Stock Photos

Give me your tired, your poor! Your huddled masses bent at playing slots!

Of course that is not the way it goes.

Yet it seems that the “august group” that makes the decisions for the United States Postal Service on images to use on stamps has selected a stock photo from in front of the Las Vegas New York, New York casino as the image for a new “first class forever” stamp. The wrong “Auguste” if you will.

The stamp portrays a close-up of the face of Lady Liberty, the Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi creation which was a gift from France. As you may recall, the gesture was originally to commemorate our country’s first centennial and the close ties between the United States and France. Remember, there was a time before “Freedom Fries” when a major French officer, Lafayette, held a post in George Washington’s army. Senator Kyl?

I would have thought that with the trust that I had in our National Park Rangers, that there was surely someone responsible for photographing our important monuments. But it seems not. When a new stamp is needed, we merely go to a service like Getty or Corbis and find one that works. This time the “lady” in Vegas!!! A smaller version made of fiberglass coated Styrofoam – none of which was around when Bartholdi began to fashion his creation – standing on the corner of Tropicana Avenue and Las Vegas Boulevard not on an island that symbolized the “gateway to democracy” to thousands of refugees escaping a more restricted society.

There are so many metaphors for life here that you get dizzy from the prospects.

But I want to be a bit mundane.

I want to think about “stock photos.”

For most of my life, I remember a photo that was always prominently displayed on the desk in our den. It was a photo of my father’s mother and his youngest sister; an amateur snapshot – made sometime in the late 40s or early 50s on the lawn in front of their home in Mobile, Alabama. It was a house I recalled from visits there and one in which I resided for a period of several months when my parents were desperate to find some relief for my younger sister’s battle with asthma. I recall the house as a place filled with lots of women and then my father and me.

My paternal grandparents had a bitter divorce. I have a copy of the court proceedings. It was not pretty. But we are southerners and we don’t talk about it.

My grandfather, it seemed was a bit of a rover. But we don’t talk about that either. In his reformed state he sang bass in the First Baptist Church choir. That took another turn, but we will talk about that at another time. We need to stay focused on things we are not talking about at this time. If I introduce Napoleon and Picasso at this point, Gertrude Stein would be proud.

Things we are not talking about at this time:

My grandfather, in later years, became a staunch moralist to the point that he dis-inherited two of his children who had been involved in divorces. He never seemed to be bothered about his daughter Frances and her eight marriages. But here again, it was never discussed.

Recently I received a series of photographs of my father’s family all made on the lawn outside the famous house in Mobile.

Wait!

In one, standing among his children is the old man, himself! My grandfather.

I reasoned that it must have been made at a family gathering sometime following the death of my grandmother.

But hold on!

There is that same pair of lawn chairs and the marble bird bath situated between them just like in the photo that was forever in our den.

Boy, those chairs weathered well. Someone kept the birdbath cleaned.

Hmmm, the tree in the background, only a small sapling recently planted, has the same number of branches and leaves.

In another photo of my father, there is my grandmother. Is that the same dress that she was wearing in the den photo?

Now, Evie was a Shotts – the Shotts from Clarke County. These were very proud people. Talbot, her sister was so proud that she insisted that khaki was pronounced with the “ah” as in father and not the “ah” as in attic. You work it out. Grandma Burt was a woman of taste and fashion, not like the “other” woman that her husband subsequently married – the same one mentioned in the bitter divorce that we don’t talk about.

As I looked at the series of photos, my deductive reasoning began to set it. It was a bit slow, but finally began to click.

Lawn chairs the same. Bird bath the same. Young sapling the same. Grandma’s dress the same. Aunt Nita’s dress could have been different, but she was a fashionista and changed often, even in the course of a Sunday afternoon.

These photos were taken on the same day which means that George and Evie of the famous divorce that we don’t talk about were at the same place at the same time – her home in Mobile. This was no accidental encounter at a family gathering at some neutral location. This involved Papa Burt, as we called the old guy, placing an automobile on Highway 45 and driving south to Mobile.

This shattered a lot of ideas – stuff we don’t talk about.

Sadly, my questions could not be answered by my mom and dad since they are both deceased. My sister is younger than I, so she had no memory.

I couldn’t let it go. George and Evie together in Mobile.

My father’s younger sister – the one in the photo in the den – is still alive. I last saw her at my father’s funeral some 15 years ago. My flood of questions outweighed my embarrassment over my inattention, so I decided to phone her.

“Aunt Nita, this is Joe. I have a question.”

We talked for over two hours. It was fantastic. She was sharp and witty and remembered that my grandfather – and the second wife and the step-daughter – made frequent visits to see the first. She sensed that my Grandmother never ceased in her love for him despite the bitter divorce that we don’t talk about.

This was a total reversal of things as I had always imagined them to be. I knew we were a civil group of people, but I thought that was just the façade of a southern family. We might actually be more accepting than I realized – it’s just something we never talked about.

A truth learned from a photo.

The other lady in another photo - the tall French one on Liberty Island in the New York harbor- has been usurped by a younger version, a but more plastic; much like Grandma Burt was with the new wife. The replacement was not discussed. But upon examination by a stamp collector, the sleight was uncovered.

The USPS has declared they purchased their history from Getty Images and really like this version better.

I suppose that the selection of the Las Vegas Liberty instead of the real one is more appropriate since our GOP-dominated legislature has no real interest in the “tired and huddled masses.”

Give me your corporate types;

your lobby and your moneyed influence.

I cast my vote to insure your support of me.

"Step around that soul there – they are just too poor to matter to anyone."

Sadly, nobody seems to want to talk about it.

Stuff Left Beside The Road

Parking in Chicago following the February 2011 blizzard.

The inside of my vehicle is a disaster of major proportions. This is not in reference to some bizarre after market add-ons or manufacturer’s design whim. It is about my accumulated stuff. I often joke to wary-eyed friends, who have the misfortune to ride with me, that there is probably a family of Gypsies hidden away somewhere in the back to whom I offered a ride at some point in the past and they became lost in the mix.

Why the mess?

Remember, I am old, ugly, and live alone. Each day when I arrive home from wherever, I have several “bags” of whatever to carry up three floors to my condo. (It is a walkup building.)

I can only handle so much and in my waning years rue making the journey more than once. So, unless you are fortunate to have a spot in one of the many bags which make it upstairs, you wind up remaining in the vehicle.

Things begin to accumulate.

There are changes of clothes that we discarded over the past sailing seasons that never made it back into the closet of my home. There are coats abandoned after the surprise of a 70 degree day. There are books that were taken along in the hopes that there might be 30 or 40 minutes to read while waiting for my turn at whatever. And there is the influx of paper lovingly called the mail – most especially catalogs from Orvis and Land’s End. And yes, shoes. Often, a single shoe mysteriously separated from its mate by the circumstances of life.

The appearance of an odd shoe always brings to mind Louise Day.

To the residents of Tallapoosa County - that area of Central Alabama which is home to Alexander City and Dadeville and the Battle of Horseshoe Bend, Louise Day is a major celebrity. Mrs. Day is long gone from the scene, but is still remembered. She had a fifteen minute radio shoe, although it might have been longer, which aired each day in and around the noon hour. It was aptly called “Dayly (daily) Doings.”

The content of the program offered little insight on burning issues, unless there was a brush fire that had caught her eye on the drive to the radio station or a fire truck had forced her to pull aside. Her commentary was less biting. In her sincerity, however, there was a treasure trove. Her listeners were loyal and most generally amused by the “doing” that would occupy her interest on any given day.

One of the most amusing involved her finding a man’s dress shoe alongside Highway 280. It was not so dramatic as a pair of sneakers held together by their joined shoelaces and flung aloft over the power lines.

It was a single black shoe in relative good condition. It was obviously, to her, an unintended roadside deposit, since there was no mate about.

She was very worried that the shoe had fallen from an open window of a speeding car rushing to an important appointment - perhaps an interview, or a court appearance, or “heaven forbid, an important ceremony of life.” The physics of the situation escaped any logic. Perhaps the shoe had fallen out from an opened door when the car made a stop to check a noise from a tire. Did the owner of the shoe have a bad bunion and had removed it for some relief on a long trip? Was he headed to Florida for a wedding?

She reasoned that since it was a Florsheim brand, the owner might not have other pairs to rely upon as backup since that brand was “high end” for most pockets. If the owner was a country preacher she was certain the family budget was woefully strained. But, she reasoned that most country preachers were more Tom McAn than Florsheim.

The shoe had some wear, but still a lot of useful steps ahead.

Did a child toss the shoe from the car – bored from the trip and rummaging about unseen by the parents? Would they be able to question the child soon enough to discover along which mile the leather missile became airborne?

Her most reluctant scenario involved a shoe tossed out by an angry wife. No discussion centered on how the shoe was wrestled from the left foot by a woman sitting on the right – assuming that the husband (or lover) was seated in the passenger seat adjacent. In that day, there was never a mention of a same-sex coupling. That topic would be left for post- 2000 politics.

This was also a time before the cultural phenomena of “shoefiti” or shoe tossing. And poor Mrs. Day had no idea what a “crack house” was.

But what to do about the shoe?

Should the shoe be left undisturbed beside the road in the event the owner returned or should it be retrieved and a note left at the scene? Milo Ferguson’s prediction called for rain and you know what happens with leather and water.

People, you have to think these things through very carefully.

Mrs. Day opted to retrieve the shoe, but had the Secretary at the Flint Hill Methodist Church mimeograph some flyers which she left tacked to telephone posts and in the window of Gus Holly’s Standard Station. She reasoned that people who owned Florsheim shoes would stop there instead of the Save-a-Stop.

However, during the broadcast, she rethought that decision and would include the Save-a-Stop since they sold food items and people traveling sometimes opt to shop on the road instead of packing a cooler. Besides, some coolers leak. This would be very much the case if the owner had left on his journey at the last minute – not the leaking but the packing of the cooler. Perhaps the death of a relative would have prompted a coolerless venture.

So she planned to post one in the window there as well. I am sure you missed that segue in the broadcast. All in all, she printed 25 flyers.

FOUND, MAN’S BLACK FLORSHEIM SHOE, SIZE 11-D. CONTACT LOUISE DAY! Verify you are the owner by telling me the right or left. (Directions on how to contact the finder followed.)

I didn’t hear any follow-up broadcast related to a reunion of 11-D and the left foot to which it belonged. The next time I heard Mrs. Day, she was discussing a brilliant display of spirea vanhouttei that she had seen in Flora Robinson’s front yard. She reasoned that if Flora could ever conquer her crabgrass problem, she might win “Lawn of the Month” based upon the richness of her spirea and the large Japanese Magnolia which always caught her eye as she passed.

Chicago has had a brutal winter and I would love to see something blooming catch my eye, but that won’t happen for some time, despite Punxutawney Phil’s prediction. Then it will not be a glorious spirea but a crocus or a daffodil that had the courage to believe, much like the children watching Peter Pan. (Think Tinkerbell!)

Instead, to catch the eye we have a motley collection of chairs, boxes, and boards left beside the roadway to stake a claim on a shoveled parking space. This following the dumping of over 20 inches of snow during a recent blizzard.

Snow is a burden for man and beast here. The recent storm which had snow falling at multiple inches per hour and wind gusts of over 60 miles per hour forced 1,000 plus cars to be stuck on Lake Shore Drive. The accumulation also inundated on-street parking in every neighborhood in the city. Cars were burrowed much like a February groundhog.

People with shovels appeared to inaugurate Chicago’s most honorable time of the year.

It goes like this.

After a major snow, those who own a vehicle parked on the street take several hours and considerable energy to shovel it out so that it may be driven. Once a vehicle has been extricated, the person who removed the white stuff reserves the cleaned spot by placing some object to signify ownership of an otherwise public space. Cheap resin lawn chairs are the most popular, followed by plastic egg crates. TV trays are very popular. Telescoping tubular metal chairs are also a big hit. One guy, who obviously works in home repair, used a collection of empty white splackling buckets. I have seen several decent looking swivel desk chairs. I saw a set of upholstered dining chairs which gave me pause. I guess it is a matter of priorities and availability. I have seen two ironing boards – one standing upright and another inverted.

You can either have a place to park or you can have wrinkle-free pants, but not both.

Amazingly, a city known for its rough and tumble manners and aggressive drivers honors the “reserved parking” debris. Sadly, much of the debris remains unclaimed long after the snow has melted. Honor only goes so far.

As for a better option, I would think that a couple of stackable orange traffic cones would work and could be stored in the trunk of the vehicle – unless, of course, it is my trunk in which case you would have to remove the Gypsy family.

It has gotten me to thinking about the stuff left along the highway of life. Missed opportunities. Failed endeavors. Relationships.

And a black Florsheim shoe, man’s 11-D.

Be On The Lookout

FOMS: Frustrated Old Man's Syndrome is moving to a dedicated website. Be on the lookout for www.elderrantings.com. I will post a note here when the new website is functional. Thanks for your continued interest in the musings of an old guy who grew up among the kudzu. JB

Toes - Spuds and Otherwise

Daphne Guinness in Alexander McQueen Armadillo Shoes

I am always amazed at what gets the attention of the American public.

You might recall that I “ranted” in an earlier blog about not knowing who LeBron James was and where he was headed. That question, at the time, was the subject of great debate among the news mongers of the US.

For the record, he wound up in Miami with “The Heat.” While Miami is warmer than a large part of the rest of the country, the “heat” is a professional sports team. (I do not remember the variety – but it is not croquet.)

Today’s debate is even of less consequence.

Should the President of the United States of America expose his toes?

We have seen Presidential chests and some Presidential scars, but no toes!

That is, until now.

To begin with our leader is not walking about Washington inflagrante. Also, to my knowledge, President Obama has not been photographed with a zoom, relaxing on the Truman Balcony with his bare feet resting on the railing, while watching the sun at play on the Washington Monument.

He has, however, been photographed on a recent vacation to his native state of Hawaii, wearing flip-flops while at the beach purchasing ice cream for his two girls. His knees were also showing since he was wearing shorts, but the concern is about the exposed toes not knobby knees.

I am more relieved that he was not wearing his Hickey Freeman with flip-flops.

To begin with, I am not a fan of flip-flops, not even the bejeweled kind that the Jackie O generation wore on Saint-Tropez. While my children, now 40 and 32, both attest to the comfort of this type shoe, I am now and have always been radically opposed to them.

I used to teach a very popular humanities course at a college in Florida. It was always held in a large teaching auditorium which had tiered seating. The downside was that I faced hundreds of “flip-flopped” feet at each lecture.

It was unpleasant! Had I taught Religion, I would have probably insisted upon the re-enactment of foot-washing at each lecture.

I considered putting something in the syllabus about “no exposed feet” but then worried that I would be the subject of much conjecture. I am far too Southern to handle that much free thought about my person.

So I faced the feet.

The foot is not an attractive extremity – well, maybe on a newborn, but certainly not past puberty. So, to give the foot the minimal cladding of a strap and a sole held in place by gnarly toes offers far more than should be viewed.

Yet, at each lecture, there were hundreds of them looking back at me as I extolled the virtues of modern architecture and Paul Klee. It all seemed so inappropriate – so inconsistent with good learning. That is not to say that learning can only happen in an environment of Mary Janes and wing-tips. A “Bass Weejun” here and there is not a threat. Sperry’s in leather or canvas are fine. But a room full of flip-flops – never! Ah, where are those saddle oxfords when you need them?

Scholars, and others, cover your ugly feet! I don’t expose mine, so I don’t wish you to expose yours.

Now, I also am not interested in the strange cartoon-like inventions called shoes that have been unveiled by couture designers and find their way onto the feet of the likes of that Guinness girl - the one that makes the five perfect white shirts for ladies who need perfect white shirts. Daphne, your McQueen Armadillos are over the top. But, so are most of her clothes.

But, back to Presidential flip-flops. (The apparel variety, not the reversal of previous statements of policy.)

It seems nobody has ever seen the Presidential toes.

Back in 1992, Vice-Presidential “toes” were exposed and found sadly wanting when Mr. Quayle corrected the spelling of a spud by a young William Figueroa and created a national sensation. Some say that branded Dan as “less than a rocket scientist.” By 1992, that shipped had sailed.

Well, King Julien of Madagascar fame would well understand this thing about the "lower ten." His edict is forthright. “Do not touch the Royal Feet!” While Mort is obsessed with his feet for reasons that are never revealed, King J must have surely understood that the foot represented vulnerability and Mort was to keep his distance.

Remember the Achilles’ heel? Heel, toes – it’s the same geography.

Are we now less safe since we have seen the President’s “little piggies?”

There will be some conjecture, I feel certain, that at the next encounter with a hardliner like Mahmoud Ahmadinejad there will be the fear that he will say, “Don’t take that tact with me, I have seen your toes!”

The only recourse at that point will be to flash him the sole of the foot.

I have no opinion on the Presidential toes only that it is “much ado about nothing.” Perhaps to avoid any future controversy, Mr. Obama should only appear at the beach in a pair of LeBron James “Ambassadors.”

Speaking of “much ado about nothing,” the GOP representatives are reading aloud the Constitution on the floor of the House.

Is there an amendment “afoot?”