Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: oklahoma (Page 78 of 115)

Civil War. HI-DEF.

Before every newscast, the Channel 6 announcer reminds us we are watching “Oklahoma’s Own, in HIGH DEFINITION.” Woohoo. I’m thinking by now, everyone is pretty square with that concept. Hearing it, I am personally reminded of the Quinn-Martin productions back in the day, when the announcer solemnly pronounced “The FBI…in COLOR.” Oh, to clarify: THE FBI was a television program back when television was carved on stone tablets and pitched onto the front lawn. One of the Roman gods was probably director or set assistant. Good guys always won. In color.

Boom. Wow. In Color. Of course, the announcer had to TELL us we were watching color television, because in the black and white age leading up to it, we had no idea what that weird spectrum was we were witnessing. Oh. COLOR! That’s IT!

Me: Color? Oh, yeah! COLOR! That rainbow thing! Right on our television.”

And then – technology happened.

Me, years later: Oh, yeah! HIGH DEFINITION! That’s why I only see half of the meteorologist! Maybe I should get a new TV.

Believe it or not, there was a time before television. Before radio, even. People had to sit around in the dark and play with mudpies. They liked it. They LOVED it.

I’m kidding there. People wanted to be entertained just the same in the olden days, so they went down to the park on Sunday after church and listened to speakers orate (or orators speak, if you prefer). There were bands, a la John Phillips Sousa. Picnics. There were tournaments for watching paint dry and the rising and falling of the thermometer.

Then there was the Harper’s Weekly magazine. During the US Civil War, photography was in its infancy, and the newspaper relied on engravings to pass images along to their readers, (ie. Downloaders…). The paper was a connection to the outside world. Most people at the time would never travel outside their own county. Very few Americans would cross the Atlantic Ocean, or even dip their toes in it, for that matter. You can click on any image for a larger view of what your great-great-great-grandparents waited to receive at the mailbox.

Harper’s Weekly was the window to the world in HIGH DEFINITION. Unfortunately, my telephone-camera is closer to Civil War technology than iPhone, and does not deliver the crisp lines included in the Harper’s graphics. The volume I’m currently rebinding is from the year 1861, which – you recall – is the time of the US Civil War.

Matthew Brady was an early photographer during that time. A famous one, later in history, for his Civil War images. Lithographers working for Harper’s would be handed an M. Brady photograph and would create a lithographic plate (read that, draw freehand, using the photo as a model) that could be reproduced in the paper. The detail is simply incredible.

Many of these magazines are currently purchased and cut up, sold as individual images on sites like eBay. During the Civil War era, families saved their subscription copies and had them bound up – at the end of the year – in a hardback volume that they could keep for years and years, and look back upon in their leisure time. Believe me, compared to our soccer, Little League, PTA, TV prime time, and commuting schedules – they had plenty of leisure time. Just no GameBoys, et al.

When I’m finished, I plan to teleport the restored book back in time, so some family can have a window on the news of the current war, fashion, and upcoming works of fiction.

Or maybe, I’ll hand it back over to the fellow who asked me to rebind it.

Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
122 South Main Street
Broken Arrow, OK!

Dropping Paula Dean? What? Drop a book?

The question is: Are there retailers in the US that do not have an exclusive line of Paula Deen products?

Answer?

McHuston Booksellers.

Apparently, I’m the only store without something with her name attached. Presumably, I could have a book or two in stock with her name on it. I don’t though.

By gosh, if I had one I swear I’d snatch it off the shelf and run it straight to the dustbin.

I’m kidding, but not due to matters of principal. And – although I’m surprised at the extent of her business ties and my naiveté about the extent of her fame – I am a little sympathetic about her current situation. I’ve never been one to relish in someone’s demise, particularly business people. (I’d say she qualifies even if business wasn’t her original claim to fame.)

Okay. I sort-of enjoyed the demise of Coach Hayes of Ohio State fame, who was fired as Coach/Icon for punching out a collegiate student-athlete who let him down in some fashion. And there was Bobby Knight. I admit feeling bad for President Richard Nixon, the guy who couldn’t just say, “Woopsie! I guess I messed up there. Forgive me?” I think I could have. And he was the president that was going to have me slogging around in the rice paddies of Vietnam.

Someone I cared a lot about once remarked – at watching the University of Arkansas athletic director arriving in a car – “Here he is. Oh. I didn’t know Frank [Broyles] had a driver.” The “driver” was Coach Nolan Richardson. She assumed a black man behind the wheel had to be a hired chauffeur. Driving Mr Daisy. These days, most of us would not make that assumption. (I could still be naïve.) The person observing the arrival of Mr Broyles that day was the product of a different era.

Not a bad person.

I’m not defending Paula Deen here. My father set me to rights at an early age but Ms Deen did not share a father with me. I did not grow up in the deep South, as she did and has reminded us of – more than once. I think that’s the trouble.

Like Tricky Dicky, the president who had to abdicate the throne because he couldn’t say “I’m sorry for my mistakes,” Paula Deen persists in defending her style of upbringing as an excuse for her racist-sounding commentary. “I’m not a crook,” said Nixon. “I is what I is,” says Deen.

Personally, I used to poop my pants, but I learned to better myself.

So, it has to be “Sorry, Paula. You’re books are forever banned from the shelves of–”

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m selling pages and information. Books. Recipes. Paula Deen didn’t know me from Adam when she fell from grace and she doesn’t know me now. I’ve never prepared food based on her recipes.

But I won’t deny someone else that chance and – me, a sale.

It isn’t personal or principal here. Just business. (I’m not a serial killer either, but sell murder mysteries.) The chef is losing sponsors for her past comments, but not so much for her past comments as for her inability to say today: “Woopsie! I guess I messed up there. Forgive me?”

It would have worked for a disgraced US president way back then and for a Deep South deep-fryer in this day and age.

Pride goeth, they say, before a fall. Wow. What a fall. Fail, as they say these days. But don’t start remembering later those loose words said these days, or don’t speak today those words that may be later recalled.

Cookbooks? Got ‘em. Political spin-doctoring? Not so much. But, you aren’t looking for those, anyway. Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 S. Main Street, Broken Arrow OK!

Got the time?

Man. One time-warp ought to be enough. Three in a week? That’s a bit over the top, in my book.

That big bank clock across the street caused the first one. Bam! I look up Saturday afternoon, and it’s three-thirty! Where did the day go? I had several projects needing attention, but – Hey! – there isn’t enough time left now. Close at 5pm on Saturday. Tackle the job on Monday.

What? I look down later (later, I tell you…) at the little time indicator at the corner of the computer screen. It says two-o’clock. Somethings wrong. Computer glitch. Melt-down. Dell laptop brain freeze.

The cash register has a time function. When I’m not ringing up a sale, it shows the time. Sort of. Probably, the correct time in Denver. I never re-set it for Daylight Savings Time. But I know that. Just add an hour.

What? It’s showing one o’clock. Computer: two o’clock. I glance over at the bank. Man. Banker’s hours. It’s showing 4pm. 4pm.

Time warp.

Bank error – not in my favor. No collecting nothing.

So, what was going to be a quick Saturday, my only workday to get off a little bit early, now is going to be a dragger-outer. Hey! Someone stole two hours from me. They ain’t coming back. Even this evening. Take a look at those late evening shadows on the clock and compare it to the time o’day showing. The shadow is the cattle-guard iron fence on the bookstore roof showing on the bank at sundown. Someone needs to wind that big Ben.

Time warp.

Today, I finally got to the project that I should have finished on Saturday. Dragged a book case down from the loft. It was a lawyer leftover, I guess. Already here when I moved in, but covered with construction dust so thick I swore I’d never need it badly enough to do the clean-up.

Clean-up this evening. Needed it badly enough.

I needed a spot behind the counter where I could stash spray bottles, paper towels, special order books – odds and ends, you know. The stuff that would go in the kitchen junk drawer, but they’re too big to fit. I don’t have kitchen cabinets out here.

Everything was pretty well caught up. A get-out-and-go-to-the-house-on-time night. Bam! Clean up the bookcase. Clear out the space for it behind the counter. Dust.

Dust?

Where did that come from? How can there already be a collection of dust in that space back in the corner by the edge of the counter? Oh. It’s been a year (or more) since we moved that big counter in through the skinny door. A year (or more).

Time warp.

It just doesn’t seem that long. I’m trying to get all these things done to get the shop up and running, and Bam! A year has gone by. Man.

Time warp.

So I grab the broom and the dust pan. I yank loose some paper towels and a super-spray cleaner. Squirt, spray, wipe. Cough. Sweep, bend, bang into the trash can. Repeat.

Repeatedly.

What? Oh. There’s a lady talking to me, wondering if I’m still open. I guess I am, since she is inside and I haven’t attended to any of the closing duties. I look around, start to look at the bank clock – reassess – and look down at the little computer screen indicator. 7:10pm.

Time warp.

Ever happen to you? How a little project spins off another? You move this from here to there and then experience the attack of the dust bunnies? Back! Back! Knock them back! Then, the squirt bottle overspray must be wiped up and the paper towel comes up grimy. Another forgotten corner. Clean it. Clean it.

It’s still only around five, isn’t it?

Lady, at the counter: Are you still open?

Me, freaked out. Sure. Sure. I’m just trying to get an early start on the clean-up.

Lady, looking confused: How late do you stay open?

Me: ‘Til seven.

Lady: Well then. I guess you’re getting an early start on tomorrow’s clean-up. I’ll be quick. I know what I want.

Slam! Bam! Time warp.

Another late night at the shop, hours seemingly sucked completely away like dirt in a Dyson with the rollerball.

The other image would have been another time warp, given that I thought there was no activity on the Main Street renovation. I just hadn’t been paying close enough attention, since it began at the south end of the district. In truth, they’ve dug up a lot of pavement on Main, and have almost readied the east side from Commercial to Dallas.

Bam! Nah. No time warp, this time. Unless that fellow in the picture with the metal detector brings up something hidden under the dirt since the time Main Street left dirt behind in favor of asphalt.

Come visit! (Don’t waste time…)

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 South Main Street, Broken Arrow, OK!

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