Eye Candy

Mr. Ginley, as is his wont, has an extensive list of bookmarks on his computer.

Courtesy of NY Public Library
public domain images

The other night, he was perusing some of them, and landed on the New York Public Library digital collection.

The site hosts a ton of fascinating images. These include:

• 1950s fashion illustrations from the Creators Studio

• Maps and Atlases

• Shoes of the 19th Century

• Old photographs of New York

• Early American Manuscripts

• Book jacket art

• Sheet music

• Stereoscopic views (my personal favorite)

Well, you get the idea.

This is the website:

https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/

Warning: don't click unless you're prepared to spend a significant amount of time getting lost in a labyrinth of ephemera.

Hopefully, this distancing thing will be short-lived. In the meantime, this is a lovely way to stay connected with one's creative side.

Happy discovering!

Books on the Move

Facebook has become a minefield, especially this past week. I find myself tiptoeing through the social media behemoth, in search of personal stories from friends and interesting tidbits.

Washington County Free Library,
Maryland, c. 1905. PUBLIC DOMAIN

Fortunately, I can always count on Cleveland Public Library's John Skrtic to share old photos and ephemera about our fair city.

A few days ago, John shared a photo of Cleveland's first Book Car from the summer of 1927. It features children sitting on the ground in front of the vehicle, listening (presumably) to a librarian. The caption states that circulation was 7,070, with children's books taking the largest share, with 5,923.

The picture got me wondering about the history of bookmobiles. So it was off to the Google to see what I could see.

Our friends across the pond in Great Britain have been given credit for the first mobile libraries, which began popping up during the 19th Century. Here in the States, we have librarian Mary Titcomb of Washington County, Maryland, to thank for bringing books to the folks who couldn't make it to the library.

The first iteration of Titcomb's mobile library, created at the turn of the 20th Century, was a horse-drawn cart. By 1912, motorized vehicles were transporting books to local schools and centers for seniors, as well as to rural areas.

The idea took off, and hundreds of other communities across the country built their own bookmobiles. The Great Depression put a damper on things, but the 1950s saw a rebirth of the popular books-on-wheels concept.

While Washington County continues to enjoy a robust interest in the bookmobile, its success in other communities is mixed. Most recent numbers indicate a slight uptick in their popularity, but I imagine it's the counties with a wide rural population that are most likely to continue their bookmobile use.

"So," you may, "how have other countries brought books to their citizens?"

Here's what I discovered:

South Asia, 1931: S.R. Ranganathan took his two-wheeled cart to the populace in an effort to educate its rural citizens living in poverty.

Kenya, 1996: The Camel Service Library was born, offering books in Swahili, Somali and English.

Colombia, 1990s: The Biblioburro was dreamed up by Luis Soriano. From the backs of his two donkeys, Alfa and Beto, he dispenses books to municipalities on the Caribbean shore. Zimbabwe, inspired by the Biblioburro concept, developed its own donkey-powered book cart.

Thailand: Elephants are the power behind the bookmobile here.

Western Norway: Small maritime communities enjoy the book selection served up by itinerate ships.

So, there you have it. Before there was a service to deliver your meals, there was a wagon to bring you books.

Because food for thought matters.

Bon apétit!

Here's to Life

In the ongoing pursuit of cleaning old stuff out of the house, Mr. Ginley came across some old Life magazines he picked up at a library book sale.

©1958 Time Inc.

He's been entertaining me with bits and pieces from articles he's come across that wonderfully illustrate how far we've come (or haven't come, as the case may be).

For any youngsters who may be reading this, Life was a weekly periodical (10 1/2" x 12") that covered everything from government to fashion to entertainment to art to...well, you get the idea.

Life was famous for the breathtaking photography that accompanied its full-length articles as well as its snippets.

This particular issue is dated November 24, 1958. It cost 25 cents. On the cover is a sultry Kim Novak, posing with Pyewacket, her kitty co-star from the movie Bell, Book and Candle. Other articles included:

• a story about a missionary who goes to live with her daughter in Ecuador with the natives that killed her husband. (Fear not, I googled her and found out she lived to the ripe old age of 88.)

• an obituary for Boston Mayor James Michael Curley, eulogized as the last of the big city bosses.

• a blurb about the Hope Diamond being sent to the Smithsonian Institution by registered mail, insured for one million dollars. Harry Winston wrapped the package in plain brown paper. The cost of postage? $145.29. That's the equivalent of $1,312 today. (Fortunately, no porch pirates scampered off with the booty.)

• several photos illustrating white and black as the latest trend. Featured were a white cocktail dress with long black gloves; a Chanel houndstooth suit; a satin evening coat with jet buttons, matching satin turban and black velvet dress; and a slim black skirt and a shaggy Empire-waist three-quarter coat.

• a lengthy biography of Modigliani with several full-color reproductions of the artist's work. Two are nudes, one of which got the full spread. (Quite racy for a family magazine).

Plus lots and lots of full-color ads. Breathtaking photos of long, finned automobiles. A two-page spread on American Airlines' latest jet and one for Boeing that shows three passengers in a space that would today be crammed with six (at least) -- the gentleman is reclining his seat and NOT whacking into the person behind him. Miss Clairol of "Does she...or Doesn't She?" fame. Plus ads for booze and beer and cigarettes. The latest Magnavox TV, "a stereo high fidelity innovation." And food ads which conjure up memories of meals I'd just as soon forget.

All was not sunshine and moonbeams, as they say. The Letters to the Editors contained some pretty awful examples of where people's minds were. I'd like to think we're more enlightened these days, but from some of the stuff I've seen on social media, I'd have to say people are people, and it's always going to be a mixed bag.

Meanwhile, back at the Casa de Ginley, I'm going to pull out my copy of Bell, Book & Candle and watch it again. Kim Novak is just so stinkin' cool.

L'Chaim!

Leaps and Bounds

Dinah Shore was a leapling. I hope she has a piece of birthday cake, wherever she may be today (she passed in 1994).

Yes, Dinah was one of those folks born on Leap Day.

As you probably know (because you're smart), each year we have an excess of approximately six hours, so every four years we add a day to compensate so the seasons don't go all cattywampas. (Yes, that's the technical term.)

However...this doesn't quite get the job done, so on certain years ending in "00," we don't leap at all. If you're still around in the year 2100, you'll see what I'm talking about.

According to Guinness (the record book, not the brewer), there was only one recorded family with three consecutive generations of Leap Babies -- a British family by the name of Keogh (1940, 1964 and 1996). Meanwhile the Henrikson family of Norway holds the record for most number of children (three) with a Leap Day birthday (1960, 1964, 1968).

Thanks to our Irish friends, Leap Day, as you probably also know, carries a tradition whereby the woman can ask the man to marry her. According to legend, this came about thanks to St. Brigid, who struck the deal with St. Patrick.

Apparently, the Irish weren't the only ones to have this idea (or, more likely, it was stolen from them much the way their land was back in the day). Named "Bachelor's Day," the guy was expected to pay up if he refused a woman's hand in marriage. Society's elite got in on the gag by saying if a woman was turned down on Leap Day, she could expect to receive a dozen pair of gloves from the guilty party. It's theorized this was to cover the hands of shame that weren't wearing the coveted wedding band.

If you've made it this far, as my TV aerobics instructor says, hang on, because you'll make it to the end.

The Scots, ever the upbeat bunch, considered being born on this day bad luck. The Greeks think the whole year is unlucky for weddings, with Leap Day being the unluckiest. And I'd say St. Oswald was trying to steal the show by dying on this day in 992 and making it his saint's day, but February 29th wasn't a Leap Day thing at that point.

I hope you've enjoyed this little romp through Leap Day trivia. And the best part is...you can be (pretty) sure the topic won't come up here again for another four years!

Yay!

I Lift My Lamp

As my relentless purging of reading material continues, I came upon yet another book I didn't know I had.

Called Famous Americans, it's one of those Dover Clip Art books. There are 75 pages of famous folks, mostly men. The woman who are featured are largely president's wives. However, there were a handful of others, and these were the women who intrigued me.

I decided one of them would be the subject of this blog. Without looking at the names, I peered at each picture until I came to one that stopped me. Then I looked at her name and claim to fame.

It was Emma Lazarus, 1849-1887.

Emma is the poet who wrote the words that appear at the base of the Statue of Liberty, part of a sonnet she penned entitled The New Colossus. The piece was written in 1883 and donated to an organization that auctioned it off to raise money to help pay for construction of the pedestal for the Statue of Liberty. (The French provided the statue, but not the base). A bronze plaque with the words to The New Colossus was affixed to the pedestal in 1903, six years after Emma's death from Hodgkin's Lymphoma. 

Born into a wealthy Jewish family with roots firmly planted in America (she had ancestors that landed here way before the Revolutionary War), Emma enjoyed a private education and comfortable home life. Her love of words was evident from an early age, and with her father's help, a book of her early poetry was published in 1867. She continued to write poetry and prose all her life. 


In her later years, Emma began to explore her Jewish heritage. She was appalled by the Russian pogroms in 1881 that followed Tsar Alexander's assassination. She began to advocate on behalf of destitute Jewish immigrants, helping to establish the Hebrew Technical Institute in New York, which provided vocational training. She also founded the Society of the Improvement and Colonization of East European Jews.

Emma was just 38 when she died. But she certainly made the most of the years she had.

Here is Emma Lazarus' sonnet, in its entirety:

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. 

"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Memories of Flannel

We were wandering the mall, and I told Mr. Ginley I wanted to buy a flannel nightgown.

"You want a 'granny gooch'?" he asked. "The kind my mom used to wear?"

"My mom wore them, too," I said defensively.

Which opened a whole can of memories.

As a little girl, my grandmother used to sew us flannel nighties every year for Christmas. They were made of thick flannel and kept you toasty warm over the coldest winters. At some point, I switched over to pajamas. But I always had fond memories of that old-fashioned nightwear.

We never called them "granny gooches," though. That comes from the Ginleys, and who knows where they got the term. I googled the phrase, and there's a person on social media who calls herself "Granny Gooch." No nighties by that name.

But I digress.

Maybe it simply says I'm growing older and love comfort more than style. Then again, I've always been more of a comfort-over-fashion gal.

At the end of our shopping journey, I managed to find my flannel nightgown in JC Penney's clearance area. There was one left. It fit. It was a fair price. Everybody was happy.

Except...it is a much flimsier flannel than I remember. I'm thinking of buying a pattern and weightier fabric and making my own nightie. It will take some work and some time.

But it will also give me an opportunity to remember my grandmother. And winter nights growing up. Heart-to-heart talks with Denise while Diane told us to go to sleep.

I imagine getting nighties for Christmas wasn't very exciting back in the day. But now I understand. Grandma, who couldn't be with us at Christmastime, was keeping us warm and cozy, letting us know we were loved, just the same.

So...do I choose the flannel with little yellow, pink or blue flowers?

Thrilling it to Snail Mail

Kirk Douglas passed away this week. Of all the stories and articles about him, one in particular struck a nerve.

Douglas wrote a piece about the joy of corresponding the old fashioned way.

Of course, his correspondents were more notable than my own, but I had to agree with him that the written word is a powerful, enduring thing.

In our paperless society, we've grown accustomed to communicating electronically. (And yes, I understand the irony, given that I've kept this blog going for over seven years.) There are certainly advantages to texting and emailing, and they do have their place.

But so too, I believe, do written letters.

Being the sentimental beast I am, I keep lots of old cards and letters from friends and family. I know I should go through them, and one day soon, I will. Maybe. Probably.

The other day, I came across some letters my brother, Paul, wrote me when I was living in Virginia. Maybe I saved them to use as blackmail. In any event, I'm glad I did, because they are a hoot and a half. The envelopes were addressed to me and tagged, variously, "Woman of La Mancha," "Pineapple Queen," "The Brains Behind Spam," and "The Crusher," to give a few examples. I look forward to reading through them again. Hopefully, they will still make sense, given that a lot of them allude to references I made in my letters to him. (Mysteriously, there's also a check for $5.00 that I never cashed. Do you suppose it's still good?)

They say the younger generation is abandoning letter writing. That may be so. But in the past two weeks, I've received thank you notes from two of my nieces, Claire and Rose, and I was touched by both. When you take the time to send a note to someone, you may not realize how much it means to them.

What I wanted to do was send a "thank you" to them for their thank you. But that's just silly, I know.

Still, I want them to know I appreciate their taking the time to write. And put a stamp on the envelope. And put it in the mail.

Such a little thing. And such a big thing, too.