Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Category: Blog (Page 145 of 153)

Oh, say… Can you see?

Of course, with the year ending in the number twelve, we all should have realized it was the anniversary of the War of 1812, fought against Great Britain 200 years ago. It didn’t occur to me until I heard it mentioned on the radio. It’s also the Bicentennial of the Kentucky Militia Pig, one of the less famous stories from the 1812 war with England.

In fact, it was 200 years ago this month that all the frustrations, outrages, and humiliations put upon the citizens of our newly established country by the British finally boiled over. President James Madison signed the country’s first declaration of war on June 18, 1812 – not realizing completely what he was putting at risk.

It was just two years later that the White House and US Capitol were in flames, set ablaze during the occupation of Washington DC by British forces. It was during the Battle of Baltimore that Francis Scott Key wrote the lyrics that became our national anthem, the Star Spangled Banner.

Like all armed conflicts, all manner of stories have been handed down. The McHuston ancestry participated through the volunteered service of young Thales Huston, the son of Stevenson Huston, for whom the town of Hustonville, Kentucky was named. Thales and the militia from Lincoln County, Kentucky – walked from their farms to Ontario, Canada to take on the British Regulars under General Henry Proctor.

Kentucky Governor Isaac Shelby led the march, which is the beginning of the Kentucky Militia Pig Story.

After gathering at Harrodsburg, the Kentucky volunteers were just beginning their northward hike when they came upon two pigs engaged in a battle of their own. As men will do, the troops stopped their march in order to watch the pig-fight to its conclusion.

When the men resumed walking and were a couple of miles down the road, someone spotted the victorious animal following the troops at a short distance. When the men made camp for the night, they noted the pig also bedded himself down and arose with the new day to continue the journey.

According to Lewis Collins, in his 1877 book “History of Kentucky,” the volunteer force boarded a ferry to cross the river at Cincinnati, and “the pig, on getting to the water’s edge, promptly plunged in, waiting on the other side until the whole cortege crossed over, and resumed its post as customary at the flank of the moving column.”

In fact, the pig survived the battle and the return march to Kentucky; as a reward for his endurance of the hardships of military life, he was placed in the care of Governor Shelby, who cared for the patriotic porker for the rest of his years.

Thales Huston returned to the farm and his scallywagging ways, the sort of which prompted an elaborate legal document to keep his wife’s inheritance largely out of his hands.

The pig most likely enjoyed a better retirement, regaling his offspring with stories of the old war days, sleeping under the stars – pigs in a blanket, as it were.

The Bradbury Chronicles, fin.

Science fiction is a genre of writing I visit only occasionally. I believe it is due to my aversion to strangely-spelled and overly-punctuated names of people and places. It is difficult for me to read through inventions like Q’aaqe and Agre’br without having to stop and sound out those beastly names.

I readily admit to enjoying Ray Bradbury. His Fahrenheit 451 made an impression on me at an early age, although I can’t remember what made me pick it up in the first place. Ironically, in a later interview, the author said he considered that futuristic book to be his only true Science-Fiction work.

To me, that is the pleasure of reading a Bradbury story.

They aren’t so much grounded in scientific fact as they are stories of people in unusual situations, and how they react and interact. In Golden Apples of the Sun, a ship carrying astronauts implausibly lands on the surface of the sun. Bradbury makes no explanation as to how that could be possible. In his story, it just happens. And we readers continue on, buying into his illusion because of the masterful writing.

Mr. Bradbury died last night at age 91.

He described himself as a writer of fantasy, and much of which he wrote was dark, but polished in such a manner as to be elegantly unsettling. His characters ranged from dinosaurs to carnival workers, other-world aliens to tow-headed boys. He was one of the early practitioners of the type of writing that drew the label “Sci-Fi” but inhabited another corner of that arena.

Still, many of the futuristic ideas that Ray Bradbury put onto paper have come to pass, among the most commonly seen: iPods, interactive television, reality shows, and televised police chases.

He was more than just fond of television and movies. After relocating to California he incorporated screenwriting into his efforts and won an Emmy for his script for The Halloween Tree and an Academy Award nomination for the animated film Icarus Montgolfier Wright.

Bradbury provided for me a source of both envy and pride.

I can still pick up almost any one of his works, turn to a random page and passage, and read a line that I would trade most anything to have been able to conjure – because magic is what his writing seems to me.

Previous to the publishing of my first short story, the magazine editor wrote to me that he was including it “because it reminded him of Bradbury.”

It was not even close, but it was the highest flattery that editor could have given.

Cases, Showcases, Platters, and Plates.

I accepted the first delivery of restaurant-related items this morning, boxes of to-go cups, straws, plastic-ware, paper napkins, and such. I was also the deliveryman, given that I’m still what some call the “owner-operator.” All that means is that if something requires attention, it has to come to my attention and then find its natural spot in the order of priorities.

Of continuing importance in the daily agenda is getting the food service established. Having achieving lift-off in the form of Health Department approval, I can now make those purchases that I was holding off on – those boxes that came in through the back door this morning, for example.

There were great intentions for Monday.

Those intentions were laid out before Sunday, when I had to finish emptying the storage units of the final holdings, to avoid paying another month’s rent. Among the last of the moving day castaways was a four-foot glass display showcase, firmly mounted on a wooden base – no casters.

Some serious thought went into the planning to get that beast into the old van, single-handedly.

Needless to say, I wrestled with it long enough and slammed the doors in triumph, only to watch a fellow park in the last space in front of the store as I approached. I imagine I was a sight to behold, hunched over a two-wheeled hand-truck, trying to balance a glass beast at an angle that would allow me to move it while keeping it from crashing to the sidewalk.

Glass showcases are best moved on a furniture dolly. Didn’t have one.

It is sitting in the office now, as was I for some time, trying to recover.

One of the fun things about moving most of your possessions from one place to another is coming across mementoes that had been forgotten. There was a bookmark in a Tulsa People magazine from the year 2000, and when I opened it up, there was an article about Paddy’s restaurant – which many of you recall as an earlier chapter of mine.

I remembered the flattering story, written by a former radio co-worker of mine, Pat Kroblin. I enjoyed re-reading her kind review. I had forgotten the photograph that accompanied the story, which I’ve scanned into this post. More than a dozen years later, it isn’t as clear as it once was, but it is nice to see the presentation of the different menu items. Of course, there was extra care given for the photographer, but I was always proud of the plates that came out of our kitchen.

One of my axioms has always been, “People eat with their eyes first,” and if it doesn’t look attractive, the taste has a strike against it from the start. We had some tasty items at Paddy’s and this archival photo reminds me that it almost always tastes better when it is pretty on the plate.

I’m working on getting those plates, even now.

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