Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Author: admin (Page 124 of 220)

We know Oscar Meyer. Oscar Wilde? Not so much.

Dad and son came in to look around.

“Hmmm,” said Dad. “A bookstore.” He didn’t sound optimistic, but came in anyway.

His son might have been nine or ten years old. Certainly old enough to read and tall enough to see over the edge of the counter, where a doll-sized figure was displayed in a clear plastic card-backed package.

“Dad,” he called out. “Who is Oscar, Wild…Will-dee?”

“Uh-oh,” I thought. “This could be an awkward moment.”

I was remembering the scandals associated with Oscar Wilde (his name has an E at the end, which is – I suppose – why the young man read it as will-dee).

Even as the dad was considering his answer, I recalled putting a similar question to my mother.

“Mom,” I called out. “Who is Bridget Bardot?” Her name must have been mentioned on the television, that big clunky piece of furniture in our living room that displayed only black and white pictures. Maybe I saw a black and white version of Bridget Bardot that piqued my interest.

My mother didn’t hesitate in her reply.

“A movie star,” she said. “She likes to run around wearing nothing but a bath towel.”

I guess the answer worked well enough. I got the idea.

With the young man’s question posed in the book shop, I waited to hear the father’s answer. Finally, he sighed and admitted, “I have noooo idea.”

“He was an 1800s English writer,” I offered, trying to help out the dad. The kid was quick.

“Then why does that say ‘Action Figure?”

“It’s kind of a joke,” I responded. “He wasn’t known for X-Men kind of action.”

When Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde died in 1900, he was destitute and living in Paris. A victim of a scandal of his own creation.

He objected to something that was alleged to have been said about him by John Douglas, the Marquess of Queensbury. It was whisperings (some not so quiet) about Wilde and the son of the Marquess, Lord Alfred Douglas. Wilde sued for slander. In the course of the trial, enough mud was dragged into court concerning Wilde’s antics that he dropped the slander suit. It was too late, though. Wilde was charged with “gross indecencies,” convicted, and sentenced to two years of hard labor. He spent time in jail, although he spelled it gaol. He might have had better fortune in our current society, but in 1890s London there were some things best kept out of conversation.

In his day, Oscar Wilde was one of the most famous personalities around. He was born into a wealthy intellectual family, was well educated, known for his quick wit, and in 1890 authored a popular story called The Picture of Dorian Gray. It didn’t help the author during his lifetime, but when moving pictures were invented it was one of the early books adapted to film. It has been redone several times since that first Hungarian version in 1918.

Wilde had the intellect and wit of Dick Cavett, the social circles of Oprah Winfrey, the theatrical following of Neil Simon, and a wife as influential in her day as Hillary Clinton (well, maybe that last one is a stretch…).

Dapper-looking as he is, I thought Oscar the action figure would be gone by now, landing under some lucky literary Christmas tree. His action figure comrade Charles Dickens found himself a home over the holidays.

But then again – he was more will-dee than Wilde.

Here comes the sun…

Maybe no one noticed.

The headline on Tulsa World writer Jason Ashley Wright’s column this morning noted the particularly rainy day we experienced here in Broken Arrow, while many areas to the east suffered through severe weather. The photo (if you look close enough) says “Tulsa World file.”

Wright was taking a little tour of the Rose District, which amounted to popping in a few stores in the block south of the book shop. As many folks do, he started at the Main Street Tavern.

The bookstore is in the photo that accompanies the story, although from across the street where the photographer snapped the shot, the lettering is a little hard to read on the awning. That’s okay. Any publicity is fine with me, even if it doesn’t include the store name, a mention, or a recognizable store front.

What I really like is the way the rain falls invisibly in Broken Arrow.

No splashy streets. No gusty winds. No dripping umbrellas and store awnings. Brilliant sunshine all round.

That’s the way I feel about the relocation of the store to the Rose District of downtown Broken Arrow.

It’s all sunshine, on a rainy day.

Like a message in a bottle.

Equipment in hand, they climbed the Eiffel tower, as far as they dared. It was cold and blustery – January 12, 1908 – but the men were intent on completing their bold experiment. It had been just a few months before that someone had called the device they were carrying – a radio. The name stuck.

The men believed that if they could get the transmitter higher in the air, those few folks with receiver sets might be able to hear their voices from a longer distance. It proved to be true.

It was a marvel to behold. Forget that the sound was scratchy and hard to understand. The very idea of being able to hear the actual voice of someone on the other side of the city! Remarkable! Or as they exclaimed that afternoon in Paris, “Remarquable!”

If it was the beginning of a new era, it might have been the end of another.

French writer Léon Gautier had already lamented the loss of the good old days, the knights in shining armor, the time when his country was at or near the center of all things important. It took him years to write, and when he finished, he called it: Chivalry.

That same year the men on the Eiffel tower ushered in the broadcasting era, Dr. A. Loste bought a gift for his friend Colonel Fortescue. It was a big book, worthy of a sound friendship. It was called La Chivalerie. Chivalry. At the top of the page, he penned this inscription:

Son ami cordialement de vue heureux de lui offrir le livre, evocateur des premieres gloires heroiques de la France.

It translates to: His friend is heartily glad to give him this book, evocative of the first heroic glories of France.

Ironically, the book celebrating the early glories of France wound up in a religious abbey outside London, some years later – a gift of a Father Robo. It isn’t clear how he came into possession, or how the big volume crossed the Atlantic to the US. It has migrated west from its Eastern Shore arrival all the way to Broken Arrow, Oklahoma.

The message in the book has been carried from afar to this distant point, much like that first long distance radio broadcast. The contents of the spoken message of that day atop the Eiffel tower have been lost to history, but the good doctor’s sentiments have survived intact through the penned inscription to his friend – one-hundred-six years ago.

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