote.

I wanna tell you 'bout the town of Stockbridge, Massachusetts, where this is happenin'. They got three stop signs, two police officers, and one police car, but when we got to the scene of the crime, there was five police officers and three police cars, bein' the biggest crime of the last fifty years and everybody wanted to get in the newspaper story about it.

And they was usin' up all kinds of cop equipment that they had hangin' around the Police Officer Station. They was takin' plaster tire tracks, footprints, dog-smellin' prints and they took twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy photographs with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explainin' what each one was, to be used as evidence against us. Took pictures of the approach, the getaway, the northwest corner, the southwest corner . . .
and that's not to mention the aerial photography!

After the ordeal, we went back to the jail. Obie said he was gonna put us in a cell.

He said: "Kid, I'm gonna put you in a cell. I want your wallet and your belt."
I said, "Obie, I can understand your wantin' my wallet, so I don't have any money to spend in the cell, but what do you want my belt for?" and he said, "Kid, we don't want any hangin's." I said, "Obie, did you think I was gonna hang myself for litterin'?"

Obie said he was makin' sure, and, friends, Obie was, 'cause he took out the toilet seat so I couldn't hit myself over the head and drown, and he took out the toilet paper so I couldn't bend the bars, roll the toilet paper out the window, slide down the roll and have an escape. Obie was makin' sure.

It was about four or five hours later that Alice--(remember Alice? There's a song about Alice.)--Alice came by and, with a few nasty words to Obie on the side, bailed us out of jail, and we went back to the church, had another Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat, and didn't get up until the next morning, when we all had to go to court. We walked in, sat down, Obie came in with the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one, sat down.

Man came in, said, "All rise!" We all stood up, and Obie stood up with the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures, and the judge walked in, sat down, with a seein' eye dog and he sat down. We sat down.

Obie looked at the seein' eye dog . . . then at the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one . . . and looked at the seein' eye dog . . . and then at the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each on and began to cry.

Because Obie came to the realization that it was a typical case of American blind justice, and there wasn't nothin' he could do about it, and the judge wasn't gonna look at the twenty-seven 8 by 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explainin' what each one was, to be used as evidence against us.

And we was fined fifty dollars and had to pick up the garbage... in the snow.

But that's not what I'm here to tell you about.

I'm here to talk about the draft.

They got a buildin' down in New York City called Whitehall Street, where you walk in, you get injected, inspected, detected, infected, neglected and selected!

I went down and got my physical examination one day, and I walked in, sat down (got good and drunk the night before, so I looked and felt my best when I went in that morning, 'cause I wanted to look like the All-American Kid from New York City. I wanted to feel like . . . I wanted to be the All-American Kid from New York), and I walked in, sat down, I was hung down, brung down, hung up and all kinds of mean, nasty, ugly things.

And I walked in, I sat down, they gave me a piece of paper that said: "Kid, see the psychiatrist in room 604."

I went up there, I said, "Shrink, I wanna kill. I wanna kill! I wanna see blood and gore and guts and veins in my teeth! Eat dead, burnt bodies! I mean: Kill. Kill!"

And I started jumpin' up and down, yellin' "KILL! KILL!" and he started jumpin' up and down with me, and we was both jumpin' up and down, yellin', "KILL! KILL! KILL! KILL!" and the sergeant came over, pinned a medal on me, sent me down the hall, said "You're our boy". Didn't feel too good about it.

Proceeded down the hall, gettin' more injections, inspections, detections, neglections, and all kinds of stuff that they was doin' to me at the thing there, and I was there for two hours... three hours... four hours... I was there for a long time goin' through all kinds of mean, nasty, ugly things, and I was just havin' a tough time there, and they was inspectin', injectin', every single part of me, and they was leavin' no part untouched!

Proceeded through, and I finally came to see the very last man. I walked in, sat down, after a whole big thing there. I walked up, and I said, "What do you want?" He said, "Kid, we only got one question: Have you ever been arrested?"

And I proceeded to tell him the story of Alice's Restaurant Massacree with full orchestration and five-part harmony and stuff like that, and other phenomenon.

He stopped me right there and said, "Kid, have you ever been to court?" And I proceeded to tell him the story of the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one . . .

He stopped me right there and said, "Kid, I want you to go over and sit down on that bench that says 'Group W'."

And I walked over to the bench there, and there's... Group W is where they put you if you may not be moral enough to join the army after committin' your special crime.

There was all kinds of mean, nasty, ugly-lookin' people on the bench there . . . there was mother-rapers . . . father-stabbers . . . father-rapers! FATHER-RAPERS sittin' right there on the bench next to me! And they was mean and nasty and ugly and horrible and crime fightin' guys were sittin' there on the bench, and the meanest, ugliest, nastiest one . . . the meanest father-raper of them all . . . was comin' over to me, and he was mean and ugly and nasty and horrible and all kinds of things, and he sat down next to me. He said, "Kid, what'd you get?"

I said, "I didn't get nothin'. I had to pay fifty dollars and pick up the garbage."

He said, "What were you arrested for, kid?" and I said, "Litterin'"' . . . . And they all moved away from me on the bench there, with the hairy eyeball and all kinds of mean, nasty things, till I said, "And creatin' a nuisance . . . " And they all came back, shook my hand, and we had a great time on the bench talkin' about crime, mother-stabbin', father-rapin', . . . all kinds of groovy things that we was talkin' about on the bench, and everything was fine.

We was smokin' cigarettes and all kinds of things, until the sergeant came over, had some paper in his hand, held it up and said: "KIDSTHISPIECEOFPAPERSGOTFOURTYSVENPAGESTHIRTYSEVENSENTENCESFIFTYEIGHTWORDSWEWANTTOKNOWTHEDETAILSOFTHECRIMETHETIMEOFTHECRIMEANDANYOTHERKINDOFTHINGYOUGOTTOSAYPERTAININGTOANDABOUTTHECRIMEWEWANTTOKNOWTHEARRESTINGOFFICERSNAMEANDANYOTHERTHINGYOUGOTTOSAY . . ."

And he talked for forty-five minutes and nobody understood a word that he said.

But we had fun fillin' out the forms and playin' with the pencils on the bench there.

I filled out the Massacree with the four-part harmony. Wrote it down there just like it was and everything was fine. And I put down my pencil, and I turned over the piece of paper, and there . . . on the other side . . . in the middle of the other side . . . away from everything else on the other side . . . in parentheses . . . capital letters . . . quotated . . . read the following words: "Kid, have you rehabilitated yourself?"

I went over to the sergeant. Said, "Sergeant, you got a lot of god-damned gall to ask me if I've rehabilitated myself! I mean . . . I mean . . . I mean that you send . . . I'm sittin' here on the bench . . . I mean I'm sittin' here on the Group W bench, 'cause you want to know if I'm moral enough to join the army, burn women, kids, houses and villages after bein' a litterbug."

He looked at me and said, "Kid, we don't like your kind! We're gonna send your fingerprints off to Washington"!

And, friends, somewhere in Washington, enshrined in some little folder, is a study in black and white of my fingerprints.

And the only reason I'm singin' you the song now is 'cause you may know somebody in a similar situation.

Or you may be in a similar situation, and if you're in a situation like that, there's only one thing you can do:

Walk into the shrink wherever you are, just walk in, say, "Shrink, . . . you can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant", and walk out.

You know, if one person, just one person, does it, they may think he's really sick and they won't take him.

And if two people do it, in harmony, they may think they're both faggots and they won't take either of them.

And if three people do it! Can you imagine three people walkin' in, singin' a bar of "Alice's Restaurant" and walkin' out? They may think it's an organization!

And can you imagine fifty people a day? I said FIFTY people a day . . . walkin' in, singin' a bar of "Alice's Restaurant" and walkin' out? Friends, they may think it's a MOVEMENT, and that's what it is: THE ALICE'S RESTAURANT ANTI-MASSACREE MOVEMENT! . . . and all you gotta do to join is to sing it the next time it comes around on the guitar.

With feelin'.

CHORUS

Earplugs, Anyone??

Tomorrow morning, at daybreak, I imagine I will be jolted from my slumber by the sweet serenade of shotgun blasts. Yes, it is the opening day of waterfowl season here in the bluegrass state. From now until spring, my 1 acre kingdom is an island. The cornfields on either side and behind me are flooded to lure unsuspecting ducks and geese of all varieties to their deaths at the hands of “hunters”. I put that word in quotes because it don’t seem like much of a “hunt”. There is an intricate system of levies and pumps to flood the fields. Corn was planted and left standing to provide an “all you can eat before you die” buffet. And all of this is located conveniently less than a mile as the crow flies( or duck or goose as is more appropriate here) from the wildlife management area (killing fields) and smak dab in the Mississippi flyway of migrating waterfowl. The owners and employees of the “hunting club” have been busier than a cat coverin up shit for the past 2 weeks makin sure everything is in readiness for opening day. The blinds are camouflaged, fully stocked and ready to go. They are equipped with padded, comfy, swivel seats to shoot from, refrigerators, phones, electric grills, dog boxes, and baseboard heating. The decoys are in place. There are the familiar floaters, and the higher tech, controlled from a switch inside the blind, rotating wings. Also with a switch, the hunters can turn on ice eaters, which will dispel any ice that may dare to form on the water, thereby keeping the area within their gun sights a welcoming landing spot for the waterfowl. Yes, this a truly a sport for those hardy “he-men” types. It is not a sport for the “faint of wallet” however. Here are the rates from their updated website:

RATES
5 or more hunters
$125.00/hunter/day - unguided
$150.00/hunter/day - guided
4 or less hunters
$150.00/hunter/day - unguided
$175.00/hunter/day - guided
NB! - All first time visitors must be guided at least the first day

I really appreciate that last line, as at least 2 of the blinds that I can see from my yard are facing directly at my little island. This will be the first time I have lived here during the waterfowl season. When I lived in downtown Tulsa, I became so used to the sound of sirens, both ambulance and police, that they rarely registered in my conscious mind. I wonder if I shall become inured to shotgun blasts this winter. My only hope is to figure out a way to divert the unsuspecting feathered ones from the avian Motel Hell surrounding me. Anyone want to invest in a giant 3D eagle kite with a 9 foot wing span, complete with talons?

Green Acres??

I found the following video on a site I like to visit. The site is Environmental Working Group. Here is a link to their homepage. It's information that affects us all, and they have gathered it all in one place. There are databases of cosmetics, bottled water, what items are safe for children, and a very readable, up-to-date record of the footsie-playing that takes place between big business and our elected officials on issues that affect the quality of our lives. For instance, did you know that there are toddlers that have a contaminant in their systems that is the residue of rocket fuel?? I had no idea, and I haven't seen it mentioned on any mainstream news sites, even those with "health" sections. There are hours and hours of the most unsettling reading here. It is not presented as doom and gloom though. There is a lot of information on what we can do to avoid a lot of these hidden dangers, and how we can help change things. They even deliver info in blog format, with The Mulch Blog and Enviro Blog. Next time you are looking for something informative and entertaining to peruse, check them out. They also maintain a database on recipients of farm subsidies, and that is what the video I have embedded here is about. Mulch Blog provided the code to embed it, otherwise I don't think I could have figgered it out. Thanks, Mulch Blog.

Deer,Deer

I checked my email just a bit ago, and guess what? In a message from one of my genealogy lists from my home county there was a link to a story from the paper based in Frostburg, the other end of the county. This is one thing I would like to be lucky enough to see someday. Two good stories in a row! Can't remember when I've had a more enjoyable Saturday morning. Makes me even more homesick.



Nov. 15, 2007
A LUCKY SIGHTING – A true albino deer was spotted recently near Swallow Falls State Park. Albinism is a result of inherited recessive genes from both parents and prevents the body from making the usual amounts of pigment melanin, which is responsible for skin, hair, and eye color. Being completely white all year long, an albino deer lacks the camouflaging that conceals it from predators. The genetic disease also causes poor eyesight, creating another strike against it when it comes to survival of the fittest. The hunting of albino deer is highly discouraged, as these creatures are so rare. Spotted with the albino deer was a suspected sibling showing white spots of its own. Photo provided by Garrett County resident Pam Glotfelty.

Happy Ending

As I was sitting here this morning, getting my wake-up dose of caffeine and nicotine, I ran across the perfect news item for a quick Saturday post. It comes from my hometown paper. At least the paper the covers my hometown area. My hometown paper ceased publication about a year ago. A very sad day for the Tri-Towns, but time marches on. I read it every morning, just to feel close to "back home". This week I learned,through this paper, that the man who shot George Wallace during his campaign for president, has settled in this small town. He has declined all requests for interviews, including those from the big news networks offering money for his story. Stories about encounters with wildlife are not unusual for this paper. Deer have "crashed" weddings by coming through glass front walls of chapels, bear are often captured wandering through the drive-up window by bank security cameras, and this summer, a couple was chased into their home by a bear that refused to give up the pursuit. After they shut themselves inside, the bear proceeded to try to remove a window air conditioner from the front porch window. The wife held on from the inside, long enough for her husband to retrieve and load his shotgun. An autopsy or animaltopsy revealed that the bear was rabid. But this story left me with a smile.



Unable to see, a deer lies in a field outside the Beverly Living Center in Cumberland with a plastic jack-o’-lantern stuck on its head Friday morning. Representatives from the DNR were able to gently remove the pumpkin decoration from the deer without any harm being done. After the deer was rendered free of its affliction, it happily hopped off into the woods behind the nursing home.
John A. Bone / Cumberland Times-News

P.S.

I did a quick search after my previous post and I think I have found the name of the show where the photo was taken. The internet is truly an amazing thing. I will paste the info I found here:

PURCHASE, Andrew. (2). Menagerist. Born 1835, in Sheffield, the son of Andrew Purchase, senior. Not a vast concern, but in 1899 had a good collection of animals, 5 or 6 cages, with 3 cages of waxworks. In 1908, his lion tamer Marco, a coloured man, was attacked at Purchase's menagerie. Partner in Purchase Brothers' Circus and Menagerie, which altogether comprised twenty wagons, which travelled in fourteen different countries, eight years abroad, before the Great War. Bob Gandey started out with them. Married twice, first to Elizabeth Jane Treloar, and second to Grace Grant. Died 11th August 1909, aged 74 years, in Brighton. Buried Brockley Cemetery, London. Retired but was with the menagerie for a time during the summer. His son Andrew (3) (1867-1942) was in partnership with his father, and continued the menagerie. Son Thomas (1877-1932) was a showman, daughter Jane (b.1877, married a Mr Abrahams), son James (b.1880) was a showman, who married Annie, as was son William (1884-1951, married Alice), daughter Grace Emily (b.1887) and son John Benjamin (born 1886, married Vic), manager of Pat Collins' lion show in the 1920s (Sources - Worlds Fair, 15/2/1908; ibid, 14/8/1909, ibid, 18/9/1909; ibid, 9/3/1929, p.18, col.3; ibid, 10/8/1929, p.24, col.2; ibid, 14/9/1929, p.11, col.1; ibid, 23/11/1935, p.19, col.2; ibid, 4/4/1953, p.20, col.5; Nick Brady, e-mail of 4/7/2003).
PURCHASE, Andrew. (3) Of menagerie fame. Born 11th March 1867. Still alive in 1937, living in retirement with his son John (Sources - World's Fair, 13/3/1937, p.1, col.3; Nick Brady, e-mail of 9/9/2003).
PURCHASE, Andrew. (3). Of waxworks and menagerie fame. Born 11th March 1867, the son of Andrew (2). Was with his father's waxworks show. As a young man set up a side-show of a performing seal, then added a giant horse. After the death of his father, he inherited the waxworks and toured this for some time. Gradually he introduced wild animals, making a waxworks and menagerie. In the meantime he had married, twice, and his sons became animal trainers, under the names Capt. Beaumont and Prof. Williams. Married first to Harriett Buckley and second to Daisey. Died 28th February 1942, 74 years of age. Father of Victoria Jane (married Cornelius Mahoney), Frank, John (1897-1958, showman, married Ann Crowther), Matilda (1896-1945, married Francis Brady), Albert (b.1898) and Edward (b.1900).(Sources - The Showman, 7/3/1902, p.41, col.2; World's Fair, 7/3/1942, p.1, col.2; Nick Brady, e-mail of 4/7/2003).
PURCHASE, John. Menagerist and circus manager. John Benjamin, born 6th March 1886, at Cranbrook, Kent, the son of Andrew Purchase (2) of Menagerie and Waxwork Show fame. Brother of Andrew (3) (1867-1942), Thomas (1877-1932), Jane (b.1877, married Abrahams), James (b.1880), William (1884-1951) and Grace Emily (b.1887). Born with his father's menagerie show, on the village green. The fourth generation of the menagerie family. Travelled with the show in fourteen different countries, eight years abroad before the Great War. The show incorporated the Purchase Brothers, the circus and menagerie (8 wagons), and the New Wild West, altogther 20 wagons. Did his share of the ring work. In 1913 joined Thomas Ord Pinder's circus, with his uncle, under the names of 'Lariat Tom' and 'Jack Corbett'. In 1914 he went to South Africa with Bostock's Royal Italian Circus, staying three and a half years. At Singapore joined H.M. Forces, but was invalided out with malaria. Had three seasons with Frank Bostock, including one in France. Manager of Pat Collins' lion show in the 1920s. Joined G.B. Chapman's Zoo Circus, for the 1928-9 season, as general manager. At liberty in February 1929, his position having been taken over by Albert Flexmore. In 1948 was reported to be in South Africa, with John Kirk's circus. Said to have engineering qualifications. His brother William died in the USA in 1951. Celebrated his 78th birthday in 1964, at his home in Hanwell, London. Died 11th August 1964, at his home in Hanwell, London. Buried 17th August (Sources - World's Fair, 2/3/1929, p.10, col.3; ibid, 9/3/1929, p.18, col.3; ibid, 20/11/1948, p.1, col.5; ibid, 28/1/1950, p.14, col.5; ibid, 14/3/1964, p.1, col.5; ibid, 15/8/1964, p.1, col.5; Nick Brady, e-mail of 4/7/2003).

More From the Dig

In yesterday’s post, I took a pic of some straight razors. I also unearthed a box of old photos. And the one on the top intrigues me to this day. I remembered that I had “digitally restored” this one a couple of years ago. I slapped my old hard drive in the external drive box, and lo and behold, there were the before and after versions. Years ago I worked in the only professional photo lab in the Jackson Purchase. I was a spotter and finisher in the art department. I learned to cover tiny dust spots, scratches, and any stray airborne debris that might cling to the negatives, and thus appear in and mar the final prints. We used photo dyes we mixed by hand, and sable brushes that we trimmed and plucked until only a single hair protruded at the tip. And that is what we corrected the photos with. If the order was large with lots of the same print, you had to correct the same imperfection over and over and over again. But it was one of my favorite jobs ever. When I got my first copy of Photoshop though, I could see the writing on the wall. Anyone with a computer could correct, alter and enhance any photo with no need for an art department. Other than my web browser, Photoshop is my most used program. I can easily lose an entire day manipulating photos, the possibilities are endless. Today’s photo is one of the first ones that I did extensive work on. It was learn by doing, the self-taught method. I could probably do a better job now, but I’m keeping these files for old times sake. Now to the photo. It is one of those old ones that is mounted on a cardboard type mat. On the back is written “taken in Delray, Mich. May 31, 1912”. First, the scan of the original time worn photo, then my amateur effort at restoration.





There are 2 gentlemen on the far left, one holding his bicycle and wearing a cap, and the other posed against a pole, wearing a straw boater. His pose suggests he may be an employee of the show. Or he could be the escort of the young lady in white. I would guess that the man behind the podium is the barker. The fellow on the ground to the left of the podium seems to be a worker too, bein as he doesn’t have a suit coat on, like you would expect from a visitor. Now for the folks on the box. The young lady in white I would guess to be a carnival goer. She appears to be having fun and is dressed in white. White would be ok for a stroll through the midway, but would definitely not hold up well if the midway was where you worked. The man in the middle doesn’t appear very jolly, but he is wearing a tie. No hat though, as a visitor probably would. Maybe he is one of the snake handlers. The lady to his right does not appear to be amused either. Her no-nonsense expression, the size of her hand, and the way she grips the snake tells me I would not want to arm wrestle with her. I’d guess carny, but I could be wrong. As many times as I have looked at this photo, I still love to zoom in on it and look for details I may have missed. Then I zoom back out and look at the whole picture. It’s a moment frozen forever, a moment of American innocence, just a short time before we were drawn into World War I. There’s a good chance that at least one of the folks in this photo was a first or second generation American, with family ties to a homeland in Europe. Soon enough, the clouds of war would shadow their world, but for this one brief moment, they were all enjoying the sunshine of a young America, and a day at the carnival.

And It Cuts Like A Knife

Well, not really, but “shaves like a straight razor” just don’t have the same ring to it. I was clearing off some space on my desk. It’s really kind of an adventure, or more like an archaeological dig. There are layers of this, this and the other, which seem to accumulate without any conscious effort on my part. I think it’s really just an outward manifestation of my cluttered mind, but it doesn’t seem to be harmful, so I have learned to live with it. These are 3 of my favorite straight razors from my collection. The black handled one is a Red Point. The reverse side of the blade says “Anton Wingen Jr., Solingen Germany. That’s the original box there beside it. The red circle is surrounded by metal inlay and the letters “Red Point Razor” are inlaid metal as well. The next one is a Silver Beauty, and I just love the tortoise shell handle, with the little metal inlays. On the reverse it says “Hamburg Concave”. The third one is the plainest of the three, and the blade says “Manganese Steel”. The other side reads “Wester Bros. Anchor Brand, Made in Germany. I like this one because the handle is ivory, mellowed with age to the color of, well, old ivory. These were essential components of the morning toilet of well turned out gentlemen in the late 19th and early 20th century. There were enough varieties that a man would be able to find one that suited his style and station in life. They come from a time before everything was disposable. From a time when a man’s choice of razor reflected how he saw himself. Using one of these on his face and neck was probably one of the few times that it was not seen as “unmanly” to be delicate. And if he wasn’t when he first began to use one, I don’t imagine it took him too long to learn. Barbering these days is a slowly vanishing trade, and there are few men who have regular standing appointments for a shave. But back in the days of these razors, I can imagine few people a man would have to have more trust in than the man he lay back in a chair and bared his throat to, with one of these in his hand. And in case you didn’t notice (and I didn’t when I snapped the pic) there is an uninvited subject posing for his portrait on the box. Musca domestica, the common housefly, still around in mid-November. Hmm, maybe there is something to this global warming thing….

Autumn

Yesterday was warm. 70 degrees in the middle of November. But it wasn’t sunny, didn’t see the sun all day. The mist that had settled overnight hung around all day long. The game reserve, a mile down the road has been closed since October 15th. There is, however a 2 mile or so loop that is open all year. The road leads to the headquarters building, which is also used as a deer check station, and a sign-in, sign-out spot for those who are “lucky” enough to get to hunt on the closed reserve. Don’t make any sense to me, but I ain’t the one in charge. Anyways, yesterday afternoon, I decided to go idle around the loop, for lack of anything better to do. I have learned to keep the digital cam whenever “Shifty” and I go roaming. “Shifty” is my name for my 1986 Toyota 4Runner, the successor to “Dyna”, my Buick who did not know that she was not a 4 wheel drive or john boat. We traded an old dump truck for a tractor, and traded the tractor for Shifty. But enough of my long and varied vehicular history. I idled down the gravel road and passed not one single vehicle. The road passes first through wide open fields that are bordered by distant treelines. Gates block access to the other parts of the reserve (at least in broad daylight, and to the type of folks who stop at red lights when there ain’t even another car in sight).Locked gates and fences are merely suggestions, or challenges even, to another type of folk. But I digress once more. The gravel road eventually comes to a 90 degree left turn, and here begins the better scenery, in my opinion anyways. On both sides, the edges of the road drop off into sloughs filled with cypress and soon to be home to more ducks and Canada and snow geese than I care to count. The migrators are beginning to show up and you can see and hear em coming in all day long. I shut Shifty off and took some pics on both sides of the road. They are not your typical autumn leaves type shots, but it’s what passes for fall foliage here in the river bottoms.

DoWhat?

That little phrase is southern for “would you say that again” and a polite way of sayin “you have got to be shittin me”. The voice rises on the “what” and the “wh” is pronounced correctly with the slight outrush of breath for the “h” preceding the “w”. Thanks to Mrs. Malcolm, my first grade teacher, and the Maryland school system, for teaching phonics before teaching us to read. It’s a phrase I had never heard used before moving to Kentucky. It is just one of the myriad turns of phrase that make the southern accent so melodious. I have lived here for so long now, that it has become second-nature for me also. And it is exactly what ran through my mind when I read this in the morning local paper:

“Although consensual sex between a teacher and student at least 16 years old is legal in Kentucky, encouraging a child to disobey her parents is illegal, Marshall County Attorney Jeff Edwards previously said.”

OK, everyone say it with me… “Do What???.” Yet another example of truth is stranger than fiction. And of how far up their asses legislator’s heads usually are. WARNING: offensive language coming up. To me this translates as “you may fuck my daughter or son as long as I give permission. However, if you do so without my approval, I can haul you into court on a misdemeanor charge of unlawful transaction with a minor”. Johnny or Jane may not be able to read, but if they screw the appropriate teachers, they can still get that coveted high school diploma. Here is a link to the entire article. And I have to insert one more paragraph, just to show the thoroughness of the investigation by Kentucky State Trooper Patterson:

“Investigators swabbed the driver’s seat, driver’s floorboard, center floorboard hump and passenger seat of a blue Ford pickup truck registered to Mike or Kathy Colvett in response to an affidavit Patterson filed. Patterson said the girl told him she and Colvett had sexual intercourse Sept. 22 on the truck’s front seat."

The center floorboard hump”, ok, did they go back and read what they wrote before submitting it, or were they just trying to get the judge to crack a smile, and risk losing the “dignity of his robes”? One final thought, is it any wonder that, as a state, we rank about 47th or so in education?

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.