tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84618452024-03-18T23:51:30.938-04:00Simon and IvanSimon and Ivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11936091308868508456noreply@blogger.comBlogger768125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-9677325575212252862015-10-31T14:58:00.000-04:002015-10-31T14:58:44.070-04:00Back to regularly scheduled programming: Lists, Parts the Fourth and FifthIn anticipation of Simon and Ivan reuniting next weekend, from which maybe a blog post will result, and maybe not, depending on how much time we spend in a food coma doing nothing; and because it is Halloween; I am re-animating this blog, not unlike Frankenstein's monster. It may lapse into death again shortly thereafter, but for now . . . it's aliiiiiive.<br />
<br />
In truth, I've also been inspired by two lists that I have collected recently. I was developing a love of lists when we left off, and it has not waned in the intervening . . . erm . . . years.<br />
<br />
<b>List the Fourth</b><br />
It's a little-known fact (I'm guessing) that the village hall of Wyoming, NY contains a shockingly large natural science collection for a place with a population of 500 people in the middle of nowhere. It's a very nice middle of nowhere, and I grew up in the middle of nowhere so I know from middles-of-nowhere, but still: it was unexpected. The collection was created by one Henry Augustus Ward, a professor at the University of Rochester from 1860-1865 among other things.<br />
<br />
This is one of those weird instances when a bunch of previously unconnected things suddenly come together and you realize the world, or at least New York State, is not very big.<br />
<br />
The day before Matt and Adam and Rachel and I stumbled on this little museum in Wyoming, Ivan and I happened to be at the Genesee Country Museum for dinner, which is another post entirely, involving drinking maple whiskey from a flask behind an outhouse like very naughty nineteenth-century schoolboys, now enshrined as one of my most favorite memories ever. It wasn't really an outhouse but it's a better story if it's an outhouse so I choose to remember it that way. Moving right along: between dinner and dessert we went on a tour of the village, and the guide happened to point out a "Ward's box" in one of the houses. How she could remember a single historical fact with sleeves <i>that</i> puffed I really don't know - I would think she would have to devote 90% of her brainpower to the engineering conundrum of how to fit through the next doorway - but I'm glad she pointed out the Ward's box (we would call it a terrarium these days), because it stuck in my mind. The next day, of course, I realized it was the same Ward - in addition to being a professor, he owned a company that shipped scientific specimens all over the world. You can still get microscope slides and live butterfly pupae and whatnot from Ward's Science, and they are still based in Rochester.<br />
<br />
So that was a funny coincidence. Then, just now when I was looking him up, I noticed that he was buried in Mt. Hope cemetery and my brain went <i>bing bing bing!</i> and yes, as it turns out, his is the enormous pinkish gravestone with the enormous granite boulder sitting on top of it that I have passed many times and thought, "Ugh, what an ego." <br />
<br />
And not only that, but Matthew Vassar hired him in 1863 to create a collection for the then brand-new Vassar College. Frankly, at this point, I kind of feel like Dr. Ward is stalking me.<br />
<br />
ANYWAY, the collection is upstairs in the stately Wyoming village hall, in a medium-sized room lined with old glass cabinets and display cases full of every kind of thing you could imagine: birds, fish, mammals, shells (except for rocks, curiously enough) (and, happily, nothing preserved in formaldehyde), all with their original labels. Everything screamed <i>Get your scrumptiously authentic nineteenth-century natural history here!</i> and I was very happy. I sincerely wish I had brought my camera, but in any case, I liked reading the labels one after another in all their seeming randomness. Or maybe I just like nature words. Or Latin. Probably a combination. Here is a very limited list that I jotted down:<br />
<br />
skin of alligator<br />
skin of crocodile<br />
catbird<br />
chipping sparrow<br />
goldfinch nest<br />
assorted unidentified eggs<br />
hedgehog<br />
northern shrike<br />
red-bellied woodpecker<br />
downy woodpecker<br />
sandhill crane<br />
hummingbird nest<br />
blue grosbeak<br />
bluebird<br />
blue and yellow macaw<br />
great blue heron<br />
saw tooth fish [Editorial note: now known as a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sawfish" target="_blank">sawfish</a>; all they had was the saw part, which was initially confusing]<br />
seahorse<br />
puffer fish<br />
Rhinoceros beetle<br />
<i>argonautica argo</i> (Mediterranean)<br />
<i>nautilus pompilious</i><br />
<i>comus gubernator</i> (India pacific)<br />
<i>Cypraea annulus</i> (Singapore)<br />
<i>Helicostyla collodes</i> (Philippines)<br />
<i>Solarium perpectiuum</i> (Zanzibar)<br />
<i>Strombus gallus</i> (Bahamas)<br />
<i>Cypraea eburnea </i>(Philippines)<br />
<i>Fusus distans</i> (Pacific Ocean)<br />
<i>Fasciolaria trapezium</i> (Mauritius)<br />
Lady Amherst Pheasant (Eastern Tibet)<br />
<i>Simin Satyrus</i>, Orang-utan [Editorial note: taxidermy... it doesn't last forever.]<br />
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<b>List the Fifth, which could not be more unrelated to all the other lists </b><br />
<i>Scene:</i> dinner<br />
<i>Status:</i> full of sushi<br />
<i>Present:</i> Adam (instigator), Matt (victim), Simon (recorder)<br />
<br />
Phoebe<br />
Joey?<br />
Rusty<br />
Rothschild<br />
Ross!<br />
Tanya<br />
Tatiana<br />
Antoinette<br />
Shhhhandler<br />
Chandler<br />
Jennifer Aniston as herself<br />
April . . . O'Neil?<br />
Rachel!<br />
Gale Weathers<br />
Carol<br />
Cheryl<br />
Candy<br />
Antoinette<br />
Courteney Cox<br />
Schand'ler [Editorial note: the spelling was specified for me; motivation unclear]<br />
Diane<br />
Dotty<br />
Annie<br />
Andrew<br />
Anton for short<br />
Antoinette<br />
Is it really not Antoinette?<br />
Are you sure?<br />
Alice<br />
Lisa<br />
Lenni<br />
Beatrice<br />
Mara<br />
Mega . . . ?<br />
Matilda<br />
Mondays<br />
Mantoinetta<br />
Mantessa<br />
Montezuma<br />
Oh, it's Monica.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-32460965473157072472014-03-01T23:41:00.001-05:002014-03-01T23:41:18.146-05:00Still Not Art<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRE1R3TjpJU07tzkNyXI5oX8NfJulGOSY-9XPcq2pg_FBJHGFC3nEQckN6k6cN4G_8Q14CFG0vkI0sJra7R0vaHqNh05RZ0-jDQMIlw9H5GmdfcAwVvEtydBfrQ10jozOEQP8ReA/s640/blogger-image-1873046131.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRE1R3TjpJU07tzkNyXI5oX8NfJulGOSY-9XPcq2pg_FBJHGFC3nEQckN6k6cN4G_8Q14CFG0vkI0sJra7R0vaHqNh05RZ0-jDQMIlw9H5GmdfcAwVvEtydBfrQ10jozOEQP8ReA/s640/blogger-image-1873046131.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Boston-- still not artistic. </div>Ivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14824505051309661375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-46661257207415228912014-02-17T15:26:00.001-05:002014-02-17T15:27:47.140-05:00Not Art<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GqS-G-5dS0RKCztimvDba621Jijjw5hn_OPYXftj0PTFiv3cqp-Laomb6cyScFzDl5oKSsUOGfQQ-sq9NrhRTA0TrJxy7eU0A-q_zI-IonQfpc1oHQEXUGYBFj7IO5WSuX66gg/s640/blogger-image--1243663176.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GqS-G-5dS0RKCztimvDba621Jijjw5hn_OPYXftj0PTFiv3cqp-Laomb6cyScFzDl5oKSsUOGfQQ-sq9NrhRTA0TrJxy7eU0A-q_zI-IonQfpc1oHQEXUGYBFj7IO5WSuX66gg/s640/blogger-image--1243663176.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZipiAlvUaS9TnNVBXFydDu0NAlCc8-3AFxK-aef_gh2WbkY_kAmfmmE-1YQ_hwZDhdCobhX0afmK1w2K_KTEvZICro3K4zrtUSEWp4VXJLG_NdKSDlAgZT431ix53SiBJJmjejA/s640/blogger-image-1171285119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZipiAlvUaS9TnNVBXFydDu0NAlCc8-3AFxK-aef_gh2WbkY_kAmfmmE-1YQ_hwZDhdCobhX0afmK1w2K_KTEvZICro3K4zrtUSEWp4VXJLG_NdKSDlAgZT431ix53SiBJJmjejA/s640/blogger-image-1171285119.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrx4KdkzhyFd4M4xjv74sDfiEaiXtSFv_TuxN1o4npREgMbII6wZfOBwISlEYOhrC4SNoOKBWf2i0ijZ1bmK5PfR36br8zkB389LUMIMh1Ss8CVnpnDc0ltnWNQc_dH9cJ3wf8-Q/s640/blogger-image-1988575946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrx4KdkzhyFd4M4xjv74sDfiEaiXtSFv_TuxN1o4npREgMbII6wZfOBwISlEYOhrC4SNoOKBWf2i0ijZ1bmK5PfR36br8zkB389LUMIMh1Ss8CVnpnDc0ltnWNQc_dH9cJ3wf8-Q/s640/blogger-image-1988575946.jpg"></a><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Driving back from Home Depot yesterday someone had scrawled "THIS IS NOT A BANKSY" on the back of a road work sign. Thank you for the clarification on the art scene here</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">, Boston. </span></div>Ivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14824505051309661375noreply@blogger.com1Davis Square Somerville42.39841 -71.122343tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-80168165301508623042014-01-21T18:06:00.000-05:002014-01-21T18:06:46.832-05:00Tea Pirate<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-OTEE_1VFSmzvJVYfvaWqeRMVxxiXH7H4gZDkOKu95BAgrVhQrTYSUuNu6b_UnVav0KfgIhjJW1YB-PfM_S1X6F0qdmSJUyEJ0OxaSqQtFa1z8f1hAT-d-O37c3Iv45v1GBqS-w/s1600/foto.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-OTEE_1VFSmzvJVYfvaWqeRMVxxiXH7H4gZDkOKu95BAgrVhQrTYSUuNu6b_UnVav0KfgIhjJW1YB-PfM_S1X6F0qdmSJUyEJ0OxaSqQtFa1z8f1hAT-d-O37c3Iv45v1GBqS-w/s1600/foto.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
One of the nicest things about this apartment is the presence of Tea Pirate. Yes, his belly is full of tea. Originally I thought the red stuff tucked in his belt was a cup of tea being poured into his pocket. It is not-- it's a revolver. Yes, I know, that does make more sense-- clearly the pirate should be more concerned with defending the tea in his belly than pouring cups of it into his pockets. Anyway, as far as I can tell he's always on his best behavior and has never tried to shoot me as I fish around for an earl grey. Keep up the good work, Tea Pirate.</div>
Ivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14824505051309661375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-63137653978686544882013-06-03T07:30:00.000-04:002013-06-03T10:54:45.853-04:00Concerning History, Biography, and Richard HolmesI've probably mentioned Richard Holmes on this blog more than any other writer except possibly Dorothy Dunnett. His <i>Age of Wonder</i> was magnificent, and pretty crucial to me forming a specific interest in the Enlightenment, and also pretty crucial to my novel, in an indirect but also direct way, not to be vague or anything.<br />
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Richard Holmes is not really an historian, as you might think from reading that book. He's a biographer, which, I've come to realize, is really an art of its own, and a calling. For him, at least. He has the ability to invest himself so deeply in the past that he once bounced a check because he dated it 1772. One time he got so involved in a biographical subject's insanity that he nearly went nuts himself. He's a method biographer, so to speak.<br />
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(It is my duty to point out that going nuts when writing anything long is simply the nature of writing anything long, but it really doesn't help if you're writing about your subject's irreversible descent into madness and subsequent suicide.)<br />
<br />
(Fu<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">rther aside: the subject in question was Gerard de Nerval, who sometimes went for a walk with a lobster on a leash. He was quoted by a friend as saying this: "<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;">Why should a lobster be any more ridiculous than a dog? Or a cat, or a gazelle, or a lion, or any other animal that one chooses to take for a walk? I have a liking for lobsters. They are peaceful, serious creatures. They know the secrets of the sea, they don't bark, and they don't gnaw upon one's </span><i style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;">monadic</i><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;"> privacy like dogs do. And Goethe had</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;"> an aversion to dogs, and he wasn't mad." While I agree, that does not mean Nerval wasn't mad. He was.)</span></span><br />
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But back to my story. Over the past week and a half, I read one of Holmes's rather old books, <i>Footsteps: Adventures of a Romantic Biographer</i>. When I say "old" I mean it was published in 1982, which means I just unintentionally made an ageist crack about myself. Well, some mornings are better than others. Point is, this book was so good kept my attention on an airplane, which usually requires something light like a mystery novel. True story: I always think I'm going to die on airplanes (it's a part of flying that I have learned to accept), and one time before a flight I checked out a book called <i>Death of a Minor Character</i> because I thought it would be amusing if I died in a plane crash reading that book. Worth it! Someday when I do die, please look at what I have checked out from the library because it might be funny. Checking out that book merely for its title was a stroke of luck, actually, because it turned out I really liked it, and went on to read more by the same author, including one of the single most frightening books I have ever read in my life, which just goes to show that there are a lot of really good books that deserve to be read that are probably being discarded by libraries because no one is checking them out. Which implies that there are also a lot of seriously underrated authors, because fame begets fame even when people have stopped deserving it MICHAEL CHABON GET IT TOGETHER but I would never name names.<br />
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Anyway, Richard Holmes seems to have been born to biograph, as it were, and I was as fascinated by his take on biography as I was by the people he covered in this book (R. L. Stevenson's twelve-day trek through the French countryside, Mary Wollstonecraft in during the French Revolution, Shelley and the origin of his mysterious "Napoleonic charge," and of course the unfortunate Nerval -- in case you wanted to know). In fact, this entire post has been in aid of setting up this quote from the book. Holmes has been talking about making friends in Paris and finding an identity apart from the identities of the people he's been writing about:<br />
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<b>"It taught me at least two things. First, that the past is not simply "out there", an objective history to be researched or forgotten, at will; but that it lives most vividly in all of us, deep inside, and needs constantly to be given expression and interpretation. And second, that the lives of great artists and poets and writers are not, after all, so extraordinary by comparison with everyone else. Once known, in any detail and any scope, every life is something extraordinary, full of particular drama and tension and surprise, often containing unimagined degrees of suffering or heroism, and invariably touching extreme moments of triumph and despair, though frequently unexpressed. The difference lies in the extent to which one is eventually recorded, and the other is eventually forgotten."</b><br />
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This is what I love about Richard Holmes: how he offers up these often obscure histories unabashed, convinced of their importance, with every expectation that they will be met with like-minded interest simply because they <i>deserve</i> to be; and how his biographies take into account the reality of how complex it is to be alive and always has been. I rarely catch him condescending to his subjects, as if they were quaint relics of bygone times; if anything, in this book, he over-identifies with them, taking their struggles almost too much to heart. I was worried for the young Richard Holmes as he literally followed Stevenson's footsteps through France -- that he wouldn't find the personal connection with Stevenson that he was looking for and would be so disappointed he'd throw himself off a bridge or something. But it's through biography that he eventually made the connection, between himself and Stevenson, and Stevenson and me, and me and him. And that, it seems to me, is how you make history live: by investing yourself in it and then sharing the dividends. Holmes is a master at this (and so, for that matter, is Dorothy Dunnett).<br />
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One last note: if you ever want someone to write a biography about you, leave a paper trail. It is apparently a grievous disappointment to your biographers if you don't write letters. Please feel free to address them to me. I'll keep them safe in the vegetable drawer of my fridge. As a side benefit, this will also save the United States Postal Service.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-79756916196132643302013-05-20T17:06:00.000-04:002013-05-20T17:06:00.518-04:00Jeanne BaretFriends and relatives, I would like to tell you about Jeanne Baret. I just finished a book about her that has been haunting me for probably two years, and it was every bit as fascinating as I thought it would be.<br />
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Jeanne Baret was the first woman known to have circumnavigated the world. That alone is a feat, but the circumstances it even more remarkable. For one thing, she was born a peasant in the French countryside in 1740. Remember in <i>A Tale of Two Cities</i> when the Marquis runs over that little boy in his cart, and all he does is toss a couple of coins to the boy's father and go off to have some hot chocolate? That's how much French society cared about peasants. Their average life expectancy was 26, and literacy rates for women were 10%. (Men, at 20%, did not fare significantly better.) By all rights, Jeanne Baret should have worked herself into the grave before the age of 30 and been forgotten.<br />
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Other than a sheet of herbal remedies that may or may not have actually been written by her, Baret survives solely in others' accounts. A few of the men on the expedition kept journals, and practically everything known about her experiences on the voyage comes from their accounts. All of these men, and many later historians, subscribed to the still-popular notion that ambitious women are whores. The book that I read, <i>The Discovery of Jeanne Baret</i>, is a thoroughly feminist take on Baret's life that I found, for the most part, convincing.<br />
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The key to Baret's achievements was her field of expertise: botany. She was an herb woman, which means she knew more about botany and its medical uses than many well-educated men. She was employed by a botanist named Philibert Commerson to teach him all she knew, and, as is the way of things, she ended up pregnant. Commerson does not come off at all well in this book: he appears selfish, cowardly, and callous. And not a little stupid. It's hard to imagine Baret and Commerson having a happy relationship; they stayed together, but one wonders if it was only because, once they embarked on this adventure, they didn't have much choice.<br />
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When Commerson was hired to participate as a botanist in a French expedition around the world, the French government told him to hire an assistant. Baret was the obvious choice, but it was against the law for women to travel on naval vessels. Instead of letting a little thing like that stop them, Commerson and Baret entered into a ruse in which Baret was to be passed off as a man for some two years in the company of 300 sailors. Why they expected this to work, no one will ever know. It didn't take long for questions to arise, which prompted Baret to tell everyone she was a eunuch. Perhaps that staved off more questions for a while, or perhaps everyone simply said, "Uh huh, sure." It seems likely that although it wasn't openly discussed, it was obvious to everyone that she was a woman -- otherwise, there would have been less need for her to carry a brace of pistols with her everywhere she went.<br />
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By all accounts, Baret performed the strenuous work of hiking, climbing, and lugging heavy boxes and plant presses here to there with rather extraordinary energy and ability. Commerson had a leg injury that was an ongoing and kind of gross issue, so Baret seems to have done a great deal of physically difficult work for him. She may even have been the one who discovered bougainvillea (named for Bougainville, the captain of the expedition). She also endured, along with the rest of the crew, several terrible tropical storms, and survived for a time on leather and rats when the food ran out. Unlike the rest of the crew, she suffered condescension, harassment, and, as indirectly evidenced by a disturbingly jovial passage in one account, gang rape.<br />
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This is not a triumphant story by any means. Baret accomplished an incredible thing, but it was costly. After being formally "discovered" and subsequently assaulted, she kept to her cabin did no botany at all until she and Commerson were let off in Mauritius, where Commerson had once again finagled a new job. There she gave birth to a second child. Her first child, born in Paris before the voyage, was probably Commerson's. For unknown reasons, the child was given to a foundling hospital and died at a young age. Her second child may well have resulted from rape, and was left with a caretaker in Mauritius. While Commerson had an elevated position and benefactor in Mauritius, Baret was a servant, living in servant's quarters. For only a small percentage of their time together did she she and Commerson set up house together, with all their specimens. And then Commerson finally died from what sounded like complications from his incessantly suppurating leg wound. Since they were not married, Baret was left with absolutely nothing. The government even seized all of the specimens she and Commerson had collected. She was in Commerson's will, but in order to claim her money, she had to get back to Paris.<br />
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It's sort of unclear what happened to her for a while, but it appears she was a barmaid for a time. About a year and a half after Commerson's death, she married a naval officer and returned to France. That was 1774. By the age of 34, she had crossed the Atlantic, crossed the equator, been to Rio de Janeiro and Montevideo, and passed through the Strait of Magellan. She crossed the Pacific, visiting Tahiti, New Guinea, and Madagascar, and lived for on Mauritius for seven years. She and Commerson had collected six thousand specimens during their travels.<br />
<br />
Although hardly anyone knew what Baret accomplished, she didn't go entirely unrecognized. Commerson named one (ONE) plant after her, which was renamed later by someone else. And she joined Caroline Herschel in being one of very few eighteenth-century women paid for scientific work: several years after she returned to France, someone petitioned the government to give her the same pension that invalid servicemen received, citing her "exemplary" behavior. She lived to be 67.<br />
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The book itself has some flaws, the main one being that the author includes a lot of speculation that isn't as well-grounded as I'd like. But she makes good arguments, and the amount of research she must have done is astounding. She even found evidence of a man bearing Baret's pseudonym living on Mauritius thirty years after she would have left her son there -- the uncovering of that small fact seems extraordinary to me. And I especially liked this bit from the introduction:<br />
<br />
"Bougainville thought Baret's example [of a globe-trotting female] was not likely to be contagious because of the physical privations and brutality she experienced. But Bougainville overlooked the allure of the idea she embodies: that one human being, irrespective of the hand dealt by fortune, can have as much curiosity about the world as another. And that, like race and class, gender should pose no barrier to satisfying that curiosity and discovering how far it may take you."<br />
<br />
I've basically told you the whole story, but should you want the details (there are lots more interesting things I didn't mention), I would certainly recommend Glynis Ridley's <i>The Discovery of Jeanne Baret.</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-13979675466437466382013-05-06T21:37:00.000-04:002013-05-07T09:27:01.769-04:00Lists, Part IV: Late Additions to Mr. Peale's MuseumThe fourth and as far as I know final installment in my series of lists has to do with one Charles Willson Peale. This is Mr. Peale, sporting a fashionable pair of forehead goggles:<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323834906/" title="IMG_0323x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0323x" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8358/8323834906_30179a4a82_z.jpg" width="540" /></a><br />
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The canny-eyed Peale was a portrait-painter until 1794, when he decided to go into the museum business. After the Revolution, there was a new enthusiasm for education and civic virtue that Peale wanted to reinforce; his museum would "educate and teach virtue to the public by demonstrating the benevolence of the Creator and the order, harmony, and beauty of His creation." As you will see, he accomplished this by packing into this museum every interesting and oddball thing he could get his hands on. He was so dedicated to displaying every facet of the creator's creation that he even wanted to display the embalmed bodies of public figures (posthumously, of course), but had to settle for portraits instead. The popularity of the museum meant it received contributions from all over the world. No description could be better than what you'll read below, but here's a painting of Peale lifting the veil so you can peek into an exhibition:<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323842256/" title="IMG_0337x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0337x" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8215/8323842256_9fdd24aa5f_z.jpg" width="540" /></a><br />
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I happened upon an article about the museum not too long before I went to Philadelphia myself last October. The one thing I would have killed to see was this famous museum, but alas, its contents were sold off about twenty years after Peale's death in 1827. Government support probably would have preserved it, but in spite of his many efforts, he could never the government to agree on that. He had the bad luck to have started his museum when the government was still figuring out what it was and was not allowed to do. Jefferson said he supported the idea of nationalizing the museum, but he didn't think Congress had the power to do so -- or at least, he didn't think they'd think they did. So in the end, Peale's collections went to P. T. Barnum, and most of it was destroyed by fire.<br />
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Evidently there's some debate over whether Peale was a forerunner of P. T. Barnum or of the Smithsonian -- whether he was a showman or a man of science. It's silly to suggest he had to be a forerunner of one or the other, and that he couldn't have been a forerunner of both, or neither. Which brings me to this purpose of this post: the list. When the Historian Esq. and I were in Philly, we went (of course) to see Ben Franklin's printing office and bindery.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323839922/" title="IMG_0433 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0433" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8493/8323839922_742846b609_z.jpg" width="540" /></a><br />
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In demonstrating the presses, they print a lot of random stuff -- sayings and advertisements and articles from early American papers -- and post them on the walls. That is how we spotted this beauty of a list: "Late [that is, recent] Additions to Mr. Peale's Museum." This thing is like a found poem. It is so strange, and wonderful, and revealing as to what eighteenth-century people thought was notable. Was Peale a scientist or a showman? It's impossible to tell. Sometimes the natural world is so weird there's no need to choose.<br />
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Unfortunately, the list at the printers was from such an old demonstration that it was no longer for sale, but Historian Esq. pointed out with his customary genius that the library would certainly have this article in a database. And so it did. And so I present to you this final list. Enjoy.<br />
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<b>Late ADDITIONS to Mr. PEALE’s MUSEUM.</b><br />
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<b>A fine specimen of Petrified Wood</b>, found in the State of Delaware : Presented by Jonathan B. Smith, Esq.<br />
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<b>A pair of Horns of the American Rein-Deer</b> : Presented by Mr. Shingle.<br />
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<b>A white Hare</b>, of which species some numbers have appeared in this and the neighbouring northern States within four years past; before that period unknown : Presented by the Hon. Thomas Jefferson.<br />
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<b>An Otahitian dress</b>, consisting of a long cloak, and a cap made of feathers, and very elegant; being a present to the president of the United States by some gentlemen of Boston, adventurers in the first voyage made from thence to Nootka Sound and the Otahitian islands; now deposited in the Museum for preservation and safe-keeping for the president.<br />
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<b>Chinese ladies shoes</b>, measuring in length 5 4-10 inches : Presented by Mr. Pritchard.<br />
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<b>The Nautilus-shell</b>, uncoated and ornamented. <b>A pair of Chinese ladies shoes</b>, made to fit the wife of a native of that country, who supplied the ship (Sampson) with necessaries when at China, <b>and the Podada bird</b>, commonly called the sea-pidgeon : Presented by Mr. Jacob Betteron.<br />
<i>Birds nests, very costly, which, made into a soup, is much esteemed in China, and throughout all the Indies. “When it is reported, that in the Indies people eat birds-nests, there is no man but must wonder at it;--nay, many think they are imposed upon, because it appears to them quite repugnant to nature, or at least very little acceptable to the palate. But they are reckoned good, light, and wholesome food, very proper for sick people. They are so well dressed with other good ingredients, that they prove an excellent dish to those who do not know what it is. As the materials with which they are made come from fish, they are not unsalubrius.”--Postlethwait Dictionary.</i><br />
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<b>A kitten with two heads, in spirits</b> : Presented by Dr. ------------<br />
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<b>Two snake-skins</b>, from the island of Trinidad, one measuring in length 7 feet four inches, and the other 13 feet 8 inches : Presented by Mr. Samuel Hazlehurst.<br />
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<b>Shells</b>, which are used instead of glass in the windows of the houses of the inhabitants of Malabar : Presented by capt. Howell.<br />
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<b>A large flying fish</b>, measuring from the mouth to the extremity of its tail 18 inches : Presented by Mrs. Earl.<br />
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<b>A large porcupine fish</b>, measuring 16 ½ inches in length, and two feet three inches circumference, independent of spines : Presented by capt. Howell.<br />
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<b>Coisimond, (alive)</b> a very good-humoured, playful animal, from South America : Presented by Mr. Lee.<br />
The ring-tail monkey : Presented by Mr. J. Graham.<br />
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<b>A calcarious stone, weighing 21 ½ ounces, taken out of the bladder of a horse</b> : Presented by Mr. Dunkin.<br />
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<b>An arrow</b>, which was used against the Americans in the battle of the 4th of November 1791, near the Miami towns : Presented by Dr. Brown<br />
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<b>A live rattle-snake</b> : Presented by Dr. Gibbons.<br />
<i>N.B. This is secured in a strong case, with a wired and glass front, and may be viewed in perfect to the spectators, and it is also kept in a room distinct from the museum, so that those who have aversions to such animals need not see it.</i><br />
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<b>That brilliant insect the diamond beatle</b>, from the Brazils, is placed in the museum, with convenient magnifiers for viewing it to advantage.<br />
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<b>A large sea-pen</b> : Presented by Mrs. Branton (Willington)<br />
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<b>A pair of humming-birds</b>, preserved in a glass case : Presented by Mr. Myers<br />
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<b>A pair of ground paroquets</b>, very small and beautiful, from the Streights of Sundy. <b>A Chinese lanthorn. Some incense matches</b>, which are used in the temples in China, <b>and a pair of Turkish knives, in a case, neat and curious</b> : Presented by Mr. Plumstead.<br />
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<i>Some improvement in the arrangement of the articles are made. A Gross, for receiving the marine subjects, and a number of rare birds are added.</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-68676266123669923132013-04-15T21:15:00.002-04:002013-04-15T21:15:29.271-04:00Posting will resume!I got behind. Will catch up soon!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-42616111211035474792013-04-08T08:11:00.000-04:002013-04-08T08:11:00.118-04:00Lists, Part II: Causes of DeathIn the Mutter Museum in Philadelphia, there's a wall of a hundred and thirty-nine skulls from the collection of Joseph Hyrtl, a Viennese anatomist (and, not surprisingly, phrenologist). Hyrtl collected skulls from all over the world, and this selection is entirely from Eastern Europe between 1868 and 1914. There's just enough information about each of them to make them fascinating: name, age, occupation, and cause of death. I stood in front of this wall for a long time wondering about these people. Here are the occupations and causes of death that I wrote down.<br />
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Brewer. Died of edema of the lungs.<br />
Rope-walker. Broken neck.<br />
Tailor. Dysentery.<br />
Workman. Ascites.<br />
Sharpshooter. Gunshot wounds.<br />
Cabin boy. Phithis.<br />
Robber and murderer. Hanging.<br />
Suicide. Unhappy love affair.<br />
Soldier. Typhus.<br />
Sailor. Died in Hospital of the Holy Spirit, Venice.*<br />
Soldier. Suicide by gunshot wound of the heart, because of weariness of life.<br />
Ship's apprentice. Cholera.<br />
Maidservant. Puerperal sepsis.<br />
Calvinist. Suicide by hanging.<br />
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*I wrote this down because I misread it at first. I thought he died of the Holy Spirit.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-32803116193323429592013-04-01T09:28:00.000-04:002013-04-01T09:28:00.660-04:00Lists, Part I: A 1941 YearbookI have come upon a bunch of things in list format, so the next few posts will be lists of things. Today's list is from a 1941 women's college yearbook. In the men's yearbook, what they put under the students' photos were names of fraternities and sports statistics. Beneath the women's . . . it gets weird. The women have been given descriptive phrases. These are the more notable ones that I scribbled down on scrap paper with a stolen pencil (I was "working" at the time):<br />
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Sunshine in a Scotch cap<br />
Pixy with a golden heart<br />
Wheeee!!!!<br />
Coal black midnight with the smile of dawn<br />
Cherub with a kick<br />
Choreography for gracious living<br />
Peter Pan lurks behind Mona Lisa<br />
Good books and the sheen of pearls in the firelight<br />
Oh, shades of Beelzebub!<br />
Seven no trump, redoubled and made<br />
Sophistication in curls<br />
Ebullient exothermal reaction<br />
Agreement is a sign of weakness<br />
Potential gaiety<br />
Efficiency in pink<br />
Science cuts caper<br />
Hot tomales and honey<br />
Insouciance in a red dress<br />
The case for psychology<br />
Rembrandt's only rival<br />
The Gamma Gamma from Walla Walla<br />
"Horses! Horses! Horses!"<br />
The serious approach with an intrusion of accuracy<br />
Amiable inanities in pastel shades<br />
Pegasus and pink elephants<br />
Pixilated Pandora<br />
"Confoosin' but amoosin'!"<br />
Whimsey takes the stage<br />
Dreamy eyes over a centrifuge<br />
The last of the conservatives<br />
The daguerrotype-girl steps out<br />
Still waters with golden highlights<br />
Dark lady with a typewriter<br />
Formula for charm<br />
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It's like a group of bad poets took LSD and wrote down their hallucinations. ("Horses! Horses! Horses!" I've never seen anyone on LSD but that's what I imagine they're like.) I have no other explanation.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-80260963226734253482013-03-25T09:14:00.000-04:002013-03-25T09:14:00.444-04:00The DandelionI would like to talk to you about the Dandelion.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8327391545/" title="IMG_0250x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0250x" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8498/8327391545_f4cc650b68_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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It is a restaurant in Philadelphia.<br />
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But it feels like an English pub. Except there's no smoking. And you have to tip.<br />
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We were seated in the dog-themed room, which was silly, and entertaining.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322718041/" title="IMG_0237x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0237x" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8084/8322718041_d1f10431cf_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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The dogs were so highly bred I nearly felt compelled to start using Received Pronunciation.<br />
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I had a marvelous salad, with lettuce big enough to rig up and sail to Italy with, and Historian, Esq. enjoyed his burger very much.<br />
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And then we got to dessert. Historian, Esq. said his rice pudding with peaches and cream was the best dessert he had ever consumed.<br />
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And I can tell you quite honestly that these hot-from-the-oven orange-flavored madeleines with warm dark chocolate dip are the most delicious thing I have ever put in my mouth, full stop. After I was done eating it, I seriously considered asking for a refill. This is why I bring cameras to restaurants. I WOULD NEVER WANT TO FORGET THE HOT ORANGE MADELEINES WITH THE DELICATE CRUST AND POWDERED SUGAR I TELL YOU I WOULD DIE FIRST.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322727593/" title="IMG_0257 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0257" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8351/8322727593_e55a9dae01_z.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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If you are ever in Philadelphia, this is the place you must go. Liberty Bell Schmiberty Bell. Eat something at the Dandelion. It will be so good you'll want to take pictures of it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-79959475128265918512013-03-11T07:59:00.000-04:002013-03-11T07:59:00.196-04:00Philadelphia ZooThe Philadelphia Zoo, for everyone's information, does not have a capybara. Or at least that's what they want you to think. The truth is they do, but they keep it hidden away because the capybara is the pleasantest, politest, and wisest of all creatures. They keep it in a secret room because being a zookeeper is a hard job, and sometimes they need to go and spend an hour having tea with the capybara, submitting to it their dilemmas, and accepting its wisdom. And its cookies. They can't do that if it's out in its cage spreading its wisdom amongst the masses. The crowds would be enormous, and people would be angry when they took the capybara away for personal use. So they keep it a secret. It's unfortunate for capybara enthusiasts such as myself, but I understand. If I had access to a capybara, I would hog it, too. (Hahahahaha.)<br />
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What the Philadelphia Zoo does have, or did the day I went with Historian Esquire, is unusually active animals. Normally when I go to the zoo all the animals are sleeping behind a rock, as if they don't like people milling around and staring at them or something. But the animals at the Philly Zoo were awake and playful, and if they weren't, they at least had the decency to sleep publicly.<br />
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Let's start with this pygmy marmoset. This pygmy marmoset was very difficult to catch in focus.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322657935/" title="IMG_0045 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0045" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8361/8322657935_b963bca590_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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This pygmy marmoset also appears to be very angry. The secret capybara would not approve, for the secret capybara knows that anger only makes you unhappy. Better to let it go, pygmy marmoset.<br />
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Sloths, on the other hand, never get angry. Sloths don't have that much ambition.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323719474/" title="IMG_0057 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0057" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8502/8323719474_97a76815d6_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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The secret capybara doesn't approve of this either, but it's decided to pick its battles.<br />
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Historian Esquire has a friend who works at the zoo, and she wandered around with us and told us interesting tidbits. For example, apparently nobody knows what giraffes use their little fuzzy horns for.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323722570/" title="IMG_0103 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0103" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8219/8323722570_2a5f14a964_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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Historian Esquire's current theory is telepathy. The secret capybara can neither confirm nor deny this.<br />
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Now for some examples of public sleepers. First, the leopard:<br />
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Predators need not be fast <i>all</i> the time, says the secret capybara enigmatically.<br />
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This lion was sleeping in a row of lions all laid out on the grass right next to the window. It was extremely convenient.<br />
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This fellow, however, was well aware of the people on the other side of the glass. He ate some food with his back to us, and bounded around a little, and then came over and did a variety of poses.<br />
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After this he turned his back again and did an over-the-shoulder pose. It was very weird. Also, he might be a she. I have no idea.<br />
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I was perhaps most impressed by this jaguar which was up and about playing with its toys. Animals never play with their toys when you're in front of their cage! It was like The Miracle of the Zoo. (What would also be a miracle is if I could tell a jaguar apart from a leopard. This might be a leopard. The other one might be a jaguar. Rest assured they are both spotted cats of some kind. They may be the same cat. They may be the same animal, even. I am not sure.)<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8327345611/" title="IMG_0153 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0153" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8495/8327345611_d45a6fc743_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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Hey hey.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322689659/" title="IMG_0185 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0185" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8364/8322689659_b65c218700_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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We're the monkeys.<br />
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The polar bears are very old, and look it. The one in front has clearly just had enough.<br />
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Doesn't even get up for visitors, can't be bothered to control its tongue. Little does it know that it's a young whippersnapper compared to these turtles.<br />
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The oldest one is a female, born in 1928. She is 84. She had a bit of trouble eating her lettuce, but frankly, <i>I</i> have trouble eating lettuce, so I don't think that's to do with her age. The secret capybara says it's okay: everyone has trouble eating lettuce sometimes. I love the secret capybara.<br />
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My personal favorites were the kangaroos. First, because their family name is "Bouncepants." Every time I think about that, I laugh.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323746230/" title="IMG_0223 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0223" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8084/8323746230_92b6fe100e_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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But second, they obliged us by hopping around on their giant feet, and then some of them boxed! It was the most wonderful thing I have ever seen! Actual boxing kangaroos! Magnificent. Just don't tell the secret capybara I said so. It's a pacifist, of course.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-72345520417553511482013-03-04T09:51:00.000-05:002013-03-04T09:51:00.346-05:00Honeoye Pirate Festival<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322646723/" title="IMG_0586 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8503/8322646723_0f6129f310_z.jpg" width="530" alt="IMG_0586"></a><br />
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I don't know why I bother celebrating the 4th of July when I could just wait for the Honeoye Pirate Festival. No matter how you celebrate the Fourth, I guarantee you that the parking at the festival is better, the corn-on-the-cob is better, the selection of pirate gear for sale is better, and the fireworks display is twice if not thrice as long. I mean, my butt hurt by the <i>middle</i> of it, and I was sitting on <i>sand</i>.<br />
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My crew and I arrived when it was still light, and had some dinner, and watched a woman do a demonstration with her hawk, who did not like the random booming coming from the water and basically refused to perform. I sided with the bird.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322625341/" title="IMG_0572 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8492/8322625341_352e96bfdd_z.jpg" width="530" alt="IMG_0572"></a><br />
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And then, when it got dark. The fireworks began.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323688776/" title="IMG_0598 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8073/8323688776_617cde567b_z.jpg" width="530" alt="IMG_0598"></a><br />
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It went on. And on. And on. I looked at my watch. It kept going. The moon rose. The moon set. The fireworks went on. The sun came up again. The fireworks continued.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323696518/" title="IMG_0638x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8491/8323696518_5ef5996506_z.jpg" width="530" alt="IMG_0638x"></a><br />
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All of the children were delighted, and continued to be delighted. The rest of us could only marvel at how much money that many fireworks would cost. Honestly, it was astonishing.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322639145/" title="IMG_0663 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8499/8322639145_c7b8aeeb2e_z.jpg" width="530" alt="IMG_0663"></a><br />
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Three days later, when we were all deaf from the booming and blinded by flashing lights, it finally stopped, and we all staggered back to our cars and drove home, and made plans to come back next year because dude it is so awesome.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-44970641347458873302013-02-25T09:06:00.000-05:002013-02-25T09:06:00.585-05:00GCVM Agricultural FairI very nearly went to the Genesee Country Museum enough this year to justify buying a membership. Somehow I got on their mailing list, so I kept finding out about things I didn't want to miss, like the Agricultural Fair, which promised all kinds of silly period entertainment and <i>an entire tent of goats</i>. I forked over sixteen dollars before you could say Baa-ah-ah-ah-ah!<br />
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It turned out the goats were actually the least interesting part. I was not expecting to be so utterly delighted by everything I saw. When I got into the main square, it felt like a circus. Since I've been so many times lately, I knew that my first order of business was, necessarily, to stop by the general store and buy a maple sugar cookie. Once the cookie had been safely deposited in my stomach, I was able to roam about happily with my camera.<br />
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The first tent I came to was the Punch & Judy tent. Punch & Judy have always creeped me out, but I was betting on a child-friendly show, and I was correct. This is Punch doing battle not with his wife but with an alligator.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323231029/" title="IMG_0051 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0051" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8077/8323231029_30726b2d2b_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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The woman who was interpreting the goings-on for the children was delightful, and the puppeteers were top notch. I thought it was great that they were even dressed in period clothing when they came out and took their bows.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322527369/" title="IMG_0069 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0069" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8217/8322527369_2a8e5940c2_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
The next tent really was a bit of a circus: there was a lady inside )who seemed to have some relationship with Italy), and who walked a loose-rope, and juggled flaming sticks, and cajoled us into giving her money. I liked her so much that I went back for her second show.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322551529/" title="IMG_0121x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0121x" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8220/8322551529_1d7bc353af_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322579641/" title="IMG_0110x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0110x" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8222/8322579641_e0811ea767_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323642250/" title="IMG_0414x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0414x" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8213/8323642250_b296e035c2_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
It was the perfect day for being outside in the fall: the leaves were changing and it was pleasantly cool and, of course, it smelled like woodsmoke.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323618370/" title="IMG_0259 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0259" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8084/8323618370_0e2611b6a0_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
Most of the buildings were either empty or closed, however.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323603294/" title="IMG_0325 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0325" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8501/8323603294_7547296247_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
Some with good reason.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322540301/" title="IMG_0320 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0320" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8080/8322540301_2b08f8c310_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
This one (below) never seems to be open, but right after I took this picture, a girl walked by with her cow, as if she were taking for its morning constitutional. Which is why I love places like this.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322537639/" title="IMG_0335 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0335" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8224/8322537639_8d7eae39e9_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
Speaking of our bovine friends:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323608914/" title="IMG_0370 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0370" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8499/8323608914_66b3aa457f_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
This bull had much to say, and vehemently.<br />
<br />
While I was waiting around for some kind of demonstration, I caught this fellow using a corn peeler.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323624430/" title="IMG_0249 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0249" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8084/8323624430_ccee34b8f5_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
Corn peelers are hilarious. You get the crank going, stick the corn in the hole, and listen for a <i>zzzzzzzt</i>. Then the kernels drop from the bottom and the naked cob flies out the side in a markedly comical manner. I got to try it myself, and I'm telling you, farmers have it easy. This is the most fun ever.<br />
<br />
The demonstration I was waiting for was the horse-powered thresher. I was less interested in the threshing than the horse-powering, which is just what it sounds like: a horse on a treadmill.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322533443/" title="IMG_0289 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0289" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8211/8322533443_9bfc74e380_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
I've never seen an animal on a treadmill -- apparently, though, <a href="http://www.ediblegeography.com/hot-dog/" target="_blank">it used to be very common even with dogs</a>. This horse seemed well aware of its rights and was not thrilled. Perhaps that's why it was so bad tempered. When it was in its pen, it looked perfectly friendly, but it was LYING.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323621450/" title="IMG_0254 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0254" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8359/8323621450_6aff8ce4cb_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
This lying liar tried to bite me. TWICE. I suppose the second time was really my own fault.<br />
<br />
To comfort myself, I headed over to see the baked goods. It turns out, though, that nineteenth-century food that's been sitting around for five hours often isn't very appealing. But I was impressed with this:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323613806/" title="IMG_0307 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0307" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8082/8323613806_287ac86dee_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
And this:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323615654/" title="IMG_0311 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0311" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8491/8323615654_4e07b2e780_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
The highlight of the entire thing, curiously enough, was the vegetable tent. They had made nice beds of dirt to display the vegetables on, and they looked so handsome and colorful! I took pictures of almost all of them. After a while, the proprietors of the tent started looking at me funny.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322585225/" title="IMG_0146 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0146" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8216/8322585225_f5b890b7bf_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
But it was magic in there. MAGIC, I tell you.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323636866/" title="IMG_0151x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0151x" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8221/8323636866_36c1658953_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
Look at these carrots! Have you ever seen such beautiful carrots!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322529855/" title="IMG_0184 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0184" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8360/8322529855_9a136b21f6_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
And these peppers! Even the leaves arranged themselves to put these peppers at an advantage! Nature bows to these peppers!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323631210/" title="IMG_0202x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0202x" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8494/8323631210_f5a1423467_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
These tomatoes! Holy Moses, these tomatoes are gorgeous! I'd get wallpaper of this pattern!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322568115/" title="IMG_0215 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0215" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8215/8322568115_23ba7aaf04_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
The color! The delicate texture! If this isn't the finest rutabaga I've ever seen, I'll eat my hat. Or this rutabaga.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323634240/" title="IMG_0177x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0177x" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8364/8323634240_21d2916b3c_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
This leek. I mean. This is a divine leek.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323625918/" title="IMG_0205 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0205" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8363/8323625918_3e8ac5da56_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
I had a revelation when I got to this tomato. It spoke to me. It said, "Simon. This is a tomato speaking. Listen: you need to eat more vegetables." It was so remarkable I had to go back to the goat tent to get ahold of myself.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8324388098/" title="IMG_0030 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0030" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8213/8324388098_71985710e0_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
The goat told me I needed more hay in my diet, so now I don't know what to think.<br />
<br />
By far the strangest part (even considering the talking tomato) was the exhibit of Harry Houdini paraphernalia. I saw some personal trinkets, some handcuffs, a wand. Some photos. They were shown to me by some descendants of his niece or goddaughter or something, who were peculiarly obsessed with him and could not have thought him to be a more important personage if he had been Winston Churchill. It was all very strange. I felt like I had come upon actual nineteenth-century hucksters, except that they were very sincere. It started to get colder and windier at that point, so I decided to call it a day without having my character analyzed scientifically through phrenology. I can only imagine what insights I missed.<br />
<br />
Before I left, however, I did stop at the tent of curiosities, which had, and I am not kidding, gen-u-wine artifacts of American and world history, such as George Washington's cherry tree (which looked awfully fresh even for the time period we were <i>supposed </i>to be in), a glass container of tea from the Boston Tea Party, the Donner Party's kettle, a mummy, a piece of the Great Wall of China (which was a broken plate), and many things of that ilk. A corner of the tent was sectioned off; that was where they kept the Man Eating Chicken (Alive).<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322545601/" title="IMG_0398 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0398" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8504/8322545601_e3af2c41f1_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
It was very shocking, I can tell you. Oh, the tearing of flesh!<br />
<br />
The only thing that would have made this agricultural fair better was a butter sculpture. Other than that, I really couldn't ask for a more pleasant, amusing, informative, delicious, and light-hearted good time.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-74615304756146602222013-02-18T19:36:00.000-05:002013-02-18T19:36:00.179-05:00Transportation SlamAll the posts you've read in the past six weeks were written in the space of about five days, and I must say, I'm starting to feel like I'm doing very uninformed school reports on field trips. That's why, for the Transportation Museum, I am going to do a poem. It is a rough draft.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322424157/" title="IMG_0698 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0698" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8224/8322424157_46cd56286e_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
Our fair city once had a subway<br />
And this car is all that's left<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323481918/" title="IMG_0701 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0701" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8353/8323481918_110f4d9151_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
The outside is disastrous<br />
And the inside looks bereft.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323436434/" title="IMG_0712 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0712" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8496/8323436434_4760b010c6_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
We took a ride on the trolley,<br />
Which long ago was hopping,<br />
Back when women needed to know<br />
The hour for good shopping.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322427079/" title="IMG_0737 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0737" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8216/8322427079_f12c1c36a1_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
They ferried us in little cars<br />
Out on the trolley tracks.<br />
It was so hot in the open<br />
We nearly had heart attacks.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323989658/" title="IMG_0739 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0739" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8224/8323989658_087520afc6_z.jpg" width="480" /></a><br />
<br />
The station was quaint and old;<br />
Not much had changed within,<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323479368/" title="IMG_0745 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0745" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8357/8323479368_50e5085e3e_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
But the oil cans sat behind glass,<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322377457/" title="IMG_0747x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0747x" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8217/8322377457_6ef4cb5198_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
And the stationmaster was not in.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323440714/" title="IMG_0791 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0791"src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8499/8323440714_c0b546d48b_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
I wanted to push all the buttons,<br />
And to tell the truth, I did,<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322403227/" title="IMG_0814 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0814" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8076/8322403227_2fe2935cfd_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
And I also snapped a picture<br />
of this adorable kid.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323461104/" title="IMG_0822 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0822" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8496/8323461104_6cd708fe73_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
She was in the red caboose,<br />
Which looked brand new to me, or<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323442556/" title="IMG_0823 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0823" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8363/8323442556_efbfa56d75_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
At least cleaner than this cooler,<br />
(Secured by ADT).<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323466652/" title="IMG_0812 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0812" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8495/8323466652_1b172a251b_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
The refrigeration car was pretty cool;<br />
Please excuse the pun.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322408309/" title="IMG_0809x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0809x" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8352/8322408309_e76ff5c192_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
The sign says: "You will notice you are standing on a wood slat floor that keeps you up above the car's actual floor. This was done for air circulation. However, it was also necessary to clean the cars out of any perishable material that may have fallen below the slat floor. Therefore, my job is to hold up the slat floor which is made of the hinged panels which left up from the center toward the outer walls of the car. I slip between two of the slats and hold the panels up so the car can be cleaned out!"<br />
<br />
If you think I'm really sorry,<br />
I'll pull the other one.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322416215/" title="IMG_0782 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0782" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8071/8322416215_61d7cdfed5_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
Here's a chart of train parts<br />
I'd happily hang on my wall,<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322398011/" title="IMG_0889 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0889" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8212/8322398011_7b91393038_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
And here's a shot of a car<br />
Tinted with a gloomy green pall.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8324075888/" title="trolley compilation by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="trolley compilation" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8362/8324075888_af6d03f9f7_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
We got a bit overexcited<br />
About switching the trolley pole.<br />
The driver couldn't help but notice<br />
And thought we were rather droll.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322383691/" title="IMG_0779 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0779" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8493/8322383691_ef9cf7a30b_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
But the best part of the museum<br />
For a person whose humor is dark<br />
Were these safety signs on display<br />
Which frankly I thought were a lark.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322388741/" title="IMG_0776 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0776" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8491/8322388741_ee2d177e39_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323451040/" title="IMG_0775 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0775" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8083/8323451040_40bf62a3f1_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323452712/" title="IMG_0774 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0774" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8074/8323452712_e8cc47472d_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323454470/" title="IMG_0773 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0773" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8493/8323454470_f5fb7aa505_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8323456430/" title="IMG_0772 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0772" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8501/8323456430_69bff931ff_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
<br />
When next you go by the railway<br />
Remember these signs and don't scoff,<br />
Because if you so much as look at a train<br />
Your leg will come right off.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-81458886890048256762013-02-15T11:02:00.002-05:002013-02-16T18:38:04.474-05:00Susan B. AnthonyBonus non-Monday post! But first a note: Be not afraid, for the header will be back. Flickr had a glitch and lost it, and I keep forgetting to put it back up.<br />
<br />
And now for today's special two-part post on the hot topic currently on everyone's minds! Yes, that's right: women's suffrage!<br />
<br />
<b>Part 1: Votes for Women</b><br />
<br />
Today, February 15th, is Susan B. Anthony's birthday, and there is currently a display in the library about her. That display (of items and documents behind glass) coordinates with another display (of books you can check out) by the reference stacks. There is nothing we like more, in the library, than displays. Every time anything remotely interesting happens, we look at each other and say, "Do you think we can do a display on that?" The answer is always yes. So we're doing these displays, and I'm in charge of the book one. In deciding what to put in it, I realized that I didn't know enough about Susan B. Anthony, so I started reading about her. And then I got this grand idea that I should include in the display a sampling of contemporary newspaper articles about her, because hey, it would only add ten additional hours of work!<br />
<br />
I decided to focus on the time Anthony got arrested for voting and was put on trial. I thought for sure there would be some great articles on that, and I was right! It was really fun watching the trial unfold as told by journalists who had no idea what to make of Anthony. One referred to her as "that sublime and infatuated pantaloonatic," which is now my preferred term for trailblazing women. As I was watching things progress, I was awaiting the triumphant moment when the judge hands down Anthony's sentence, which was a fine of $100, and she jumps up and cries out, "I will never pay a dollar of your unjust penalty!" (It is possible I'm imagining that moment as being more dramatic than it was . . . but honestly, I can't see how it wouldn't be dramatic.) I waited and waited and read every article about her sentencing that I could find, but it did not appear. "This is strange," I said to myself. "Did it even happen? Is it apocryphal?" The newspapers were emphatic: she never said it. Take this <i>Philadelphia Inquirer</i> article for example:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8437117576/" title="Print by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="Print" height="640" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8508/8437117576_bc1b9bfcc5_z.jpg" width="271" /></a><br />
<br />
It says right there, in print: "The judge then sentenced her to pay a fine of one hundred dollars and costs of prosecution, <i>and immediately added</i> . . ." It is the <i>and immediately added</i> that interests me. Because, according to Anthony, it isn't true. According to her account of her own trial, she made a whole speech between the judge announcing the fine and then telling her she would not "stand committed" (i.e. go to jail). "I will never pay a dollar of your unjust penalty" was only the beginning of it; she goes on for a whole paragraph. In her account, she does a great deal more talking during her sentencing than the judge does.<br />
<br />
It's hard to tell how accurate this is. Another account by Anthony's friend has Anthony saying little more than, "I don't have any money and in fact I'm ten thousand dollars in debt." And Anthony's account does seem suspiciously eloquent. On the other hand, Anthony was quite accustomed to public speaking and the accounts agree on other shorter but equally eloquent remarks she made. In fact, she was so famously vocal that there was jokes going around in the newspapers about how funny it was that the judge even bothered to ask the legally-required question at the beginning of the sentencing: "Does the defendant have anything to say why the sentence should not be pronounced?" Why bother asking, comment the newspapers; <i>of course</i> she had something to say. Susan B. Anthony <i>always </i>has something to say. All accounts then agree that when Anthony started talking, the judge told her to stop.<br />
<br />
It's possible that Anthony found herself somewhat cowed by the strikingly unjust judicial system and all the men in charge of it. What she reported herself saying may have been what she wanted and intended to say had she not been facing a hostile judge intent on committing a brazen act of injustice -- not only did he find her guilty, but he announced that he would find her guilty before her trial started, and never asked the jury for their verdict, instead demanding they find her guilty. Under these circumstances, it may not have been possible for her to say what she wanted, so when she wrote up her account, she added in the things she would have said. Knowing people would be interested, it was an opportunity for her to make the case to the public that she had not been able to make in court.<br />
<br />
But it's also possible that the men in charge of newspapers were willing to report on the antics of these "wild women" who voted only insofar as they were amusing (and losing). Few articles show outrage at her daring to vote; they're amused at the idea. A woman! Voting! <i>Ahahahahahahahaha.</i> What a pantaloonatic! One much-reprinted article noted in its report of Anthony's arrest that she did indeed admit to being a woman at the time that she voted, har har. The tone of almost all the articles is jocular if not outright condescending. When Anthony was arrested, the general response was surprise. The <i>New York Herald-Tribune</i> said that their voting had "taken on a new and less good-humored phrase." I am not sure what they thought good humor had to do with women trying to exercise their constitutional rights, but it seems they thought it was kind of a joke. Women were so powerless that the antics of suffragists could be tolerated because they were not perceived as a threat. But Susan B. Anthony <i>was</i> a bit threatening -- even if she was quiet in court, she certainly wasn't outside of it. Which could explain why, if Anthony stood up (as I imagine it) and declared to the judge that she would not accept her sentence, it seemed less funny and more frightening, and was left out of the news. What <i>if</i> women were to vote? What might they <i>do</i>?<br />
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<b>Part 2: The Woman Voter</b><br />
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By coincidence, the same day that I read the above article, I ran across a book in the stacks called <i>The Woman Voter: An Analysis Based upon Personal Interviews</i> (1955). This is how it begins:<br />
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"It cannot be denied that women are fascinating. But it can also be said, without being at all facetious, that the voting behavior of women is even more fascinating."<br />
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The book is little more than a pamphlet -- sixteen pages of summarized interviews in which women show themselves to vote in neither a more nor less fascinating way than men. I wouldn't say women or their opinions are exactly denigrated, but there is a tone of pleasant surprise: Why, women are well-informed! They are interested in politics! They understand that politics affect their lives! Their opinions are not identical to their husbands'! Sometimes they even influence their husbands' opinions!<br />
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Without being at all facetious, I was baffled as to why such a book should exist. And then I realized that women had only been voting for 35 years by that point. Voting was new for women, and women voting was new for the government. It's almost like <i>women </i>were new for the government. Who are these creatures? What do they want? How can we get them to vote for us? Which just goes to show how important the right to vote was, since the government didn't have to care about women at all until they had it.<br />
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I suppose this post is just an excuse to spend some time thinking about Susan B. Anthony and what she and other supporters of women's suffrage believed and accomplished. It isn't only about voting, after all. There was something else she said (or wanted to say) at her trial that struck me: "<span style="background-color: white;">As then, the slaves who got their freedom must take it over, or under, or through the unjust forms of law, precisely so, now, must women, to get their right to a voice in this government, take it; and I have taken mine, and mean to take it at every possible opportunity." It's really about rebelling against unjust laws, whatever they may be. Since we have a lot of those, I think it's worth remembering Susan B. Anthony not just in the context of women's rights, but in the wider context of justice; standing up for civil rights over, under, or through unjust laws, at every opportunity.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-82960589477980528572013-02-11T14:46:00.000-05:002013-02-11T14:46:00.091-05:00Claude Bragdon's Terminal VelocityAt work, I'm in charge of the faculty book display. By "in charge" I mean I do the gruntwork that other people tell me to do. It is one of my least favorite parts of my job, on account of the alarm system and the embarrassing number of times I've had to show my ID to security to convince them that I'm not breaking in. Oops! Anyway, the books stay in the display for three years, and there's one that's been in there since I started here about Claude Bragdon called <i>Claude Bragdon's Beautiful Necessity</i>. I always misread it as <i>Claude Bradgon's Terminal Velocity</i>. I don't know, it makes a lot more sense to me!<br />
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Claude Bragdon was an architect (among other things) who had a practice in Rochester from 1900 to 1917 or so. He was part of the Arts & Crafts movement, but had his own particular style. He was a pretty prolific writer, for an architect, and published whole books in which he said things like: "From the architecture of a true democracy, founded on love and mutual service, beauty would inevitably shine forth; its absence convicts of us a maladjustment in our social and economic life. A skyscraper shouldering itself aloft at the expense of its more humble neighbors, stealing their air and their sunlight, is a symbol, written large against the sky, of a will-to-power of a man or a group of men -- of that ruthless and tireless aggression on the part of the cunning and the strong so characteristic of the period which produced the skyscraper. One of our streets made up of buildings of diverse styles and shapes and sizes -- like a jaw with some teeth whole, some broken, some rotten, and some gone -- is a symbol of our unkempt individualism, now happily becoming curbed and chastened by a common devotion, a common danger."<br />
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To this, some would say <i>Yes yes yes!</i> And some would say <i>No no no!</i> He goes on to say that too often style is subjugated to practicality, when they should be equal and inseparable, which I think is difficult to argue with, but then again, I have never studied architecture and had to read up on Bragdon for this post, so what do I know. Anyway, Bragdon is an interesting character, about whom Rochesterians may be hearing more as the city goes with plans for its <a href="http://www.cityofrochester.gov/article.aspx?id=8589951162" target="_blank">new train station</a>. The style of the old Bragdon Station, which was demolished in 1965 (to build a parking lot, godhelpus) is being incorporated into the plans for the new station. This is the one (1) and only example of Rochester making a sound architectural decision that I've heard of in the past several years, and I am very pleased.<br />
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The three paragraphs of background you've just read have been basically pointless because this post has far less to do with his architectural accomplishment as it does with his second career in stage designing, and even that is tangentially related to my point. In 1916, Bragdon staged his first Festival of Song & Light in Highland Park. I have stolen this description from the Rush Rhees Rare Books Department's description of the Bragdon Family Papers: "In 1915, Bragdon introduced his new system of ornament, which was based upon four-dimensional geometry. . . . Using projective ornament and color theory, he created complex installations marrying choral music to colored light. These festivals, with stage sets framed by thousands of lanterns and screens fashioned like stained glass windows, were witnessed by audiences of up to 60,000. For the next thirty tears, Bragdon explored various means of animating color and light, including 'color organs' that linked chromatic and musical scales with electricity to play four-dimensional colored light forms."<br />
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This is a (sadly) black-and-white photo of a photo of one of these festivals - possibly one in New York.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8316709396/" title="IMG_1082 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8504/8316709396_5a69fc687c_z.jpg" width="530" alt="IMG_1082"></a><br />
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Last August, the Historic Maplewood Association and the Rochester Oratorio Society put on a similar event. It did not exactly live up to the Claude Bragdon originals, but it was a solid effort. My main complaints were that (1) I was expecting beautiful, ethereal choral music, and instead, it was pretty corny a capella standards, complete with some contributions by Disney, and (2) the lanterns were neither numerous nor luminous enough. I was not reminded of the "cathedral without walls" that Bragdon wanted to evoke. Stained glass patterns printed on plastic was a good idea, but not quite breathtaking. They should have been bright and warm, but instead they were blue and cold.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8316712770/" title="IMG_1054 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8356/8316712770_aa9b3dfcb6_z.jpg" width="530" alt="IMG_1054"></a><br />
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Which isn't to say it wasn't pretty. One tree had a lovely collection of lanterns, even if there was no four dimensional color theory hocus pocus going on.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8316708400/" title="IMG_1042 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8216/8316708400_5893087bef_z.jpg" width="530" alt="IMG_1042"></a><br />
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This colorful glass thing came a bit closer to what I think Bragdon would've had.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8322205121/" title="IMG_1080 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8492/8322205121_b20b0cfcc1_z.jpg" width="530" alt="IMG_1080"></a><br />
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And for no particular reason, I liked this gazebo decked out in lights, complete with an old man.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8316711406/" title="IMG_1083x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8217/8316711406_ba137fba9b_z.jpg" width="530" alt="IMG_1083x"></a><br />
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I can only hope this will become an annual festival and will improve every year. It would be wonderful to see a really accurate reproduction of one of Bragdon's Festivals of Song & Light, for I bet it was a sight to behold.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-70001350886781551992013-02-04T20:10:00.000-05:002013-02-04T20:10:00.915-05:00Buffalo Central TerminalThis is the old Buffalo Central Terminal. This shall be a picture post, because I don’t know much about it, except that it’s really nice architecture, and sad and creepy in its abandonment.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8316687960/" title="IMG_1002xx by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_1002xx" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8078/8316687960_390c54c862_z.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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Don’t worry, I didn’t do this to all the photos, because it's ridiculous. However, it is the only way I could convey the haunted feeling it gives off.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8315646153/" title="IMG_1020x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_1020x" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8354/8315646153_fc94d66796_z.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8316694662/" title="IMG_1030xx by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_1030xx" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8083/8316694662_175bac78dc_z.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8316690842/" title="IMG_1035xx by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_1035xx" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8213/8316690842_336b29d76f_z.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8315641253/" title="IMG_1023x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_1023x" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8497/8315641253_9c0fbd3a56_z.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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And that’s the Buffalo Central Terminal.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-37156734282154819972013-01-28T10:20:00.000-05:002013-01-28T10:20:00.172-05:00Don't Give Up the ShipHistorian Esquire and I like to look at historical things. One of the historical things we looked at over the summer was the USS Niagara, which was docked in Buffalo for a little while. The USS Niagara was built in 1813 and was used in naval defense on Lake Ontario during the War of 1812. Historian Esquire and I are probably the only ones who happen to have been reading up on early American history lately, so here are a few things to remember. First, the war of independence was not so much about freedom as about Indian land, and the money that came from the sale of Indian land, and whether that money would stay in the colonies or go back to England. The loyalty of the Indians, and who would get the opportunity to buy/steal their lands, continued to be an issue between the two nations. Second, even after the Treaty of Paris was signed in 1783, ending the Revolutionary War, not everyone thought the war was really over. The British retreated not all the way to England, but only to Canada. For the next three decades, it was not obvious to either nation that the other one wouldn’t attack at any time. Third, when the colonists won the war, it was not clear that their little republic was going to last very long. The authority of the new American government was not accepted by everyone, and the founding fathers were still arguing about whether it was the federal government or the states that should have more power. Basically, even though the war was officially over, everything was in flux.<br />
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By 1812, there were further problems. The U.S. thought Britian was trying to monopolize trade with Europe. They were also annoyed that British naval captains kept impressing American sailors. On the American frontier (that includes western New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio), it was an issue of Indians. Both the British and the Americans were afraid of having to go to war with the Indians, and they each wanted them on their side. But, they also wanted their extremely valuable land. As the state of New York systematically dispossessed the Indians of all but a few patches of land, the British saw an opportunity to win the Indians over, by giving them all kinds of help -- and arming them against the Americans.<br />
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So, finally, in 1812, the former colonies and their former rulers went to war once again. The U.S.S. Niagara was in that war, patrolling Lake Erie. This ship is a replica, with just a couple of symbolic timbers from the original. But it was still just about the coolest thing ever.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8313817719/" title="IMG_0984 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0984" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8078/8313817719_fbd7929c4f_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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It is 198 feet long, if you count the spar. The deck measures 116 feet from end to end.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8313773185/" title="IMG_0931 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0931" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8223/8313773185_a0661c4cf2_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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The main mast is 118 feet tall -- longer than the length of the deck.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8313762765/" title="IMG_0963 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0963" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8211/8313762765_4e73d4ccd8_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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There are two 12-pounder long guns, and eighteen 32-pounder carronades. I don’t know what these are, but I assume if I saw one I’d call it a cannon.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8313771617/" title="IMG_0949 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0949" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8502/8313771617_e03f1c2c37_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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There is . . . a lot of rope.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8314817206/" title="IMG_0944 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0944" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8213/8314817206_a39f07997f_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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The crew numbered 155. Belowdecks, there wasn’t enough room to stand up. They slept in hammocks. It did not seem pleasant down there, and everyone around me was cheerful and showered. I can only imagine what it would be like with 154 other smelly, overworked men around.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8314815444/" title="IMG_0938 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0938" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8223/8314815444_3898f55280_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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I forgot all the other facts.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8314813310/" title="IMG_0902 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0902" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8078/8314813310_53a7189d95_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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The original ship was purposely sunk in Lake Erie a few years after the war, to preserve it. About a hundred years later, it was raised and patched up. Since then it's been so extensively restored that it's not really the same ship. But it's still remarkable -- both that they were able to find the funding to restore it, and that the very new nation that first built it has survived (so far), in spite of how unlikely that seemed in the first few decades. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-31930369075824178982013-01-21T12:45:00.000-05:002013-01-21T12:45:00.853-05:00Of Wheels and RaccoonsWill this post be about LeRoy's transportation museum, or will it be about roadkill? I'm not sure yet, so I guess we'll have to take our chances.<br />
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When Ivan and I went to the Jell-O Museum in LeRoy, we were surprised to discover that there's another entire museum in the basement, which is full of old carriages and sleighs and transporty things of that nature.<br />
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<b>Covered wagon (1840s)</b><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8315595349/" title="IMG_0475 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0475" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8080/8315595349_df844e1837_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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The first thing you'll notice is that this wagon is not covered. You can't have everything. It's the non-covered part of a covered wagon, which is cool enough. Having written and thought about covered wagons a lot lately, I was kind of horrified by how small it is. Imagine putting your entire family's necessary belongings in this wagon. I think I have more toiletries than would fit comfortably in here. What also impressed me is how thick the wood is, and how sturdy the wheels are. This is one tough wagon. Which probably would still have needed constant repairs. And really tough horses.<br />
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<b>Example 2: Market wagon</b><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8316666626/" title="IMG_0500 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0500" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8503/8316666626_ccd3ee28ac_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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The market wagon is to the covered wagon as a tarantula is to a daddy long-legs. The covered wagon could eat the market wagon for breakfast. On the other hand, the market wagon seems to have shock absorbers, which would make riding in it much more pleasant. And since you'd probably only go short distances, I'd much rather be in this wagon than the covered wagon. Sucks to your asthmar, pioneers! Your wagon is terrible.<br />
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<b>Example 3: Penny farthing</b><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8315605977/" title="IMG_0503x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0503x" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8360/8315605977_fc317b2c31_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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If you really want to travel in style, and have impeccable balance, this set of wheels is for you! However, if you fall off, you may break something, or crush someone else due to the great height from which you will fall, so this is a use-at-your-own risk-and-employ-a-lawyer mode of transport.<br />
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The basement museum is a bit cramped, and it was hard to get good pictures of the rest of the things - a number of carriages and sleighs that smelled a bit musty and creeped me out a bit. Especially the ice skates lying on the seat of one. As I believe I've said before, <a href="http://simonandivan.blogspot.com/2011/05/this-is-new-game-called-rmsc-exhibits.html">I do not approve of two hundred-year-old shoes</a>. History and anthropology and archaeology be damned: shoes of dead people should be destroyed immediately! I believe this so fervently that I think I might start a Cult of the Destruction of Shoes, which will entail shoe destruction and also a money-laundering scheme, which I think is typically how modern cults operate.<br />
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Anyway, by the creepy sleighs full of creepy shoes there was a sign. And on the sign there was a poem. A poem that I thought either Ivan or I had taken a picture of, but it turns out we didn't, even though we stood in front of it for ten minutes mocking it. So I will summarize the poem: it was a moral tale about a very shallow young lady who was asked to go on a sleigh ride by a gentleman caller. She said yes, because no one in their right mind turns down a sleigh ride, but she wanted to look beautiful so she refused to put on her hat and mittens, or muff and cape, or whatever. People told her she should really be properly dressed, and she waved away their warnings. At one point during the sleigh ride even her beau turned to her and said, "Don't you want to put on a hat or something?" And she said, "No no, I am fine." But of course she wasn't fine. She was slowly freezing to death. Because apparently this was a less of a sleigh ride and more of an iditarod. By the time she admitted she was "a little cold" it was already over for her. That's right, SHE DIED. It was a moral poem about the pressing issue of delicate ladies not wearing proper outerwear. Let this be a lesson to you! Do not go on sleigh rides!<br />
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In addition to this wonderful glimpse into how weird the Victorians were, the basement also boasts a small collection of what I'm guessing is early-twentieth-century medicine. These are my favorites.<br />
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<b>Allen's Foot=Ease</b><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8315601385/" title="IMG_0519 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0519" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8076/8315601385_c4a2cc143c_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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In attractive yellow packaging. I'm not being sarcastic. I would buy this. It has the must-have signature on it! (Now I'm being sarcastic.)<br />
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<b>Mother Grey's Sweet Tablets for [Everything]</b><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8316658580/" title="IMG_0516 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0516" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8083/8316658580_be75f005fe_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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I assume this is chocolate?<br />
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<b>Raccoon Corn Plasters</b><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8315597189/" title="IMG_0522 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0522" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8084/8315597189_cdd53b0f56_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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The raccoon gets the corn! I can't express how much I love this approach to marketing. More advertisements these days should focus on how pests can relieve your bodily ailments through the use of puns. They say laughter is the best medicine. This made me laugh quite a lot.<br />
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Hopefully this will convince each and every one of you that the $3 entrance fee to the Jell-O Museum Complex is absolutely worth it. If not, don't worry, because at this point we were only 3/5 done! For another small fee (or donation, I can't remember), you can also go into the LeRoy Historical Society and look at cool stuff in there. <br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8316653470/" title="IMG_0531 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0531" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8495/8316653470_a2d961417a_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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I wasn't allowed to take pictures, but I remember liking a lot of the art. And there was an astonishing amount of crockery. For such a small sum, the LeRoy Experience, as I'm now calling it, was an amazing deal. Highly recommended.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-65548341924940541832013-01-14T14:57:00.000-05:002013-01-14T14:57:00.941-05:00Of Jell-O and GiraffesWhen Ivan came home to visit last summer, we decided to have an adventure. This adventure started, as they usually do, with a small smackerel of something.<br />
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<a href="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8493/8303801029_d7d6364e1b_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8493/8303801029_d7d6364e1b_z.jpg" width="530" /></a></div>
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This case of delights is in the Pittsford Dairy, where they also keep many other delights such as fresh milk in glass bottles, tubs of wholesome-looking butter, ice cream, and loaves of apple strudel bigger than your head (which is the appropriate size for apple strudel).<br />
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After the Pittsford Dairy, we went on our way to the Jell-O Museum, which is about an hour away in LeRoy. We didn't know what to expect. What is there to discuss about Jell-O, really? It's Jell-O. So we were unprepared for the bizarre and delightful experience that we ended up having.<br />
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We made guesses beforehand on the ratio of old gentlemen to old ladies behind the counter, and we were both wrong: it was one elderly woman and her granddaughter. The elderly woman took us to the entrance of the museum, sat us down on a bench, and gave us an incredibly charming oral history of Jell-O and the museum. You could tell that she had given this history many, many times, simply because it was so polished, but she still enjoyed making the jokes and still laughed at them. Ivan and I were thoroughly won over. The entire museum was like that: it looked like very dedicated people who really cherished Jell-O had gotten together, raised a bit of money, and put together a pretty decent museum with whatever artifacts they could get their hands on, and construction paper.<br />
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It turned out they could get their hands on quite a lot, most of which was advertising. That sounds boring, but it was a fascinating lesson in graphic design during the last hundred or so years. Because they used painting in advertisements, there were a lot of really lovely still lifes . . . of Jell-O. Jell-O is such an odd substance, I found it impressive that it was so nicely rendered. I would put this on my wall, no joke.<br />
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What's hilarious about these paintings is how they make it look like Jell-O was the center of American culture. Of course all advertising wants to depict its product that way, but for some reason the fact that it's Jell-O is particularly absurd to me. For example: behold this Eskimo bringing his hard-won Jell-O back to his igloo.<br />
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Then again, maybe Jell-O actually was at the center of American culture, because the Jell-O company thought it was a good idea to make these little figurines based on the ads that are pictured in the background.<br />
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I wish there had been a figurine for this ad, but I don't think they had it.<br />
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One of the best parts was a notebook where people could write down their stories about Jell-O. Ivan and I really liked this one:<br />
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"The year was 1982 and I had to come up with a model of a plant cell. Overnight, my sister and I made the model out of Lime Jell-O & mints & pieces of licorice. I told the class it was edible & my science teacher gave me a spoon and & told me to eat."<br />
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There was also this brief tale about Jell-O salesmen:<br />
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"As I recall, I was with the Jell-O company in 1915, and was on the last wagon that they had in operation. . . . The salesman was an ex circus man. He was delightfully tough and remarkable for his ability to wear a derby hat on the side of his head, even while eating, and for his knack of chewing tobacco and smoking a cigar at the same time. . . . We covered Ohio south of Columbus, hitting towns of 2500 and under. Most of them were under. We started in Xenia on Thanksgiving and worked through the winter, which was probably the ghastliest, coldest job that ever existed outside the trenches. . . . While driving through the country, we were supposed to tack up big canvas signs. This was a sporting proposition, as farmers were never much in favor of the idea. We were shot at several times by outraged natives but only once with any effectiveness. The bird shot was removed from the salesman at the next town, and the operation was charged up as a veterinary fee. (Repairs on horses were a legitimate expense--but not repairs on salesmen.) [Excerpts from "On the Wagon," by Sid Ward, General Foods Magazine, 1931.]<br />
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In addition to these strange and wonderful stories, they also had strange and wonderful old Jell-O flavors that have been discontinued. Did I say wonderful? I meant horrifying and revolting.<br />
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Arguably, the best part of the museum is when you turn a corner and suddenly you see this:<br />
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This is a giraffe. Why? WHY NOT.<br />
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It so happens that this giraffe was part of a visiting circus near LeRoy when it suddenly expired, and since Jell-O had had an ad campaign involving giraffes, the obvious solution as to what to do with the giraffe carcass was to stuff it and give it to the Jell-O museum. Possibly it was dissected first by the local doctor -- I might be mixing this up with a novel I read once, but it might also have happened for real with this giraffe. I am uncertain and in cases when facts are uncertain I report them anyway just in case they're true. This is known as responsible journalism.<br />
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With this, our visit to the museum came to the end.<br />
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BUT DID IT REALLY? NO IT DID NOT. It turns out that in the basement of the Jell-O museum is a small museum of transportation, and a collection of old medicaments that made me grateful that I was born no earlier than I was, for raccoons seem to be too much involved for my personal taste. Part two of our trip to what I am now referring to as the LeRoy Museum Complex will be covered in the next post. I will also quote at length from a moral poem about vanity and outdoor safety, so you won't want to miss THAT.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-58385231336652876702013-01-07T20:44:00.000-05:002013-01-07T20:44:00.654-05:00In the Conservation Lab<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8358/8298021907_9d7948dfe9_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8358/8298021907_9d7948dfe9_z.jpg" width="530" /></a></div><br />
Some time in August, my co-worker in the library's conservation lab told me she was going to wash a book and asked if I was interested in watching. My jaw promptly fell off, indicating that yes, I was interested in that. I waited and waited and waited, and finally the day came: the day of the washing of the book. I cannot express how excited I was.<br />
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Book washing is both complicated and simple. Basically, you unbind a book, put the pages in a solution, let them sit, air-dry them, press-dry them, and re-bind them. But obviously there's more to it than that. My conservator friend said a lot of things about chemistry that went over my head, for example. The solution she used in this case was, I think, just ethyl alcohol, but sometimes it's more complicated than that. It has to do with what's in the paper and what's on the paper. Some inks do not agree with some chemicals, and terrible things can happen.<br />
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Nothing terrible happened to this book. It had very sturdy pages because its paper was made of rags. I learned a lot about paper-making, including the delightful fact that paper-making used to seriously injure and sometimes kill people. Paper used to be made by putting a kind of mesh screen in a vat of rag pulp and lifting it directly up so that the screen remained horizontal. As you can imagine, this would strain even very powerful shoulders after a while, and I was told that sometimes people would just pop. They'd give out. Their arms would just be destroyed. Sometimes the pressure it put on their muscles would kill them. Paper-making was serious business.<br />
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Rather remarkably, rag paper withstands water extremely well, and ink usually does, too. I was surprised how rough our conservator could be with them without harming them at all. Which is not to say that she wasn't extremely careful -- but she wasn't moving at a snail's pace and biting her lips like I would have been. The paper was practically as sturdy as cloth, although it would tear quite easily if you went with the grain.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Check out those ligatures! omg!</td></tr>
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But the paper does bond with itself and is difficult to separate if it touches in the water, so it's necessary to put a piece of this special kind of paper in between:<br />
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I wish I could be more specific than "special kind of paper," but it's very difficult to take photos and notes at the same time! This is what makes the ink in the above two images look gauzy and dreamlike - it's very thin and transparent when wet, but is enough to prevent the pages from bonding.<br />
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The book pages sit in these shallow vats for a while, making the water a yucky shade of yellow.<br />
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This book wasn't all that disgusting, but since the alcohol can be reused, you can see how dirty other pages have been.<br />
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When the pages have soaked long enough, they are laid flat on these absorbent sheets (which are also reused) and set in a drying rack. After this, they are dried in a press, but that's a delicate process. If you put too much pressure on the paper, you can lose things like the indent into the paper where you can see the edge of the printer's block. Which is the kind of thing that's terrifying and one reason I don't allow myself to be around precious objects. O the responsibility!<br />
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Once the pages are dry, they can either go back in their original binding (if it's in good condition or unique or important in some way) or into a new binding (if the old binding is not original, full of damaging acid, or too decrepit to save). I've seen some pretty incredible bindings in the conservation lab, including one our conservator did of a sixteenth-century book (if I'm recalling correctly) -- re-bound in snow-white pigskin.<br />
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It's pretty cool that we have a conservation lab in our library, and even cooler that our conservationist is so happy to talk about her work with fascinating underlings. She even puts up with me gasping and clutching my chest every time I learn a new and interesting fact, which is every two seconds. Next time I'll take better notes so that you can become as ridiculous as I am.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-77720925967508767822013-01-06T10:30:00.000-05:002013-01-06T10:30:02.169-05:00"Superb stalactites of a blue green color"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail from Rockwell Kent's <i>Seascape </i>(1933-35)</td></tr>
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<i>(I've set up weekly Monday posts through March, but I may post intermittently between them as things come up. This one is too wintry to post after March, when we're no longer getting serious snow. At least, I hope we won't be.)</i><br />
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I recently finished reading Andrea Wulf's <i>Transit of Venus: The Race to Measure the Heavens</i>, which was wonderful and fascinating. In 1761 and 1769, astronomers dispersed all over the world to see Venus cross the sun. They wanted to record how long it took in as many locations as possible so that they could use the differences between their observations to calculate the distance between the earth and the sun - something no one had been able to do before. Many astronomers traveled unimaginable distances and suffered pretty terribly in the name of science. Five of them even died. Jean-Baptiste Chappe d'Auteroche went all the way from Paris to California (which of course involved going all the way around Cape Horn), and set up his observatory where he landed even though there was an outbreak of typhus. There was no time for him to sail further on, and he refused to give up his mission, which he'd started nine months earlier. He was able to make his observation, but couldn't avoid getting the disease and died two months later. Only one person who came on the ship with him survived and managed to get his results back to other scientists. I may have gotten misty-eyed reading that part.<br />
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But the part I particularly wanted to share was this description of Anders Planman's trip to Kajana in eastern Finland to observe the transit of Venus in 1761, because of the rather incredible images of the frozen waves and the bursting trees:<br />
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"To reach Finland, he had to cross the frozen Gulf of Bothnia by sledge, but the severe winter had laid an unusually thick blanket of snow over Scandinavia. The whipping waves had congealed into a frosted picture, as if someone had snapped a finger to stop the world. In place of a smooth surface the Gulf of Bothnia was a treacherous icescape of 'superb stalactites of a blue green color'. Though stunningly beautiful, it made for dangerous travelling. Sledges had to follow hardened lines of the waves, regularly overturning when one side would suddenly be 'raised perpendicularly in the air'. Wrapped up in thick pelts, the passengers were often catapulted out of their sledges like furry cannonballs and the horses then galloped off, scared, as another traveller described, 'at the sight of what they supposed to be a bear or wolf rolling on the ice.'<br />
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"By the time Planman arrived in Abo on the Finnish side of the Gulf of Bothnia, he was so ill that he was forced to rest for three weeks until he recovered his strength. To make up for lost time, he then travelled day and night through lonely forests towards Kajana. There was a "dreary silence," other travellers remarked, the only noise the erratic choir of bursting bark which exploded with a bang when a tree's sap froze and expanded."<br />
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If this doesn't make you feel warmer in your house, no matter how leaky your windows are, read it again!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-83883277807148293382012-12-31T07:00:00.000-05:002013-11-17T17:13:13.037-05:00Up in the IntrepidHello, readers! It has been many a moon since Simon & Ivan put up a new post. I wish I could say we had been traveling to distant lands, investigating curious places, and documenting varied and marvelous sights with very expensive photographic equipment in order to report back on our wondrous adventures. Unfortunately I have just been sitting at my desk writing and researching, and Ivan has been sitting in her editing bay pondering important life decisions. Someday I hope to get her to post about her past and future wondrous adventures, but for now you will have to make do with my decidedly localized day trips, sojourns to not-very-distant lands, and moderately decent approximations of time travel.<br />
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When we last saw our heroine (this is of course how I refer to myself in my head), she had just been to Vermont in mid-July. At the end of July, she went back some hundred and fifty years to the period of the Civil War to take her first ever balloon ride. This should raise a number of questions, the foremost being, how is it possible that Simon had never been up in a balloon before? Sadly, this is unanswerable. The second question may be: what have balloons to do with the Civil War? I will tell you. Please proceed to the next paragraph, wherein I shall pontificate on this subject from memory and get most of my facts wrong.<br />
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Self-made scientist, inventor, and (apparently) inveterate risk-taker Thaddeus Lowe had been playing around with balloons for a few years already when the Civil War broke out. It occurred to him that they would be great for reconnaissance missions, and after pitching the idea to Lincoln (whom he impressed by sending a telegram to him <i>from a balloon</i> over Washington), he was allowed to form the Union Army's Balloon Corps. The balloon they used was called the <i>Intrepid</i>, and it made thousands of flights over the course of the war.<br />
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A hundred and fifty years later, someone at the Genesee Country Museum thought it would be pretty cool to make a replica of the Intrepid and let people go up in it. This person deserves a medal. Not only is it pretty cool, it is quite frankly the coolest thing in the entire world. I was very excited to go up in it, and talked about it for nearly a month beforehand. Almost without exception, the conversation went like this:<br />
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Me: I'm going up in a Civil War-era balloon!<br />
Other Person: Are you insane?<br />
Me: It's not actually from the Civil War. It's a replica.<br />
Other Person: ::stares::<br />
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I maintain that you'd have to be insane <i>not </i>to want to go up in this beauty.<br />
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As you can see, this is totally safe, because the balloon is tethered. All but a few of Thaddeus Lowe's missions used tethered balloons because all they wanted to do was go up really high and see what was around them. Flying over enemy territory wasn't very helpful because the balloon was not filled with hot air, but hydrogen. It was very difficult to raise, lower, and steer.<br />
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Brief aside: I first encountered Thaddeus Lowe and his balloons in a Miriam Monfredo novel, in which Glynis's historically implausible niece Bronwyn makes a rather magnificent entrance by crashing a balloon in Seneca Falls. When I read that scene in high school, I thought it was completely ridiculous. In fact, it was entirely possible -- especially the crash -- but very unlikely. Thaddeus Lowe did not do much traveling by balloon, and certainly didn't use them as taxis.<br />
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You can see in this picture the gas generators that Lowe used to make hydrogen to fill his balloons.<br />
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Hydrogen is pretty easy to make. Lowe did it by mixing water, iron filings, and sulfuric acid in large tanks inside those green wooden boxes. A purifier filtered and cooled the gas before it went into the hose that was fixed to the balloon. Voila: the balloon was lighter than air!<br />
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You actually would have to be insane to go up in something filled with hydrogen. Wisely, they filled the balloon replica with helium. Because of the worldwide shortage of helium, the <i>Intrepid</i> nearly never got off the ground, but Macy's (the department store with a strange passion for floating things) kindly donated 50,000 cubic feet of it.<br />
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Deciding to go up in a balloon is all well and good, until you are actually up in it. I took this picture without looking because I really wanted to know what the ground looked like straight down, but I absolutely could not bring myself to lean over and check.<br />
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As my fellow aeronaut, R. M. Jurnack, Historian, Esq., and I admitted to each other afterward, we did not expect to be as unsettled as we were. Balloons <i>move.</i> That's the thing. You shift your weight and the balloon goes <i>oomph garoomph</i>. A breeze comes up and the balloon goes <i>wheeeee!</i> You become aware, deep in your internal organs, that you are in the middle of the air. All that's between your feet and the hard dirt is the floor of the basket and two hundred and fifty feet of nothing. I was surprised at how frightening it was, even while I completely loved it.<br />
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Thaddeus Lowe, who was in the balloon with us, was not bothered in the least. While Historian Esquire and I took pictures with one hand and held the side very firmly with the other, he chatted airily (sorry) about ballooning and what it was like during the Civil War. One thing that struck me was that the balloon was not, as I had assumed, out of the range of bullets. The <i>Intrepid </i>could be shot and often was -- but it could take a lot of damage and not deflate in a dangerous way. The danger was for the ground crew; bullets that missed the <i>Intrepid</i> landed among the soldiers below, making the Balloon Corps an unpopular assignment.<br />
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It was a very hot and sunny day, and my camera did not handle the bright light very well. My pictures from the sky did not turn out particularly well, but you can at least get an idea how small everything looks and how far you can see. On an ideal day, Lake Ontario is visible. (You can also see how little it had rained! I'll have to go up again when the grass is green and it's overcast.)<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/10913241005/" title="IMG_0204x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0204x" src="http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2822/10913241005_723ab0c0fe_z.jpg" width="540" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/10913292285/" title="IMG_0198x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0198x" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5484/10913292285_173ba76dd3_z.jpg" width="540" /></a><br />
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The terribleness of the photos does not convey the wonderfulness of the experience. It is the only Civil War-era balloon replica in the world, and it happens to be thirty minutes from my house. I feel very lucky indeed to have the opportunity to go up in it, and to be insane enough to actually do it!<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/10913637163/" title="IMG_0190x by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0190x" src="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3768/10913637163_53207a60ee_z.jpg" width="540" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8461845.post-46724474870156414552012-12-25T08:15:00.001-05:002012-12-27T20:05:57.781-05:00New Posts to Come<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56831705@N00/8306096045/" title="santa parade 083 by blatherskate, on Flickr"><img alt="santa parade 083" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8363/8306096045_5872e61fbb_z.jpg" width="530" /></a><br />
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Hello, loyal readers! Simon & Ivan will be posting again starting December 31st. Our new, lazier schedule means that new content (quality not guaranteed) will be put up every Monday. Because Mondays are terrible and why not try to salvage them as best we can. In the meantime, happy Christmas! See you again in a few days.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0