Home Page ImagesLet's take a rambling, non-business related tour of these home page images (or not), going clockwise from the top left. They are all Click to Enlarge, and there are links to other images and websites, so you can keep a second window open to view them (or not). This is a balopticon, a topic discussed at some length under "Balopticon?" at the bottom of the Navigation Bar Menu, formerly known as the Table of Contents. "Irish Books" is a wonderful 3D image produced by artist Terry Halladay from his personal collection of Irish literature. Find out more about Terry at http://www.pcnet.com/~thallad/. Next up is the lovely Jennie Rooney, looking down on the proceedings from the top right corner. Miss Rooney was a bareback rider and aerialist during the heyday of the American circus. This luminous 8" by 10" Chicago Daguerre studio shot is printed on linen paper. The inscription on the reverse, written in a nice hand, reads, "To Edith with Sincerest good Wishes, Jennie Rooney, 1925." It comes from a large lot of fellow performer Edith Gillette's papers purchased at auction not long age. (Go to http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/circusgirls.jpg for a look at far left Edith and friends in this undated snapshot.) Among the memorabilia, signed photos, correspondence, route books and other circus ephemera, we find Edith's 1930 contract, signed for Ringling Brothers by the Equestrian Director. Her job description was simply, "Iron Jaw act, Statues [looking like white marble while performing feats of agility and strength] and to be generally useful." "The Artist agrees to participate in all entrees, spectacles, parades, attend any and all rehearsals, whenever and wherever requested to do so by the EMPLOYERS." I recently attended the opening of The Great American Circus exhibit at the New York State Museum, which featured vintage posters, huge sideshow banners, and a sprawling model circus. The Hanneford Circus happened to be opening in town that weekend, and three of its stars were present with their handlers to participate in the spectacle. The troupe consisted of a very young Mongolian contortionist, an engaging clown, and a svelte Russian juggler dressed in black. After their astounding acts, I found myself alone with the sparkling-costumed Mongolian girl in a side gallery room which was filled with richly toned historic circus photos. She couldn't read the captions but carefully studied each image, following a thread through the mists of time. Back to Edith's contract, "The EMPLOYERS agree to pay ARTIST fifty dollars per week, payable weekly, for each week's work performed hereunder; and, while exhibiting under canvas only, offer for the ARTIST'S accommodation, board, and the use and occupancy of their cars." What enjoyment the performers must have provided for the crowds, how happy and excited they must have been, and how fleeting the contortions, iron jaws, and luminosities of youth! As we reluctantly let go of Jennie's toes and drop down the right side of the page, we land on a small safety net of ephemera. First up is a Willimantic Thread trade card (the reverse exclaims, "America Ahead!!!" and "Ask For It! Buy It!! Try It!!!"). It isn't that easy to hold a butterfly without hurting it. A "Main Street, Cobleskill, N.Y." post card follows. It's really remarkable how much everyday history is lost and how little remains, even on Main Street. This card, canceled 9/26/1906, was sent to a Miss Emma Masel of Huntington, Long Island. No street address, just Huntington! With post cards of this era, you had to squeeze your message in on the front somewhere. Shortly thereafter in March 1907 the "divided back" card was allowed by law and came into vogue. Addie, the poster, writes, "Dear Em, we are over here to the fair to-day." The first time I was ever in Schoharie County on a family vacation in the 1970s we went to this same Cobleskill Fair, which was already thirty years old when Addie attended in 1906. Although we divided our time between city, suburb, and Upper Delaware River country, this area of the great Empire State was heavily agricultural and somewhat of a departure for us. The raffle ticket grand prize was loudly announced . . . a ten pound container of teat dip. I remember my dad quipping, "What's second prize, a twenty pound container?" Imagine my surprise when I got back from a post-college trip around the country some years later to find out we were actually moving to this county! I was working two jobs there before I knew it, one on a night-crew. There was a drinking establishment right on the post card-pictured Main Street with a raised platform, and once my barstool back legs went over the edge. They said my head hit the floor like a case of beer. When I came to I remembered my name, but only one of my jobs. I took this for a sign and quit the other one. But I digress. Next is an archetypal Indian maiden inexplicably named "Adoeeta (Big Tree)" from a set of four ink blotters (go to http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/blottermaidens.jpg) chosen from among her peers for the bright red garb and repeat of the cloudy nighttime sky above. Of the three remaining blotter maidens, I recognize the middle name, "Teckawitha (Lily of the Mohawks)." Kateri Tekakwitha, who died a martyr in 1680 at age twenty-four, was sickly, half blind, celibate, and smallpox-scarred. Those minor details aside, the illustrator did a great job capturing her likeness. Truth is often the first casualty of advertising, Native American history, and sanctification. Her skin is said to have become miraculously clear and radiant in death. Kateri was born in the area, and I've been stockpiling Tekakwitha ephemera for years awaiting her eventual canonization, when such items will assume their own radiance. Ink blotters were often beautifully printed (in this case a Brown and Bigelow job dated 1925), and it is easy to surmise that many hated to ruin them cleaning the tips of their fountain pens, which is why so many have come down to us compared to other types of ephemera made to last "of a day." Next is an unused nautical motif bookplate which reads, "A book is a journey. " Bookplates are used to identify their bearers as belonging to a particular person or library. Any bookplate adds to your knowledge of the journey of that generally silent book, and an important or "association" bookplate can increase its ultimate value. Learn about this fascinating field of collecting and see some examples here (http://www.bookplate.org/) and here (http://www.antioch.com/lobby_history2.html). A truncated A. S. T. Co. Black Tip Shoe trade card follows. The far right side of this graphic wouldn't fit on the home page. A small white dog is pulling the alarmed cat's tail out from a hole in the shoe while the safely ensconced cat to the left observes (go to http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/blacktip.jpg). Actually, these are probably kittens, as they fit easily into children's shoes. If there was copyright information it has flaked off from the border. Caption at top reads, "Showing the value of the A. S. T. Co. black tip on childrens shoes." The shop owner then had his or her store name printed on the reverse, in this case one R. G. Galger, a dealer in boots, shoes and slippers from Chelsea, Mass. "With" appears under the contented kitten's sturdy black tip shoe . . . "Without" under that of the hard-bitten sibling's posterior, and there hangs a tale. When I was but a lad with cheek of tan my Uncle Joe had a sporting goods country store in Narrowsburg, NY called Snug Harbor filled with great items from a bygone era. A gang of locals led by my Uncle Jim (second from right in staged photo) used to go down to the big Sportsman Show in New York City and recreate even earlier country stores, so it was packed with old tins, dry goods, and other choice artifacts (go to http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/generalstore.jpg). I guess if I could travel back in time and had a couple of minutes to grab anything, profit-wise, I'd have to go for the boxed fishing lures and some of the porcelain signs, but everything in that store was interesting. My brother has the long glass and mahogany showcase, once so busy, but not much else remains in the family. Anyway, centrally located near the proverbial pickle barrel was a large old chromolith poster showing a well-fed contented gent who saved his money or invested it in so-and-so on the left, and an emaciated Dickensian character on the right in a gloomy setting with his pockets turned out and rodents cavorting in his open floor safe. I forget the caption but was impressed forever with the eternal message of all advertising, be it straightforward like this or ever so subtle. "Do what this ad says or you're screwed!" Dogs, so often overshadowed by cats among bibliophiles, are represented next in this 1904 Crex Grass Carpet advertising bookmark. "I'll keep this place for you," says the terrier sitting on the open book. According to the reverse, Crex American grass twine carpets at 50 cents per yard "will outwear and outlast any other floor covering at double the price. It can be washed with a hose or scrubbed with soap and water, and a few blows with a rattan will remove all dust that may cling to it." This Crex bookmark was cheaply rubber-stamped in red in the allotted blank space by F. R. Stone & Co. out of Dolgeville, NY, which sits at the foot of the flinty Adirondacks, rather than printed up special like the fancy city shops often did. It holds a tenuous position stuck in a seam on the back wall of my computer desk until better dog ephemera comes along. Next is a bright blue plastic Norman Rockwell paper clip, chosen because it fit in a little empty space in this scan and because some bright blue was called for. It comes from the nearby Rockwell Museum. I have mixed feelings about plastic and about Norman Rockwell. The Arnolds of bread baking fame gave rise to no heirs, and I ended up with many crates of their belongings purchased at auction for low dough. Tucked among the files were nearly undiscovered negatives of these photos of Dean and Betty Arnold as they saw their commissioned Rockwell portrait unveiled for the first time (http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/rockwellarnold.jpg). Betty doesn't look very happy with the results. "I was carefree and beautiful in my youth (go to http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/youngarnolds.jpg), and getting older is one thing, but I certainly look better than that!," she seems to be thinking. NR is using his long splayed brushes and a pointer to keep them at bay during this awkward event. I'd like to write up this Arnold stuff some day, which is a wealth of unpublished material compared to the tiny nuggets of newly mined Rockwell lore which haven't been biographied out yet, but it's about number fifteen on the back burner. "He is a speed boy on the bases." That's what the sports bio of Harry Rice of the Cincinnati Reds says on this circa 1934 Diamond Match Company preserved matchbook cover. I paid more than I care to remember for a bunch of these at a paper auction because I hadn't seen them before and thought they might be highly valuable. The score so far is Speculation 1, Realization 0, but there are still a couple innings left and I'm the home team. These are now selling much better in the shop than through the virtual black hole that eBay has become. As all manner of items get sucked in and made available, prices drop. Common items used to go sky high, and now fairly rare items go under the money. I prefer bookstores that are not online, estate sales where they've never seen the Antiques Roadshow, and auctions where the word eBay is never uttered. That leaves one item from this ephemera lot, which is a tiny half inch bookseller's paper label. The backing paste is all dried up, and it fluttered down onto my keyboard some time ago from a forgotten tome. "Henry Miller, Bookseller & Binder, 32 Ann Street, NY." Old city directories place Miller there in the late 1860s before he relocated to Nassau Street not far from the Currier & Ives establishment. It would be fun to present this at 32 Ann Street sometime, where I would be guaranteed an amusing Big Apple reaction one way or another, but it is probably more useful sitting incongruously on top of my black monitor as some kind of tiny, mute reminder. Speaking of threads to the past, I pulled off something similar in nearby Albany last year with a small spool of silk thread ("Marilyn—the name for Smart Dress Silks") still in its original glassine paper wrapper, which informed us that Perkins Silk Shop used to be at 244 Lark Street many moons ago. I walk by there fairly often anyway, so why not? That storefront is now sort of a post-punk headshop, not far from the friendly local tatoo parlor, but the smart young lady on duty was quite struck with the connection and graciously accepted it. Ephemera, the unintentionally historical gift that keeps on giving. Continuing down, fine first editions of these brawny Fleming and Hemingway works rest mano y mano. I have a chipped front tooth thanks to Ian Fleming's pen. We saw You Only Live Twice in 1967 and came right home to stage a Sumo Wrestling match on the front lawn within a circle of sneakers. Chipped the tooth crashing into my brother on the first collision. It snapped crisply in two like a rifle shot breaking off the tip of a charging elephant’s tusk. Hemingway would have approved. Painted Fans of Japan (1971 eighth printing) spreads open to reveal various guess whats? The next item is one of those little Jell-O booklets from the teens and '20s with all the beautiful interior illustrations (go to http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/jellosettings.jpg). I couldn't draw a chocolate cake under a total eclipse, let alone shimmering translucent Jell-O dessert products against resplendent deco kitchen backgrounds, but here they look good enough to jiggle. This particular example has crossover Rose O'Neill appeal, but her Kewpies creep me out a little sometimes. I like this other Robinson Crusoe-flavored Jell-O booklet image better (http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/jellojetsam.jpg), where deserted desserts wash up on a desert island. Here follows an interesting and fairly scarce 1976 first printing early-years autobiography of Segovia, the master classical guitarist. It's a wonder his interest in "the Cinderella among all concert instruments" survived early tribulations and horrible music teachers. The young Segovia was engaged for two years to a neighbor in Granada, but when her father died, "Salvation lay in her marrying a more prosperous admirer who had been courting her for a long time." "Three nights before the wedding, I went to serenade her in a mood of sad farewell. Shortly after two in the morning, I sat by her window grille, my guitar singing in sorrow and reproach those pieces which could best express the state of my heart. When I thought I saw a shadow moving behind the glass of her windowpane and was breathlessly expecting to see Encarnación's gentle, sweet face, the figure of a sleepless man appeared at the window of the house next door. Unaware of the depth and meaning of my music, he shouted, 'For heaven's sake, stop tuning that guitar and play something gay!'" I kept trying to get rid of the white spot in the top left portion of the scan and finally realized that it's the tip of that funny dotted "i" wrapping around from the spine in a repeat of the front panel lettering. Simple bold dust jacket designs are often the most memorable. Comic books. What can I say about them that hasn't been said before? This particular World's Finest No. 171 from November 1967 comes from a box of them I saved. Gave away lots of other stuff about ten minutes before it started becoming valuable, like three large bags of baseball cards, including some tobacco cards my grandfather reached up into the workshop rafters for one day and handed down to me. These comic books are one of the few things I kept during that dispossession phase. We kids spent whole summers in the country far away from home, and although it was a natural paradise of woods and waters, we were denied heathen TV and radio for weeks on end. For some unfathomable reason my grandmother allowed this one exception of comic book buying to her strict rules of frugality and practicality. Perhaps it's because she realized I'd read her entire twenty volume set of classics (The Count of Monte Cristo, etc.) and a well-thumbed copy of Squirrels and Other Fur-Bearers several times already, and she wasn't about to add to this one-shelf library or spend lots of time at a real library. After careful deliberation I would plunk down my dime or twelve cents in the little outposts of escapism which carried such colorful literature, and upon return to the cabin would run up the field and into a generous birch tree where the breezes were cooler and I could conceal myself until the dinner cow bell rang. Deer would stroll by unawares, and when a family of minks played down the brook underneath one time I was careful not to tell anyone so they didn't get shot or trapped in short order. Superman was drawn much better than he is now, and the plots got ridiculous later on, with all kinds of alternate universes, etc. The Legion of Super-Heroes was way cool, where Superboy flew far into the future and joined other teen-aged crime fighters with various superpowers. Just found an LSH webring which reminds me why I liked them so much at that age. On one site, a guy who calls himself Get-A-Life Boy never got over his first exposure to an issue from 1966, and has finally amassed a complete collection of all LSH appearances. There's an authoritative section called Legion Cruisers: History and Evolution, with the explanation, "In forty years, you go through a lot of spaceship designs." I can't speak for Marvel Comics because I couldn't afford that many heroes, but after awhile you realized that DC Comics were rather conservative and formulaic in nature. "Optimism will never die as long as full-color seed catalogs are published," and it's the same with that glossy comic book cover, but Heavy Metal magazine from the 1970s delivered high quality illustrations and reality-altering story lines on every page (go to http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/herbioforest.jpg), and I have a complete early run of this natural successor to the Silver Age comic book. The title comes from the French version, Metal Hurlant, which translates better as "Screaming Metal," but of course we had to crassly Americanize this magazine and tie it in with heavy metal music-flavored animated films, and after the first few years almost every cover featured robots with breasts (go to http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/hmbacklist.jpg for some earlier examples). And then there's the important and influential periodical Mad Magazine, which Grandma probably thought was just another comic book. My boy picked one up at the airport not long ago and it still holds up pretty well. (Mad gets a nod here from a little publication called Blab!) This all ran concurrently with an interest in pure science fiction, in reprint or paperback form, from Jules Verne through the Golden Age of the 1940s and '50s right on up to contemporary works. Just as sci-fi authors gave solace to free thinkers by skirting the oppressive censorship of the 1950s, I used these writings and a few smuggled cassettes of groups like King Crimson and the Moody Blues to survive long summers in what was essentially a backwoods microcosm of McCarthyism (writer's embellishment—Grandma wasn't quite that bad all the time, and even provided a healthy distrust for imperious authority). As far as today's fantasy, sci-fi, and fanzines are concerned, most don't do a lot for me and I don't have time for those that would. On the other hand, it is the current golden age for film adaptations of early classics such as Lord of the Rings, and for darkly prophetic writers like Philip K. Dick. Among the fantastically talented American illustrators, N. C. Wyeth captured my attention early for his classic Scribners book illustrations. "Romance of Adventure" graced a 1928 Children's Book Week poster commissioned by the National Association of Book Publishers. A student of the great Howard Pyle, Wyeth was a larger than life figure in every sense of the phrase. See a brief tribute to him at http://www.illustration-house.com/bios/wyeth_bio.html. It wasn't until much later that I learned of his tragic early demise in a horrible rural Pennsylvania train crossing accident that also took the life of his small grandson Newell. The following is from David Michaelis' 1998 biography. "A large crowd had gathered. The locomotive, disconnected from the cars, was down the tracks puffing steam. Debris lay strewn all over the embankment. A deputy coroner had sealed the crossing, and N. C.'s wallet had been found. It contained two items, a single dollar bill and a photograph of Howard Pyle: a studio portrait of Pyle as a young illustrator, which Caroline had given to N. C. that summer. Two acorns were found in Newell's trouser pocket." How many such artists have departed before their work was finished, and how many more have been cut down prematurely in youth by the laws of physics (slower than a speeding bullet, less powerful than a locomotive, or not able to leap over all life's other hurdles)? The acorn doesn't fall far from the tree, and the interesting thing about the Wyeths of course is that both son Andrew and grandson Jamie went on to become famous painters in their own right. An artist girlfriend dragged me along to see Andrew Wyeth speak at West Point in the late 1970s. He said that no matter what field you are in, from artists such as himself to generals like Patton, you must learn the rules first before trying to break them.
We know a lot about Robert Frost, but have you heard of Vrest Orton? He was a
well-rounded book man and much else. Read about Vrest and simpler times in an
interesting article entitled, "The Happy Storekeeper of the Green
Mountains" which can found through
Next up is Your Figure Beautiful, which appears to be a strange mix of physical culture and cheesecake. This issue, with its striking cover layout, is from 1945, month unknown, with No. 8 in tiny letters on the narrow spine but no other bibliographic information inside. Joe Bonomo was the hands-on editor/publisher, and his name is mentioned a dozen times on the table of contents page. From his message to the readership on the following page, "We learned with deep satisfaction that our bust contour exercises were performing the job of developing or trimming your bust into more svelte lines . . . " Was that his trusting wife with the same last name modeling gloves on page 58, and could Joe be related to the Bonomo's Turkish Taffy of my youth? Gnawing questions. Turns out there's a funny little website titled "Joe Bonomo is My Hero" which answers these and many others at http://www.wfmu.org/LCD/18/bonomo.html. By the way, when you find a site like this in seconds it makes one realize that today's newborns will have as little grasp of pre-internet age research and entertainment limitations as we do of pre-electricity. We're at the lower level now. This eerie image comes from an album of large format photos relating to Scranton, PA area coal mines and the Delaware, Lackawanna and Western Railroad which served them. Hard to say what just lit up, or how the photographer clicked his shutter at that split second. There isn't much room between the floor and the ceiling. What an unnatural place for a human being. Here's another question for the ages. Do men and women do the gender-specific things they do because they have to or because they want to? This companion photo (http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/scrantonmine2.jpg) which is captioned, "Pumping Water Through Coal, Storr's Mines, Scranton, PA Apr. 23, '15" provides another view of the manmade Hades that is coal mining. Strong Men Armed (a 1962 first printing) hits the beach running with an unambiguous title and dust jacket. Originally I limited this particular home page image commentary to the previous line alone, but finally expanded it when everything else was finished. Military conflict is a difficult subject, and perhaps one is more qualified to speak of it if they have had direct experience. Historically speaking, wars are usually fought over territory, religion, and/or wealth . . . usually "and" more than "or." Each generation can relate better to recent conflicts than to something that happened hundreds or thousands of years ago, and unless we finally succeed in going post-apocalyptic, each war is better documented than the last, including the video game type of warfare we now engage in. In America, the Civil War has caught the popular imagination more than ever, eclipsing our somewhat abstract notions about the misty distant Revolutionary War. Historian Stephen Ambrose, documentarian Ken Burns and others have urged us to reinterpret such momentous events through the perspective of the most minor players on the board. In the case of the Civil War, this is largely realized through the use of letters and diaries written from the field, as well as contemporary reminiscences. No matter how one feels about the causes of war and the callous actions of politicians, religious leaders, and generals, the fortitude and bravery of the common foot soldier is often most admirable. The only consolation was best summed up by Abraham Lincoln. "We here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain." As an aside, it is said that we are turning from a service economy into a security economy. I envision a more hopeful future where we concentrate on environmental issues, overpopulation, regional conflict, and the disparity which drives so many of our problems. History and the arts and sciences belong behind the steering wheel, commerce in the back seat along for the ride, and conflict locked in the trunk along with the social Darwinists who think it's such a great thing. I've long wanted to write a science fiction short story where the maladies of the world have largely been solved and a history economy sprang up. Each researcher would track the lives of, say, ten persons from a couple of centuries ago, down to the tiniest mentionable details available. It would all go into a giant database. In some ways this would enhance or supplant religion, largely founded on the mysteries of the unknown and the fear of death, as there would be a tangible permanent record of the unique individual that is you rather than an intangible promise of eternal salvation. We already have heaven and hell right here on Earth, and faith can be applied toward all kinds of good things. To aid future researchers, citizens would be required to write their own autobiography by age fifty or so, for a nice stipend of course, and to supplement that every five years. A WPA-like corps of younger participants with good writing skills could assist those that need it. In terms of genealogy, wouldn't you like to know a lot more about your early ancestors? In terms of local history, I wagered with my kids on a road trip once that we would be driving through lava within five minutes, and they lost. I for one would like to know why the founder of Lava, NY named it so in his own words, because nobody today has any idea why. Overall there would be a great appreciation of how to learn from past mistakes, as well as more respect for the elderly than we see today. History is as concerned with the Whereto as it is with the Whence From. But enough utopian Big Gummint mumbo-jumbo. Back to blood and guts. Will historians ever be able to look back at the military conflicts of the 20th Century with the same detached perspective reserved for earlier eras? The numbers are in, but the results can be confusing. It's hard to make comparisons when we've gone from cavalry charges to guided missiles in one short span, and the specter of nuclear and biological warfare casts an unimaginable shadow. Did the manner in which Germany was treated at the end of WW I lead to an inevitable rematch? Pacifism sounds great on paper, but what do you do when an Adolf Hitler is in your face? What are the ultimate costs of the Cold War, and isn't terrorism in the eye of the beholder? How and why are many citizens so easily duped by their leaders? When the historians and talking heads disagree, and the good old History Channel takes a break from the "Good War" to unwrap ancient Egypt yet again, there is much to learn from the primary sources. Historical accounts are great, but contemporary accounts found in periodicals and letters of the day shed unfiltered light. Early conflicts have given up most of their secrets, and Civil war paper is worth its weight in gold and is getting harder to acquire, but later military ephemera is still cheap and plentiful. I've come across tissuey island surrender leaflets printed in Japanese, tiny beer chits, company newsletters, personal photos, field maps, V-Mail envelopes (which I send to vets for a blast from the past), and hundreds of other items. More ephemeral still are the memories of everyday soldiers who are diminishing in record numbers now. My father-in-law Leo is a very likeable Navy man who tells the kind of great anecdotes that will be lost forever someday. Some of them can be repeated here. Take drinking stories, for example. He was on shore leave in San Francisco and asked for a Budweiser but was told they only had weak "near beer." The comedian Ben Blue (star of stage and screen, described as lanky, rubber-limbed, and sad-faced) happened to be there with his boxer pal "Slapsie Maxie" Rosenbloom (a 208-37-22 record, nicknamed by sports writer Damon Runyon, fought every fifteen days during his four-and-a-half year reign as title-holder), who together with the appreciative crowd strong-armed the bartender to set him up with Buds for the rest of the night. Leo was on both ends of MP duty. Once he ran through a kitchen after a brawl with Army men and stepped in a full sink of dirty dishes to escape through a broken window. Space was at a premium on destroyer escorts, so they used the pea coat room as a brig. It took forever to lug these heavy winter coats in and out, and the detainees almost died of mothball asphyxiation overnight. He carried the same drunk sailor again decades later at their ship's reunion. The "Commodore" at one reunion announced that they'd better start getting together every other year rather than once every four years, but he never made it to the next one. It's quite poignant, like watching Civil War soldiers dwindle in the 1930s. His particular ship served in three wars, and the Korean and Viet Nam vets look with respect to their brave predecessors. My father was in the Army. All four brothers were in different branches, and there's a great photo of all them brushing off Uncle Jim's uniform and shining his shoes which I hope to uncover again some day. Dad was sent to New Caledonia. He didn't particularly like the boredom and regimentation of camp life there. We recently rediscovered this watercolor he made of his bunk area (http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/barracksart.jpg). The only action they saw was when a midget sub with a dead Japanese soldier washed up on shore, or when they shot at large fruit bats known as flying foxes in the gathering dusk. Officers used to lord it over enlisted men in worse than usual fashion, commandeering the best provisions and a whole house of ill repute. They had a large private beach roped off from the smaller inhospitable enlisted man section, and some of the better underwater swimmers used to infiltrate well across the barrier to release bobbing poop mines before returning to the peon side. Details like that aren't going to show up in your average book or movie. I just picked up a very unusual World War II memorial titled No Place for a Picnic by Justin R. Taylan (NY: Wanpela Books, 1994 first printing, softcover, signed by the author). See a couple pages at http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/taylanbook.jpg and http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/taylanbook2.jpg. It chronicles the exploits of one Carl R. Thien of the Counter Intelligence Corps, who participated in the landings at Hollandia, Biak, and the Phillippines. Thien, the official photographer for his unit, was nicknamed Picnic because he could whip up good hot food pretty much anywhere. He wrote two traditional accounts of his own (56th Signal Battalion and Pacific Island Odyssey) , but this work takes a whole new approach to military history. It is mainly an interview in comic book format, cleverly interspersed with Thien's photos; copies of his military records; excerpts from Army newspapers such as En Corps (copied at the F.D.R. Library from a kangaroo bound volume presented by editor Thien to Eleanor Roosevelt when she visited the troops there fifty years earlier) and Guinea Gold (on the masthead, "Vol. 2, No. 193, In the Field, Monday, May 29, 1944, Not for Sale," the headline, "U.S.A. Forces Hop 200 Miles to Land on Biak"); signed letters; maps; and assorted ephemera. Though often humorous, the full horror of war is imparted. "A little later, I got a new assignment from G-2 . . . to photograph dead enemy soldiers. I would travel to the forward infantry units and locate an enemy's body which was killed on a certain date. My photographs were part of a study being conducted by G-2. They concluded it took three days for a body to decompose in the jungle." One illustration shows an inset closeup of maggots at work. We learn that they cooked in their helmets; they listened to the enemy radio propaganda of "Little Orphan Annie" to gain a fuller account of the war news; gigantic spiders "would turn to a pile of mush if you smashed one;" latrine troughs on a converted banana boat troop ship worked fine in calm waters but soaked the decks and their plywood bunks in rough passage; a "C" ration included canned meat or stew, cheese, crackers, juice, butter, salt and pepper, and a roll of toilet paper; the natives on Dutch New Guinea had been treated badly by the Japanese and were paid one guilder for each enemy ear they procured; Thien "liberated" a kerosene powered refrigerator left on the beach in the confusion and hid it in his darkroom to the wonderment of his sweltering comrades, trading space with the medical officer in return for alcohol; the Japanese used a universal bullet that fit almost all their guns; their snipers learned how to let the point man pass by before opening fire on the main body of troops; men who hung their hammocks too high off the ground were sometimes bayoneted from underneath by stealthy night units; Thien got a rude awakening one night when an enemy patrol came through the camp and one of them fell into his foxhole, knocking his teeth out with a rifle butt in the ensuing struggle; soldiers were encouraged to shoot enemy corpses in the head from a distance as some feigned death with a hidden hand grenade; the same wound that got you a discharge in the European Theater of Operations only got you a hospital bed in Australia if you were in the Pacific Theater; WACs lived behind a guarded fence near the commander's quarters, and in order to date one you often needed at least one chaperone, a jeep, and a gun to ward off the remote possibility of attack by "sex starved" GIs; there was an active trade in Japanese medals, guns, and flags, and captured saki and canned crabmeat were shared with gusto; the homefront praised GI's in Europe while neglecting the South Pacific and its "small native villages . . . mud, disease, and insects;" "Our invasion condoms were used to protect our valuables like watches or jewelry . . . the condoms of ETO troops were used for their intended purpose;" when the USO tour came Jerry Colonna and Frances Langford were more approachable than Bob Hope (makes sense though); General Eichelberger did not like to be photographed without his hairpiece on; Thien volunteered for gun tub duty on an AKA bound for Luzon via the Leyte Gulf rather than face the prospect of being below decks behind sealed doors, and the invasion force was under air and sea attack for nine days in a row; after the landing all photographers were told to report to Lyngayen Beach where Thien saw MacArthur make his famous return three times in a row because, "The General's big photo opportunity had to be perfect," though he realized how important it was for morale; Filipino guerrillas looked like "Mexican bandits in an old western movie;" in the permanent HQ in Rosales he commandeered a gigantic wooden crate left in a sugar cane field that had been used to transport a spotting plane, had some carpenters make it into a darkroom and office, traded captured artifacts for a generator, hired three local teens to help him with the photography and counter-intelligence work, and took in a completely shell-shocked guard and patrol German Shepherd named Monkey; and the story winds down as Thien goes home on a forty-five day furlough, endures a week-long train ride to the east coast, goes right to his sweetheart Ginny's house in Brooklyn, shares a steak dinner that cost her parents a month's worth of meat ration stamps, brings her to his house, they break their vow not to get married until after the war, he is ready to ship out again at Fort Dix and is informed that he has enough points for a discharge, and the tale ends with our soldier in bed with malaria a week later thinking he's hearing bells and realizing that the war is over. What bliss most returning soldiers must have felt . . . that first night alone with their wives, mowing lawns rather than marching into hostilities, cold Cokes and hot Chevys on demand, bringing life into the world, and basking in the glow of post-war prosperity. There is an extraordinary amount of minute detail in these 200 plus pages, and the model could be applied to any biographical or historical endeavor, and not just reserved for war tales. Most amazing of all, the author/artist is Thien's grandson, who was only about sixteen when he put this book together! The two of them revisited all the locations mentioned in a 27,000 mile journey in 1993. When the Sky is Like Lace (1975 first edition) is that rare example of a children's book in truly mint condition. They are, after all, meant to be read by children, which puts them in the same general at-risk category as cook books and engine manuals. Perhaps my fondest memory of early fatherhood is sitting down on the couch every night with the kids from a very young age and reading two or three picture books together by such favorites as Bill Peet. They hold up fairly well in sturdy library bindings, but are not the copies sought after by serious collectors. Anyway, the pictured title sold right away for $250.00, but I get lots of phone calls like, "I have a book that is almost one hundred years old, and I will need one dollar per year for it." Even at $1.00 per century, there are too many copies of this busted cloth-bound romance novel out there already. The value of antiquarian and out-of-print books will always be determined by scarcity, desirability, and condition. There's a story behind the first editions on this home page. A box of agricultural books came up in a fairly awful city auction a couple of years ago, and most of them were in unusually pristine condition. Particularly a beauty titled Talks on Manures, with its crisp green binding and bright gilt stamped decoration of a crossed shovel and pitchfork (go to http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/agbooks.jpg). I thought it might make a humorous addition to our bathroom reading shelf. About a third of this lot was published by the Orange Judd Company around the turn of the century, and you could tell they had belonged to one farmer who took great pride in the contents and condition of his library. I was sure to win this box but it went impossibly high, well above retail, and I thought I'd never see their likes again. Then about a year later I was at another auction thirty miles away and darned if the same Talks on Manures and company wasn't there. Most of the other lots at this auction were more modern firsts, and I won everything cheaply enough, but the overall effort was rather time consuming and labor intensive. The proprietor had remarked that this was a small test sample from an upcoming auction, and I suggested later that the consignor might do better if I purchased from him directly, making special reference to the choice manure book. At yet another auction hall the following week he handed me a name and number, and I ended up negotiating over the phone sight unseen. As it turned out, this picker/dealer remembered bidding against me for the farm books, and knew he would get a reasonable offer. He had purchased 2,000 first editions from a retired local book reviewer and had been living among the many boxes they were in for too many years. He admitted to not really understanding them, but said he liked having them around. Most of these firsts had never been cracked open save for the laying in of review slips, and most were in Fine/Fine condition. I was determined to haul them away in one trip and my van was never so low to the ground. He simply wanted double what he paid the reviewer for them, and all four parties to the transaction made out well, as the auctioneer received a finder's fee from both of us. Book reviewer's hoards are quite hard to come by more than once or twice in a lifetime, but if you keep your nose to the ground you never know. "Enough Apples to Keep Ten Million Doctors Away" reads the reverse caption of this International News Photo dated 11/9/1929. "Martinsburg, W. VA . . . These West Virginia beauties taking a little noonday nap atop a veritable mountain of apples on 'Applepie Ridge.' Practically the entire town of Martinsburg turns out to help gather the ten million apple crop." We can only surmise the rest. Girl 2 has read about flappers but hasn't had much opportunity in her neck of the woods. Did rosy-cheeked Girl 3 devilishly bite that apple on her own, or did she take direction from some town father? These two are looking off to the side at fellow Martinsburgians, including relatives. Any suitors out there? It feels funny lying belly down on a large pile of apples. Girl 4 is acting giddy, but camera-wise apron-wearing Girl 5 is all business. If she isn't married to a farmer already she's about to be. I'm kind of partial to contemplative Girl 1. Black Tuesday went down about two weeks earlier, and apples and girls alike are about to be squeezed hard by the Great Depression. This is a dust jacket image of Nellie Bly (1865?-1922), pioneering reformer, captivating writer, and daring journalist. She serves as an excellent example of the pitfalls of biography. After achieving notoriety as perhaps the second most famous woman of her day, behind Queen Victoria, Nellie left the profession at the peak of her powers, seriously flopped when she tried her hand at fiction, married an elderly businessman, and got bogged down running a steel barrel factory before one brief comeback later in life. Her flickering memory was resurrected in the 1950s as the subject of a juvenile biography which was picked up by the media of the day and even made into a cheesy TV movie. It is interesting to track how sloppy research and fictional anecdotes about Ms. Bly made their way into the history books. The pictured work and a recent PBS American Experience installment have set matters straighter, and she is even being honored on a new postage stamp as I write this. There is room for another book on this fascinating character, and that dust jacket will replace the present one some day. I was going to include a link to a pretty good online Encyclopedia Britannica entry here, but it looks like they want you to pay for such information after seventy-two free hours (it took Nellie seventy-two days to beat Jules Verne's Around the World in Eighty Days in her most famous exploit of all), and other pertinent websites are sneaking insidious Amazon.com ads in, so just give it a whirl yourself if so inclined. There's more out there on Nellie Bly every week, as her star is once again in the ascendancy. Pocket Western Magazine (9/1950, Volume 1, No. 1) contains lots of two-fisted stories such as "Scalping on the Red Rogue" and "A Necktie for Russian Bill." "Around the Campfire" was their "dig into the old mail pouch" letters column which was somehow filled in the premier issue. They paid $2.00 per published letter, "be it bouquet or brickbat." This is coupled with The Wizard of Odds (1964), published by Holden's Magic Studio & Supply Shop out of Boston. I received a call from the widow of an established magician who was ready to part with his softcover library after many decades of storage. (An unscrupulous character vanished with his trunk, wands, costumes, books, and other artifacts many years ago.) She was a blonde in the Black Forest of Germany during the dark years, fell in love with the touring Yank prestidigitator, and went on to become his attractive stateside assistant. He died young, and being a tough act to follow she resolved never to remarry. We had a long pleasant conversation in her home before getting down to business, which was the disposition of long runs of the Genii, The Linking Ring, and other periodicals, as well as several hundred magic booklets and catalogs from the 1940s on. She still has a bunch of stuff, including rare printed items that he told her not to part with lightly, but I'm to wait until she's ready and gives me another call. When you read enough of these quirky in-house publications, filled with historical references, practical advice, and tips on patter and showmanship, you get a much clearer picture of what this ancient profession is all about. Prior to our mutually beneficial transaction, my brushes with the arcane world of magic were somewhat less substantial. These included ratting out a beginner magician in a big auditorium as a Cub Scout by unkindly blurting out, "He threw something down there;" and a costumed Doug Henning jumping out of a cab right in front me at the peak of his popularity when The Magic Show was on Broadway. Here's an online trick for you. Do what I'm about to tell you to do as quick as humanly possible. Ready? Okay, pick a number between 1 and 4. Mystically correct answer to follow at the end of the Tolkien tidbit. Jessie Wilcox Smith is another marvelous illustrator (go to http://www.illustration-house.com/bios/smith_bio.html .) I don't "break" books and magazines for plates and tear sheets unless they are in very poor condition, as this book must have been, but I forget where this came from and am too researched-out to investigate. Does anyone know the title of this wonderfully composed home page Smith illustration and the book it came from? The Saucer of Larks (1962) by Brian Friel is a rather obscure title, but I like the dust jacket art, and these stories of Ireland are beautifully rendered. In the contemporary title piece, two members of the Irish Guard accompany two German War Graves Commission officials to a splendidly isolated location called Glenn-na-fuiseog (the valley of the larks) where local fishermen had buried a downed Nazi pilot back in 1942. The sergeant has uncharacteristic second thoughts about their mission which leads to an unusual proposal. "'Not that it matters a curse, I suppose, where they put you when the time comes. But it would be nice to have the sea near you and the birds above you, wouldn't it?' He stole a glance at the Germans's face. 'And you wouldn't be disturbed every ten minutes with funerals crawling past you—I seen them myself years ago when I was stationed in Dublin. Every ten minutes they come; everyone looking sad and miserable. I'm telling you: everything's dead in them places. Once they put you in them big cemeteries, you're finished, all right.'" This was the author's first book. He quit teaching to write full-time. From the jacket blurb, "We spend a lot of our time in the west of Donegal. It is the wildest, most beautiful, and most barren part of Ireland, and the people are almost completely untouched by the present-day hysteria and hypocrisy." It's interesting to go on the net and see how the writer's career turned out. We made a wonderful visit to Ireland the summer last and I took these photos (go to http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/irelandphotos.jpg and just stick in a 2, 3, and 4 after "irelandphotos" for some others). Tree and Leaf (1965 first printing of the first American edition) is a rather obscure Tolkien title, combining the essay "On Fairy-Stories" with the story "Leaf by Niggle." He explains the genesis of this late 1930s work in the introduction. "One of its sources was a great-limbed poplar tree that I could see even lying in bed. It was suddenly lopped and mutilated by its owner, I do not know why. It is cut down now, a less barbarous punishment for any crimes it may have been accused of, such as being large and alive. I do not think it had any friends, or any mourners, except myself and a pair of owls." You will pick 3. Can't say much about this Dean and Sons Changing Panoramic Toy Books trade card, as I don't own it any more, but this website (http://www.library.unt.edu/rarebooks/exhibits/popup2/dean.htm) explains what moveable books are all about. Almost home now, though we must advance against the imposing visage of William Blake's deity. Here's my listing. "Blake, William.~ Europe: A Prophecy.~ Paris: Trianon Press, 1969 first edition thus, No. 116 of 526 copies.~ Fine/slipcase Fine.~ Oversized, quarter light brown morocco, gilt spine lettering, multi-color peacock feather marbled boards, matching slipcase, top edge gilt, 17 full-page color plates, unpaginated. Published under the supervision of the William Blake Trust, this facsimile reproduction is taken from Blake's best surviving original illuminated pages. The opaque pigments of the color-printed designs have been obtained as faithfully as possible by the superimposition of up to five collotype impressions before successive applications of water-colors by hand. The editions are printed on Arches pure rag paper made to match that used by Blake. Each leaf is watermarked with Blake's monogram. A plate-by-plate description and bibliographical statement by Blake scholar Geoffrey Keynes follows each reproduction. The gloriously wild binding is by Engel Malakoff, and comes with a matching hand-made slipcase (go to http://www.balopticon.com/bbeimages/blakebinding.jpg). Includes the famous 'The Ancient of Days,' or 'God Creating the Universe.'~ $375.00. " The following is from the Keynes introduction. " Europe, A Prophecy belongs with America in the series of Illuminated Books composed and printed in Lambeth before and during 1795. Though written after America, it contains an earlier portion of the story of world mythology covering the creation and the first eighteen centuries of the Christian era. As originally planned the book consisted of seventeen plates. At an uncertain date Blake etched a small additional plate with a poetical 'preface' of four stanzas telling how a Fairy, seated on a streaked tulip, sang a song to him about the five senses of man. Blake caught the Fairy in his hat and was told how to write his poem provided he would feed the Fairy on love-thoughts and would give it now and then 'A cup of sparkling poetic fancies'. Blake accordingly took his Fairy home and wrote Europe to its dictation, thus describing in his own way his source of inspiration. Foster Damon has suggested that Blake omitted this lovely poetical fancy from most copies of the book because he identified in it too plainly the sense of touch with sexual pleasure, even though he did not directly name it in the first stanza." According to the Keynes-Wolf Census, only ten copies of this book survive, seven of which are considered earlier printings. "Two copies, printed respectively in brown and black ink, are uncoloured; the other eight are decorated with a combination of colour-printing and water-colour washes excepting the latest copy (K), which is illuminated entirely in brilliant water-colours and gold." (K would correspond to Copy No. 11 rather than No. 10, but maybe they skipped "I" because it looks like "1".) This last was "not available" for reproduction, which meant the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge did not want it shipped out and disbound for the duration of this rigorous facsimile process, but permission was given to make a monochromatic reproduction of the preface, as it did not appear in the other two copies chosen. The B and G copies were judged most similar in their general style to Copy K, and are described as follows. "Copy B has seventeen plates on seventeen leaves, two of which are watermarked I TAYLOR and two J WHATMAN 1794. The plates are printed on a page size 37.5 X 27cm., in golden-brown ink for the full-page and larger illustrations, and green for the small designs and text. The decoration is rich, with water-colour washes added to partial colour-printing; plates 1 to 15 have been foliated by Blake in green. The book is in a roxburghe binding, together with America (copy G) and Jerusalem (copy B). Sold with the first part of P. A. Hanrott's library at Evans's, 19 July 1933, it was subsequently bought by Henry Cunliffe from C. J. Toovey and bears Cunliffe's book-plate and the note 'Toovey 10-10-0'. It has descended by bequest to the present Lord Cunliffe." "Copy G consists of seventeen plates on ten leaves, two of which are watermarked I TAYLOR. The page size is 36 X 25 cm. The text is printed in blue-green, with the last fifteen plates foliated by Blake 1 to 15. Both colour-printing and water-colour washes have been used in the decoration of the plates. The book is bound in old red half morocco with Visions of the Daughters of Albion (copy H) and The Song of Los (copy C). Formerly in the collection of H. A. Mair, it was sold with his library at Puttick and Simpson's, 19 November 1900. Bought by Marsden J. Perry in the same year, it was acquired on 2 March 1908 by W. A. White who gave the book to his daughter, Mrs. William Emerson of Cambridge, Mass, on 22 February 1917. Sold at Sotheby's on 19 May 1958 to Fleming, New York, it is now in the collection of Mrs. Landon Thorne." Let's take a little breather here and talk about the fine art of book collecting. There's probably a list somewhere of someone's opinion of the hundred best books on the subject, but if you had to name two, one should be about the selling side and the other about collecting. The Adventures of a Treasure Hunter: A Rare Bookman in Search of American History (Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1951) by Charles P. Everitt is a salty, wide-ranging reminiscence told without the usual pretenses; and Nicholas A. Basbanes' A Gentle Madness: Bibliophiles, Bibliomanes, and the Eternal Passion for Books (NY: Henry Holt, 1995) is a nice popular introduction to the subject, providing some historical perspective on this ancient and noble profession. He's followed it up with Patience and Fortitude: A Roving Chronicle of Book People, Book Places and Book Culture (NY: Harper Collins, 2001), which takes its name from the two famous lions that guard the entrance to the New York Public Library. Back to Blake. Here's what Keynes has to say about the featured plate. " Frontispiece (G): Commonly known as 'The Ancient of Days', or 'God Creating the Universe', though in fact the deity represents Blake's Urizen, the tyrannical author of the 'vegetable', or material, world. This conception is basic to Blake's philosophy of the spiritual world of the imagination in perpetual conflict with reason, and he took special delight in colouring the print. It is said that he first saw the design as a vision hovering over his head at the top of his staircase in Hercules Buildings, Lambeth, and there was in this position in his house a large blank area of wall above a small window. This would have formed a fine background for his vision. The first pencil sketch for the design is on page 96 of Blake's Notebook with the legend: 'And who shall bind the Infinite' taken from the 'Preludium' to Europe. It is possible that the idea first entered his mind when he read the passage in Paradise Lost, Book VII, beginning: 'He took the golden compass, prepar'd/In God's Eternal Store, to circumscribe/This Universe, and all created things.' Two versions of the plate are known and are described in my catalogue raisonné of Blake's Separate Plates (Dublin, 1956). One of these, probably the earlier, is known in only two examples, and it was not used in any copy of Europe; it belongs, therefore, with the 'Separate Plates'. Seven separate coloured prints of the later state, as used in the book, are extant, including the one now in the Whitworth Gallery, Manchester, painted by Blake, when lying on his death-bed, for Frederick Tatham. In this design God, or Urizen, is represented as a naked Ancient Man kneeling with his left foot forwards in a crimson orb surrounded by heavy clouds. His long hair and beard are swept to his right by a strong wind, while he reaches down into the void with his left arm, the hand holding a huge pair of compasses. The right arm and hand are not shewn, though in one other example they appear against his right thigh and knee, supporting part of his weight on the knuckles." I purchased several of these Trianon Press editions and some other Blakes at an interesting onsite auction in Saratoga Springs some years back. Apparently they belonged to a rather well-known bookseller who priced everything very high (Europe still carries her quite old $500.00 asking price on the final endpaper). Don't know the reason for selling, but she haunted this auction, issuing remarks when winning bids were not astronomical and making scowling measurements from some hidden upper window with a golden compass of her own. Editor Michael Kinsey once quipped that the ideal writer drops off their copy and then gets run over while crossing the street (he'd love this ramble). In a similar vein, most booksellers should not attend the auction where their own books are finally sold. Lo and behold, we're not quite home yet, like the poor guy in the middle section Jell-O booklet from 1925 (there's always room for more Jell-O). This is a smartly conceived dilemma, though not as straightforward as I first thought. The family at the gate is actually on the rear cover, with our running man up front. I reasoned that it was switched around on the artist by the marketing people so the product could appear on the front. At first glance the young girl and dog appear expectant, the son dutifully swinging the gate open shows budding concern, and the mother has a posture of tentative worry. I thought they were seeing an empty buckboard on the horizon, which would only be explained when you looked at the next panel. I labored under this fond (albeit minor) misinterpretation for years, until I realized that he is sitting on the buckboard after all, barely discernable, and that this incident must have occurred somewhat earlier, or even somewhat later, after the dog presumably first alerted them that father was home. It's a little hard to tell for certain, even taking both perspectives into account. Shades of Rashomon! You would have to ask the artist what s/he intended. Anyway, the graphics are great with lots of action and those rather gelatinous mountains under bracing air and a sliver of new moon. There's a little hole punched right through the top corner of these booklets so that a separate four-page offering (Jell-O Ice Cream Powder in this case) might be included within, secured by a small piece of string, like the one shown in the Kewpie Jell-O booklet just to the right. How many pieces of string are still doing duty seventy-five years later? Gracing the cover of this 1906 Hood's Sarsaparilla calendar is a hooded beauty captioned "Sweet Content." Approximately one century old, lying down here but as strong and rich as the day she was painted and printed.
Finally the end is in sight with the fashionable donut lady. It's an
International News Photo but the caption is missing, so I made up my own.
Thanks for Looking.
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