I doubt Team Stool Standing will ever become an Olympic event, but you never know. The world keeps getting weirder each day so I'm almost ready for just about anything. Eventually we all have to step outside our comfort zone.
When you're a caregiver for an elderly person you spend a lot of time worrying about them. And when they get sick with a bad cold you worry even more. And then when you see them coughing and sneezing and touching everything in sight you start to worry about yourself. You know there's no hope, you're going to get sick. And so that is how my life has played out lately. Tissues sticking out of my nostrils, mouth breathing, and eyes that wouldn't stop itching. Fortunately it has now mostly passed, but the downtime did give me time to spend wandering around online looking at vintage snapshots that I would never buy.
I've talked about my theory in the past that Kodak cameras set women free to express themselves in ways they'd never before been able to do. Being silly and having fun with no concern about what society thought was acceptable and often shows up in old snapshots. There were good genuine laughs to be had and shared. Today making pouty faces and taking selfies are the norm. Appearing self-absorbed seems to be a goal. So I wonder about the future poor soul fifty years from now wanting to collect "vintage" snapshots and faced with one selfie after another. I leave that worry to the future. Of course, a good portion of those photos will only be saved as digital files so there's a good possibility that many of them won't survive. Imagine a world free of Kardashian photos. Makes me smile.
But there is one thing I did notice the past few weeks which is that if you go in search of vintage photos you'll find the majority of them feature woman as the subject. I don't know why I never noticed this before. Shots of men are most often in uniforms or business suits. Occasionally you find them in casual clothes having a good laugh; of course the sellers immediately label them "gay" in hopes of taping into that market when they're actually just buddies having fun. Was it the actual fear that taking photos of playing around as friends would label them as homosexual so they stayed away from it? Women always interact differently than men so for them being both physically and emotionally close comes through as just girls being girls, no sexual connotation given.
So tell me what you think. Have women historically been the subject of snapshots more than men? I think in the future it will even out since men are just inclined to take selfies as women. And just think of all the genital shots in the future for all those unfortunate collectors. Perhaps they should be called taking a snapcrotch.
And now that I've read this back I think maybe I kept those tissues stuffed in my runny nose a bit too long and starved my brain of some necessary oxygen. But I'm still sticking with my theory. Women had more fun in front of cameras than men thanks to Kodak Brownies.
I have no idea what this little girls name was. I've named her Janice because there was always a Janice and she looks like a Janice.
Oh to be able to have listened in when her parents had the discussion of her posing for a portrait and she insisted on wearing her cowgirl outfit and gun.
She looks so normal in the first four shots, but by the fifth she's starting to look a bit loco. By the sixth she knows she's won.
This little buckarette is my submission for Sepia Saturday this week. Just a silly child's portrait I shall call "A Portrait of Janice."
I will never again complain when my very old—I mean OLD—Maytag gets a bit off-kilter and looks like it might jump out of the laundry room. Nope, no complaints from me.
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I have no idea where or when this was taken.
This week's Sepia Saturday prompt is a small village in England, Clovelly. I visited Clovelly a long time ago. I went out of my way to find it after having seen photos in a UK brochure.
The year of my trip was approximately eighteen months after an auto accident on Hollywood Boulevard. I'd spent ten months in physical therapy and was in the midst of a lawsuit to try and receive compensation for my losses. I was also on the verge of going nuts. My stress level was as high as it could go and I needed to leave everything behind. Find a place where for a short time I could shake out the cobwebs and feel free of everything. Yeah, so…the trip sort of worked.
The three months before my trip I'd spent fighting walking pneumonia. By the time I got to England the worst of it had passed, but I still had a horrible sounding cough that would shake the rafters in many old English hotels. So the reality was that Clovelly was not the best choice for me being that no vehicles are allowed and it's a walk down a steep cobblestone street from the car park followed by an even more stressful walk back up the same cobblestone street to the welcoming front seat of my rental car.
The cat as I went downhill.
The night before venturing to Clovelly I'd stayed in Bude and had gone to a local bakery in the morning to buy a meat pie for a "picnic" in Clovelly. When I travel I'm cheap; otherwise I could never afford to travel.
So meat pie in my purse, camera in my hand, I began my descent into Clovelly. The going down was easy. No problems. No coughing or lungs heaving. I stopped into a shop to buy a 7-UP. I stupidly assumed 7-UP would be available in England. I was wrong. I always got sold some weird concoction that wasn't lemonade or 7-UP. Generally it was pretty dreadful, but it's what they had so I bought it. As I wandered around the shop, eyeing ice cream bars, the owner asked, "Are you here for the job?" I turned and looked at him wondering if he was actually talking to me. I'm figuring I look like a tourist. I reek of tourist. Apparently not. I looked like a local and he wanted to know if I wanted a job. I told him no and he said, "Pity." Now I'm not a person used to compliments, but I took that as one and it made me smile and walk a little straighter down the hill. (I was not walking straight coming back up.)
I got to the bottom of the hill and heard people having a grand time in the Red Lion Hotel, probably very nice meals. But that was not my destination. I was heading for the beach for my picnic. Ummmmm…this is the beach. Not what a girl from California is used to. But I settled down on the stones with my lunch and my can of soda. It took a bit of work to move the stones around just right so my soda would sit level enough to not spill. Everything was going along fine and dandy until a hornet decided it wanted my soda. Let's just say it looked like a mad comedy routine with me battling the hornet for possession of the soda. Some people leave their hearts in San Francisco. I left my soda in Clovelly.
It just screams picnic!
The same cat as I climbed uphill. She'd seen all of this before.
Having had enough of my picnic I headed uphill. It was a slow and very painful climb. I was leaning on posts, buildings, bushes…anything to keep me upright and moving uphill. Eventually I crash landed on a curb conveniently just outside the doctor's office. I was sitting there gasping for air when he came out with his black medical bag heading for an appointment. He was not expecting to find someone doing heavy breathing at his front door.
"Are you okay."
I could manage a nod and a wave of my hand.
"Are you sure?"
A smile, a wave, and a thumbs up. I think I probably got out "Yes, thank you" but I can't be sure.
The donkeys who kept whispering to each other and laughing at me.
And the nice lady who let the wild haired heavy breathing woman take her picture. Bless her.
Eventually I made it back to the car park and the rental car with the worst automatic transmission in the world. I sat for awhile just breathing before thinking, "Okay, now where?" In a little while I was back on the road to my next destination.
I'd like to say my health improved as the weeks passed, but the reality is a few days after visiting Clovelly I was staying with a friend at her digs in Oxford where I got a concussion on a low pitched ceiling. So the rest of my trip was cough two, moan two, and try to not die in any hotel rooms.
I'm late getting my post in this Saturday, but I finally found the slides and decided to share my story. It's rare I share anything from my life more than a few odd bits and pieces. This is just a slightly longer bit and piece.
Part two of a night at the Stork Club.
her first champagne
clobbered & later dancing in her
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A few years ago I did a post about a young lady who went to Jack Dempsey's restaurant in Manhattan. At the time I posted the following video of a Julie London song to go with the images. I'm hoping that young Jeanne did not experience the same fate.
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The Stork Club was a nightclub in Manhattan, New York City, which during its existence from 1929 to 1965 was one of the most prestigious clubs in the world. A symbol of café society, the wealthy elite, including movie stars, celebrities, showgirls, and aristocrats all mixed in the VIP Cub Room of the club.
The club was established on West 58th Street in 1929 by Sherman Billingsley, a former bootlegger from Enid, Oklahoma. After an incident when Billingsley was kidnapped and held for ransom by Mad Dog Coll, a rival of his mobster partners, he became the sole owner of the Stork Club. The club remained at its original location until it was raided by Prohibition agents in 1931. After the raid, it moved to East 51st Street. From 1934 until its closure in 1965, it was located at 3 East 53rd Street, just east of Fifth Avenue, when it became world-renowned with its celebrity clientele and luxury. Billingsley was known for his lavish gifts, which brought a steady stream of celebrities to the club and also insured that those interested in the famous would have a reason to visit. (SOURCE: Wikipedia)_____
they're so doggone cute.
This dynamic duo are from the Betty Schnabel estate. It's a little portrait from her mother's family album. No idea who the kids are.
Raise your hand if you were a stamp collector as a child. I was fascinated by stamps, but then I grew up to be an artist so I was always drawn to visual things. But there was also the fascination with knowing these little scraps of paper had come from foreign lands. It gave me a connection to places I'd never go, but as a child it helped to make the world a bit smaller.
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Now, the prompt for Sepia Saturday this week is playing marbles. Well, I don't have any photos of people with marbles. I have a few where the people look like they've lost their marbles, but I don't think that's what the prompt was hoping for.
I had a nice bag of marbles as a child, but they're long gone and that makes me sad. I can close my eyes and still remember my favorite purees. The purees were always my favorite because of the way light played with them.
A few years ago I bought some marbles in a small shop in Columbia, California. Columbia is a California State Park that captures a time long gone in the Gold Country. Paved streets where once dirt was king and kids played marbles in the afternoon sun. Seeing those marbles in the store made me want to collect them again. So I bought around seven lovely purees of various sizes, brought them home, and put them in a see-through container. This way I'm sure I'll never lose my marbles. I always know where they are.
My stamp collection? I still have it tucked safely on the top shelf of a closet. Next to it sits a shoebox full of stamps that never made it into the album. In fact, there's a box of stamps on my desk that are still attached to the torn paper from the envelopes they arrived on. They'll never make it into an album, and the box is nearly full, but it's almost automatic when I put them away for safe keeping. Hey, it's better than my old method which was to just tear them off and stick them in a drawer. I still find stamps in the oddest places. When I die they'll find stamps in probably every drawer in my house. I squirrel them away for no logical reason. But there you go. I'm squirrelly, but I've got my marbles in one place for anyone to see.