My 2D pal Connie of Forgotten Old Photos accused me of having caught Old Photoitis, and as evidenced by my last post, I think she’s right. But, a further symptom has come to light. 

Who Were They?

This is my new, new blog, lol. This will not likely be a daily blog posting, but maybe a frequent posting of 19th century photos. I hope you will visit and enjoy the fashions, history, mystery and speculation of it all. 

I have a new hobby. This is a confession of sorts because I don’t need a new hobby. I don’t have time for a new hobby. I don’t even have time for the hobbies that are old! But, I have to admit it. I’ve gotten sucked into a fascinating world. There is mystery, intrigue, history (of course) and a lot of guess work. 

I am fascinated by old photographs. I’ve always loved the old family photos my folks have. My sister and I made a photo album for our Dad with photos in it, some of them over 100 years old, all family. So, I cherish the few I have. Then, this started out with some photos and tin types Pauline gave me to scan. Then I found an old photo of the day website. Then I found my muse: Forgotten Old Photos. The blog readers try to find the ancestors of the person in the photo, whenever there’s a name. I am an addict. I check the site early every morning to see if there is a new name to hunt down. When there is, I could spend hours sifting through the information on Ancestry.com and Google searches. When one of us finds a living family member, we turn it over to the site owner, and she gets in contact with them, trying to reunite the photos with family.

Well…..I caught myself before it was too late, but in the few months since I discovered that site, I’ve been, um, acquiring old photos. Here and there, ebay, antique shops, friends, the like. This past weekend, my friend Cat gifted me with an antique photo album with 28 cabinet cards! She’d had it for years in a box. I caught myself wondering if any of them had names I could start hunting.

Some do. I am practically salivating over the possibilities.

I’ve decided I need to start a spreadsheet to keep track of everything. There are recurring photographer names, locations, dress styles, eras, men, women and babies, accessories and interesting settings. 

If you are trying to find me, just look in my office. I’m probably in front of the computer or scanning photos. 

I was a bit of a tattle tale goodey two shoes when I was in school, and I learned after being threatened within an inch of my life by Cathy C in the 7th grade that sometimes it’s best to hold your own counsel. When I see things that are wrong, unless they are a danger to others, I usually don’t say anything.

I will always call the cops on a dangerous driver.

One thing that annoys me is when I see a perfectly capable person using a handicapped parking space. My dad requires a handicapped space, and twice in my life I’ve been in a cast, requiring that I use a temporary pass. These spaces are designed for people who need them.

Well, my sense of right and wrong was offended recently when I watched a post office truck park in the last handicapped space at a large shopping center. The letter carrier got out, carried a huge load of mail into the store, and I decided I was going to do something about it. I took a picture with my phone, of the truck in the space. I did in fact post it to Facebook, lol, but then I decided another way of handling it was to make others aware that it’s not allowed.

I sent the picture to Jim Radcliff, writer for the Orange County Register. Jim writes the traffic law Q&A column. I read it often and have learned much about the ins and outs of our laws. Jim just called to say that my question will be in the print edition of the Register on July 9th, and it is already online here.

I didn’t want to get the lady in trouble, and Jim thankfully did not use the photo, as it had the truck number clearly emblazoned across the front of it. I did want to raise awareness, and it appears that I have.

Call me a tattle tale. This time, I don’t mind.

I’ve really been feeling nostalgic for Gram what with the recipe site, so I was delighted when my mom found the story of Young Sarah Bing, which Gram had often told to us when we were kids. She also wrote it out a time or two. Once was in a little book of this and that which she put together for Kathy and I to enjoy. It has stories, rhymes, drawings, and other trivia that had been fun for Gram, and so she passed them on to us. Kathy has the book but I’m hoping to borrow it so I can scan a copy for Melody.

Following is a sampling of Gram’s sense of humor. I’ve searched on this story several ways but can’t find it replicated anywhere online, and that’s saying something. Could this truly be a forgotten story, or even one that Gram created? She was known for her memory for trivia, songs, stories, and etc but I don’t know that she was a writer of such. *

Young Sarah Bing

Young Peter Gool, a child of nine

Gave little reason to complain.

Though an imaginative youth

He very often told the truth,

And never tried to black the eyes

Of comrades of superior size.

But not so, Sarah, not so Sal!

She was a most uncultured gal

Who didn’t give a pinch of snuff

For any literary stuff,

And gave the classics all a miss.

Observe the consequence of this!

As she was going home one day,

Across the field and far away,

A gate, securely padlocked stood,

And by its side, a piece of wood

On which was painted, clear and full,

“Beware the very furious bull!”

Alas! The young illiterate

went blindly forward toward her fate,

And ignorantly climbed the gate!

Now luckily the bull that day

Was rather in the mood for play

Than goring people through and through,

As bulls so very often do.

He tossed her lightly with his horns

Into a hedge of prickly thorns

And stood by, laughing, as she strode

And pushed and scrambled to the road.

The lesson, as you well may guess,

Was not lost upon the child,

Who since that day, will go a long way

Around to avoid all signs,

No matter what they say,

And leaves a padlocked gate alone!

And also, she is wisely known,

Confirmed in her afore time guess

That literature breeds distress.

* and of course because the word “bing” is in the name, it brings up lots of references to some search engine other than Google, LOL!

For many years now, there has been a co-opting of the rainbow, and darn it, I’m tired of it. The rainbow is a beautiful phenomenon of nature after a rainstorm, next to a waterfall or in the splash of the backyard sprinklers on a lazy summer day.

It’s also the international symbol for alternative lifestyles.

I do not care if a man marries a man or a woman marries her ferret or any other sort of non-traditional relationship. I really don’t. Whatever floats your boat is good for you and I support your right to live your life according to your needs and choices.

But can someone explain to the LGBT that rainbows are also enjoyed by three year old little girls, middle aged women and people all around the world who are not homosexual? Back in the 70s and 80s you often saw rainbow stickers on cars – the ones like these:

They didn’t have a political meaning. They just meant that the person driving the car liked rainbows and was probably listening to Kermit the Frog as they cruised along in their VW. I had a rainbow sticker on my notebook for school and all it meant was that I liked rainbows. And Kermit the Frog.

These days, were I to display a rainbow of any sort on any part of my person, including a decal on my shirt, embroidery on my jeans, or on a hairbow, most people would think it’s a visual declaration of my sexual orientation. That upsets me. No one owns the trademark on a natural phenomenon and I don’t think it’s right that I deny myself beautiful images for fear of being classified as something or someone I’m not.

Can’t rainbows just be rainbows and leave it at that?

I have been casually following the story of the World War 1 Mojave Desert monument for a while now, and today, I have just about had it! If you don’t know the story, in 1934 a 7 foot high metal cross was erected on private lands in the Mojave Desert in honor of World War 1 vets and casualties. Over the course of time, the land was transferred to the state.

The “fine” organization we know as the American Civil Liberties Union filed a lawsuit claiming that the cross should be removed because it was on Federal land and thereby violated the Constitution’s call for the separation of church and state. I’m not a religious person, but even I know that the Constitution included that clause so that churches and religious organizations such as existed in the 18th century would not control the government.

Something tells me that this 7 foot cross in the middle of the desert was not influencing policy in Washington DC in any way.

Anyway, the lands in question were transferred back to private holding in a recent land swap. As a result, the US Supreme Court has rejected the ACLU lawsuit because the offending religious symbol is no longer on state or federal lands, hence, no violation of the Constitution.

This morning I read that this cross, which had been covered by a plywood box for many years, finally was uncovered, and has now been stolen by thieves/vandals.

That is just pathetic.

If you hadn’t guessed by now, we just got back from a short trip to Tennessee to visit with our friends Tara, Don, Burke & Cassidy. Melody and I had mostly great travel – a delayed flight, some uncomfortable turbulence, things you expect when traveling. It’s been a while since I flew last, and I had forgotten about the one thing I really, absolutely, without a doubt, find to be my biggest pet peeve about traveling.

It takes place before you even get on board. In fact, it takes place before you even get to the gate. It’s part of the dreaded security check.

TAKING OFF YOUR SHOES

It’s disgusting. Why is this considered sanitary? We have paper seat covers to protect us from the incredibly unlikely chance of contracting a disease from the toilet and antibacterial soap to wash our hands. There are trash cans by the bathroom doors so we can open them with a paper towel and then not litter. We sneeze into our elbows and most grocery stores offer handiwipes so you don’t have to touch other people’s cooties left behind on the shopping cart. We are an extremely germ-phobic society.

Yet thousands of people every day walk bare- or sock-footed across the marble and tile floors of airports across America and no one has raised a question about it. I realize the TSA wants to be sure my 3 year old isn’t going to light her Dora the Explorer shoes on fire and they are just doing their job, but seriously? First off, a three year old, an infirm granny in a wheelchair and a terrorist all face the same conditions – though at least I was able to carry my toddler and the granny can ride in her wheelchair without touching the floor with her feet.

We risk athlete’s foot, hoof and mouth disease, and plantar warts, just to name a few, by walking bare footed across the 10-20 feet of hard marble or tile that is a haven for germs at the airport, not to mention exposure to some of the most foul odors that can cling to a person’s feet. Nothing like the smell of a sweaty athletic sock to force you into wakefulness at 6 a.m!

Are we in fact safer for the removal and scanning of our shoes? Since Richard Reid did his dastardly deed several years ago, has anyone been caught with firecrackers in their shoes? Isn’t there a better way to do this?

Just the thought of taking off my shoes to traipse across other people’s fungus and bacteria laden footprints is a huge deterrant to me traveling again any time soon. At the risk of sounding absurd, when I travel again, I will likely bring wipes and clean socks to change into once I reach the gate.

Some time ago I read in the paper that the United States Navy was planning on commissioning a new guided missile destroyer here in Seal Beach, the first commissioning at Seal Beach ever. I clicked the link for more info and sent in my name. I thought it would be really neat to take my Dad to see this piece of history, then I sort of forgot about it. Well, some time in January or early February, I got the official invitation and up to 6 RSVPs. Well, you know me, I sent in for all 6 tickets, called my family, and we made plans to go!

Fast forward to the week before the commissioning. John has been working like a dog lately and really wanted a day off – totally understandable. My sister thought her friend Dianna might enjoy it, so I invited her in John’s place. Our party would consist of Gramma and Papa, Auntie, Dianna, Mom and Melody. Gramma and Papa were staying with us that week and we made our plans in eager anticipation. Then the weather forecast predicted rain. Lots of rain. If it rained, not only would it be uncomfortable and unfortunate, my parents felt they could not go and sit in the rain. I can’t say as I blamed them. We watched the weather almost hourly and on Friday night they said if it wasn’t raining in the morning, they would go.

We all went and were prepared for a downpour with 5 umbrellas for the six of us and two of those umbrellas were large sized ones. There was a bit of rain, nothing heavier than a shower, which lasted on and off for about an hour. The Dewey was beautiful in her bunting and flags. The Navy band serenaded us when it wasn’t raining, and the crowd was robust in spite of the weather. Melody was fascinated with everything, from the flags they handed out to the big ship in front of us! 

Right before the speeches started, at about 10:58, the sky cleared and there was no more rain for the rest of the day. We could not have asked for more! The various speakers were not long winded and in fact gave interesting and inspirational speeches. Most impressive was the moment the ship sponsor called the crew to “bring her to life” and take all operations on line. Seeming from out of no where, sharply dressed sailors in their black uniforms, white hats and gloves, ran past the audience and onto the ship. They lined the rails, outlined against the blue-gray sky, like sentinels guarding the castle. When they were called to attention, every man and woman snapped sharply to salute as one person. It was a display of military precision I had never before had the honor to witness, and I was proud to be present for it.

Of course, it occurred to me that any one of those sailors could one day be a recipient of one of my care packages. The most recent recipient was from DDG 93, and most people don’t know that many of the early forces in Afghanistan and Iraq were Navy men and women. The moment of commissioning was for me, a validation of all we are fighting for and all I do to let our troops know we wish them a safe and speedy return home.

There are photos in the gallery, courtesy of Auntie Kat, and here’s another little clip of Melody being cute.

While browsing the news today, I discovered there is a big controversy that has reached a boiling point in New York City. People either want to include or exclude children from bars.

Wait, what?

How is this even a question? Last time I checked, the law limited the age of individuals who could enter bars to 21 and older, and I don’t think “under 21 night” is intended for 21 months and under. That’s the first thing that came to mind. As I read further into the article, I began to wonder if these are bar & grill type places, and then I regained my senses. Why are parents aggressively fighting for their right to drink with their children? Aren’t parents, by definition, supposed to be putting their children’s needs first? The arguement is that parents need to socialize with other adults and some parents want to bring along their children to the places they socialize, e.g. bars. And, by children, the article was specific, it’s the under 5 crowd.

Now, I’m all for being able to go out to dinner with your family and have a glass of wine or a beer with your dinner if that is your desire. A drink, or even two, with dinner is reasonable. Bellying up to the bar while Junior watches, a captive audience, in his stroller just smacks of irresponsible parenting. Am I wrong here?

Granted, there isn’t anything wrong with drinking responsibly while your children are present, and frankly there are plenty of parents who drink irresponsibly no matter who is present. I just keep getting stuck on the “fighting for their rights” aspect of this issue. Is it truly a matter of their rights or just that Mom or Dad doesn’t want to drop $50 on a babysitter/beg their parents to watch the wee ones. Or is it that they are among those parents who’s identity revolves around their child and they are unable to do anything without their kids?

On the “say no to kids in a bar” side, I just cannot imagine some of the nights I spent out with my friends, kicking up our heels and knocking back our shots, with a little kid sitting there staring at us. Going out to a bar for many, is their release, their time to let down their hair and get crazy, their escape from the pressures of work, family, kids.

I will remember, if I ever find myself in New York with a small child, that if I want to get smashed in a bar and said bar is prohibiting my child’s presence, I’ll just cry foul that my civil rights, nay, my inalienable right to intoxication, is being impinged!