I guess it’s only human nature to hope that the things we’ve collected over the years have some value beyond the sentimental. Especially if we inherited said items and have dragged them from hither and yon like a yoke around our necks!
But guessing the value of old records is a crapshoot as far as I can tell. The above recording of The Tone Poem Don Quixote was sold with a linen cover as a part of the Soria Series of classical recordings produced by Dorle and Dorio Soria for RCA Victor probably in 1958. Each came with a booklet written by experts on the subject. For Don Quixote, the booklet was written by Walter Starkie, an “authority of Spanish history and culture, an eminent scholar and writer” and illustrated by the artists inspired by Cervantes’ (Dali, Picasso, Goya and Dore)
Picasso
From what I’ve been able to tell, this album plus booklet is only worth about $30 to collectors. So we shall hold onto it. I never made it through Cervantes’ masterpiece so perhaps it shall give me the motivation!
On the other hand, this album is highly sought after.
All I can say is Ugh. I guess there are a lot of conspiracy theorists out there!
I also counted about a dozen “Live on Stage” albums in our collection. I don’t really understand the allure of the live-on-stage recordings. Who wants to listen to the applause or the back and forth with the audience? Not me. However, the following recording might be interesting. I was in grammar school when it came out as was my husband so how it came into our possession is anyone’s guess.
Unless my prim and proper MIL had a Walk on the Wild Side? Noooo.
I’ve gotten tired of researching the value of old records and so I will conclude with the most valuable record set I found. From around 1946, the six record set of The Merry Widow. Estimated value $60-70.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to play this set on my record player. The discs are only 10″ and very heavy. But we’ll see. If not, I know a near-by thrift store that might welcome the donation!
My husband is a collector (okay, borderline hoarder) but I have learned over the years how to put a kink in many of those perversions. Let’s just say that things that have sat ignored in a closet for over a decade have a habit of disappearing and rarely does he even notice. Last week we had a heat wave and since I don’t get along with hot and dry weather, I decided to tackle the closet wherein seven boxes full of vinyl records have been stored since 1993.
The trulyscary part of this endeavor was, those records had not even been sorted by genre before being dumped into cardboard boxes for the move!
Does anyone remember Soupy Sales? Think this album might be worth something?
Now, if I’d been smart I would have taken the boxes to Rasputin’s (our nearby “we will buy records and vintage clothing and jewelry” hippie dippie thrifty place) and donated them all. But I hated to do that without giving our children a chance to claim some part of their wacky childhoods. And so I spent two days categorizing and then alphabetizing the records. The closet is now empty and the totals are below – in case you’re interested.
We had over 300 albums or album sets in these approximate genres:
Rock & Roll, Rhythm & Blues, Jazz
Funk, Folk, Punk, Soul, Raggae
Grunge, Live on stage albums and What-the-Hell is this?
Most of them are in very good condition but worthless. Too common; too many sold.
Maybe not this one. Now how would you classify this album?????
There were around thirty albums I classified as Classical (Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, etc.) Another twenty that there were Classicalish:
Leonard Bernstein conducting symphonies for “everyday consumption”
Lawrence Welk’s favorite waltzes
Soundtracks from various movies
And … does anyone know Greek?
This album was so treasured it’s still got its plastic wrapping but who are they?
From my Mother-in-Law (who was a kindergarten teacher and loved to travel) we had one full box of:
Children’s records
How to Learn either Russian, German or Spanish
Music from Hawaii, Mexico, India, Java, etc.
Easy listening and popular hits by Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Julie Andrews, Burl Ives, etc.
Do these kids look happy?
I did run into a couple of albums I thought might be valuable. One because it was beautifully packaged and the other because it was so tragic. After some research it turned out I was right about both . . . although by valuable, they’re probably worth what someone paid for them!
I’ll get to my treasures tomorrow, if you’re interested! Let me know!
Almost two years ago I was invited to a postcard party, the purpose of which was to get out the vote in Ohio. At that time I asked my fellow bloggers how would they feel about getting a postcard from a stranger reminding them they could vote by mail. Happily most of you said you would at least read it before dumping it into recycling!
As you can see the postcard simply tells people how they can vote by mail.
Sadly, Amy’s district went GOP and sadly the GOP is dead set on making it harder for Amy to vote at all. But we did what we could and we did it nicely. I thought.
Poor kitty’s just as sad as me! Why, oh why, do people vote against their own self-interests?
Whelp, I did it again. Went to another postcard party along with approximately sixty of my fellow citizens, most of whom I’d never met before. This time the mood was different and the messages we sent were more desperate.
As before, I was only copying the boilerplate text I’d been given. Quite a different message, wouldn’t you say? I added the happy face and the heart . . . too much?
I sat at a table with four women and three men who were all probably beyond sixty, although it was difficult to tell. They talked about their experiences campaigning throughout the state and the country . . . staying in stranger’s houses . . . going door to door in strange neighborhoods . . . trying to spread the word. I must say, their energy was amazing.
Halfway through the session, the organizers came to each table and told us about the March 28 No Kings rally. They’re not planning to march but instead to form a five mile long human chain through Walnut Creek, a city at the base of Mt. Diablo. There will be musicians and organizers every couple of blocks to organize cheers and lead songs. To prepare, there will be sign-making and chant-practicing parties throughout the Bay Area.
Sounds hopeful, doesn’t it? I wish I could say, yes hope was in the air, like the spring blossoming prematurely on that warm day but the atmosphere was much grimmer than two years ago.
I think I know how that band on the deck of the Titanic felt.
In a previous life I worked for a midwesterner named Linda who’d been assigned to help a group of programmers find billable hours before they were kicked off the good ship TR Wonderful where they were being held captive. You see, their ship (The Milvia) had been sunk by the larger and much more powerful Wonderful the year before and now the crew of the Wonderful was doing all it could to make them comfortable. However, the customs of the Milvia and the customs of the Wonderful could not have been more different if they tried.
The Milvia on the high seas of Berkeley California – fueled by all nighters and triple Lattes!
Linda, bless her heart, had no idea what these programmers were capable of but she did have a copy of the TR Wonderful Jobs List updated weekly and faxed to various outposts around the planet from the HQ in Cleveland Ohio.
Its arrival (generally on a Tuesday morning) was always cause for joy. “Jan,” Linda would say to me, “I brought cookies. Tell the gang we’re having a do! The list is here … on time and on schedule.” Of course, one would expect no less from the HQ of TR Wonderful!
Once a giant in aerodynamics, electronics and credit card processing industries before being sunk by The Northrup Grumman
In case you’re wondering, in Linda Lingo a “do” was an informal get-together generally in the coffee room and lasting no more than 15 minutes. There would be an announcement, light refreshments and then everyone would return to work. Fifteen minutes a day of unbillable time was all you were allowed. Every other minute had to be charged to a project, duly noted on a paper timesheet and approved by a manager before being sent on to payroll. If the project you’d been assigned to ended, your name was added to the Availability List. Thereafter you had two weeks to find and be accepted on another project. Otherwise … you walked the plank.
Thus, you can understand why the arrival of the Jobs List was cause for a “do.”
Poor dear Linda really was a sweetheart. I can see her now … a petite blonde of maybe fifty, always clad in a conservative pastel pantsuit with matching shoes and accessories, trying to convince a life long resident of Berkeley California that he would just love Oshkosh Wisconsin. It was, after all, the birthplace of the “dungarees” he practically lived in.
Poor dear Linda. She really was a sweetheart. But it was inevitable what happened.
“Why do they insist on calling it a Layoff List?” She’d ask me almost in tears. “At TR Wonderful we don’t lay people off. We give them every opportunity to remain on board and enjoy all the benefits of a good health care and retirement package. They might have to move far from home but they would remain a part of the TR Wonderful family and what could be more wonderful than that!
I never knew how to respond. In retrospect, companies which encourage their employees to stay aboard with good health benefits and pensions are a dying breed. But, to those of us used to a pirate ship, their corporate ethos felt suffocating. And so I just shrugged my shoulders like a dummy.
“And why are they having all those bashes? Every Friday night — another bash!”
A bash was like a “do” … an impromptu get-together but bashes were held at some nearby “joint” that served alcohol (TR Wonderful did not allow alcohol to be served on site … unless in the boardrooms for executives, of course). We invited her to the bashes, of course, but she never came.
I often think of her on Fridays, sitting alone in her office as we all left to help our friends celebrate their escape from TR Wonderful and the horrors of pleading for billable hours. Poor dear Linda.
The day after my father’s cremation, my sister, step-mother and I stopped to get something to eat at a McDonald’s before the long flight back to the mainland from the island of Kauai.
Salt Pond Beach – beautiful but deadly
We’d debated stopping at many places on the way to the airport but none appealed to my step-mother. They were too “native” looking.* Thus, it was Mickey D’s or nothing. She was not happy but back in 2006 the airport on Kauai offered only coffee and donuts. Maybe a pineapple but you get the picture.
At first my step-mother didn’t want to leave the car. She didn’t want a hamburger; she didn’t want fries. She didn’t want anything to drink and she didn’t want to leave my father alone in the car. “Your father didn’t like McDonald’s,” she said. It was a hot, humid day and she’d just spent three days being chauffeured:
to the beach where he’d died to thank the lifeguards who’d tried to save him
to the tiny hospital to thank the doctor who declared him dead and whom she hoped had saved the speedo swimsuit he’d died in (don’t ask why – you really don’t want to know)
to the offices of the island newspaper so she could buy an ad thanking all the people of Kauai she might have forgotten to thank, and finally:
to the police station to try to expedite the release of his death certificate (they hadn’t even done the autopsy yet). She’d gone bonkers. She needed to eat something other than cookies.
“We’ll bring Dad into the McDonald’s,” I finally said. “He can sit with us.”
“Okay but he’ll insist on paying. That’s just the kind of man he was,” Kathy sniffled, handing me his wallet.
I was exhausted and perhaps a bit hung-over (my sister and I had managed a quick trip to a nearby liquor store) but holding his wallet in my hands it dawned on me that he was gone and all those plastic cards and pieces of paper that were once so necessary were now worthless where he was going, where all of us are going regardless of our immigration status. In the end we are all undocumented aliens.
The funny thing was, the McDonald’s was full of Native Hawaiians who didn’t think that carrying a large urn full of the ashes of a loved one into a fast food joint was at all odd.
This year for Christmas my son sent us a package from Japan which contained:
This little green bar of something.
It feels a little squishy but has no smell. I googled and Kakiyashu is a restaurant which specializes in fine ($$$$) cuts of beef. So perhaps it’s a fancy beef bar?
There was also a nice note from my son telling me how happy he is to be in Japan and if I’d like to come visit, he kindly supplied a map:
What a loving son!
I googled the town where they live and it is along 438 which is the dark blue line slicing across this part of the island of Shikoku. I assume 438 is a highway or perhaps a toll road. But … it could be a river.
The town they live in is near the big pink tree. That should make finding their town a breeze, right? (unless the tree falls down or isn’t in blossom)
By the way, a Nazi symbol on a Japanese map indicates a Buddhist temple. After WWII the Japanese government considered removing the symbol but it has existed and had meaning long before the Third Reich and will long after. It would be like removing the cross from a church because of the actions of unprincipled televangelists or immoral politicians (and you know who I’m talking about.)
Above is a legend to help my husband and I along on our drive. I imagine the smiley face indicates places were you can find food, lodging and gas … and be happy!
If I had to guess:
The little house probably marks a rest stop (with bathrooms hopefully)
The lotus leaf, perhaps an area full of lotus ponds?
The flower symbols … gardens?
And the maple leaf … forests?
Think I’m even close?
Included was also a map of the public transportation system in case we chicken out and decide not to drive. Hum, since we would be driving on the wrong side of the road in a country where we can’t read the signs and don’t speak the language, I would say …. at the very least …. we will be using public transportation. More likely, we will need full-time babysitting and hand-holding. Particularly considering our experience in England a few years back.
I really don’t know what to make of it. Do you?
The final gift in the package was this bag of something.
It’s a very pretty bag. I may never open it which is probably the best course of action since I have no idea what it contains.
It smells like cedar trees so perhaps it’s not meant to be steeped in hot water and sipped like tea. Perhaps it’s potpourri meant to sweeten your underwear drawer. What do you think?
Take heart everyone … 2026 is here. It comes with no promises and a hell of a lot of baggage. How it will end is anyone’s guess but no one knows. We’re all in the dark together with only kind hearts and patience to see us through.
Next on my list of favorite Christmas stories that have nothing to do with Santa, is this short story by Truman Capote.
It’s the story of a young boy and his elderly “friend” who set out with $12.99 to make thirty fruitcakes for people who have been kind to them or people they admire (like Eleanor Roosevelt). They are the wards of “persons” who “have power over us and often make us cry” but who for the most part ignore them and so over the years they have figured out how to entertain themselves and, at the same time, save a few pennies here and there for their Fruitcake Fund.
"... a morning arrives in November, and my friend as though officially inaugurating the Christmas time of year that exhilarates her imagination and the fuels the blazes of her heart announces: 'It's Fruitcake weather!'"
We know little else about them. The young boy remembers no other home and his friend has never traveled more than five miles from the house nor has she seen a movie or eaten in a restaurant … but she “has killed with a hoe the largest rattlesnake ever seen in the county (sixteen rattles) … tamed hummingbirds (just try it) till they balance on her finger … knows the recipe for every sort of old-time Indian cure, including a magical wart remover.”
She also knows how to make kites and fly them in any weather. The important things to a young boy.
Nor do we know much about where they live except that it is a “spreading old house in a country town.” There’s an orchard nearby where they gather “windfall pecans” from amongst the fallen leaves, a grocery where they buy “cherries and citron, ginger and vanilla and canned pineapple from Hawaii, rinds and raisins and … oh so much flour, butter and so many eggs” which they load into his baby carriage (the thing he arrived in with little else) and drag home. However, for the most expensive ingredient they must summon their courage to visit a notorious bootlegger by the name of Haha Jones. Any guesses as to what that most expensive ingredient was?
Truman Capote aka Buddy and his friend Nanny aka Sook
Okay – it’s whiskey! Any of my baking blogger buddies use hard liquor in their fruitcake? I’m thinking of giving it a try. It’s been just that kind of year!
Me … after gobbling down too much spiked fruitcake.
One of my many hobbies is figure drawing. There’s something meditative about spending a couple of hours intently focused on another human being, the contours of their body as they take different poses, the shadows and nuances of their muscles … I could go on and on. I haven’t done a lot of figure drawing over the past twenty years because it’s difficult to find a group of artists to join. And trust me, you don’t want to ask a friend, neighbor or spouse to strip and pose.
In the first session the five minute poses really killed me! But I had fun making messes.
A lot of people don’t understand that drawing naked people is not the same thing as creating pornography. Figure models generally belong to guilds that have strict rules and regulations. (Everyone can take off their clothes but not everyone can hold a poise for five minutes!) Successful figure models can earn up to 100 dollars per hour and the hours are generally mid-day or in the evening. Perfect for professional dancers.
Here I went a little crazy with a variety of pencils and chalks! I’m still trying to figure out my tools.
When my children were young I lucked on to a sculpture class that focused on the human form. Thus, my children were accustomed to seeing sculptures of naked people all around the house. However, every now and then I’d hear a new playmate snickering over the sight of “naked boobies!” and worry that the local vice squad might be showing up at my door.
This sculpture was done so long ago I can’t remember what I was thinking. We certainly weren’t beheading children and using them as props.
The group I was lucky enough to join meets in a room at the local community center that is also used for children’s art classes. It’s delightful to see their drawings posted all around … however, last session I needed to leave early and inadvertently left behind my sketches. Whoops. Naked boobies in the children’s art space.
Experiments with chalk – it’s soooo delightfully messy.
I hope the janitor finds them and throws them away before the kids show up for their class! I don’t want to get arrested for warping young minds with naked boobies!
Way back in 2013 this cat started showing up on our deck. I guess he/she figured my husband fed the birds and squirrels and so why not feed him/her as well? But … cats and birds generally don’t get along and so hubby shooed him/her off the deck and out of our yard. We couldn’t imagine such a beautiful cat was homeless. And then the weather turned cold and we discovered the cat had been taking refuge under a pile of plant covers left on the bottom deck. Long story short, we ended up dragging the beast, by this time, its long fur matted in filthy dreadlocks, off the deck. For two weeks the cat hid out downstairs but thankfully knew how to use a litter box! Another long story short, the cat turned out to be a neutered male and unable to find his owners, we more or less adopted him.
Can’t you find a better name than Pretty Kitty?
For years we’ve tried to find a more appropriate name than Pretty Kitty but none has stuck. Then, last night … or rather early this morning … the name came to me in a dreamlike fugue. Percival. A noble but whimsical name, I think.
Percival Von Kitty from his royal perch.
Anyway, that’s how my week is starting out.
I’m hoping the cold weather will hold off long enough for these, my only tomatoes after months and months, to finally ripen.
But with a storm and a drop in temperature on Wednesday, I kinda doubt it.
We shall see. Only Percival the Perceptive knows and he’s not telling.
This daylight savings crap has got to go!
Let’s hope that, with Percival finally getting his name, things will start to improve in this stark raving mad country!
Daniel knew that his boss would hate to see him go. Unlike the other men who came and went from the service station, Daniel was courteous, didn’t smoke, and helped with the bookkeeping. But the boss had mentioned retirement on many occasions and so perhaps Daniel’s leaving would provide the impetus to take that step. That would be a good thing; a happy conclusion.
“Mr. B, it’s time for me to go,” Daniel said. “I’ve seen it, you know, sailing through the fog. The winos were right. It has returned.”
The Connemoira
But his boss didn’t seem to be listening. “What are those stupid girls doing now? They’re going get themselves killed!” He was referring to the three girls from Nevada, who, loaded down with their things, were heading toward their funny little car. Remarkably, it had survived a night on the streets of lower Manhattan. Probably because it was a foreign job whose ancient parts weren’t worth crap.
“It’s all right, Mr. B. They’re leaving. Marcia talked them into going to an uncle’s house where …”
“Shit, not that asshole!” A vagabond known for aggressive panhandling had jumped out of the shadows and was blocking the girls’ path.
“Stay here, Mr. B. I’ll take care of him!” Daniel grabbed the broom from the garage and ran across the street swinging. “Get out of here,” he said swatting at the man with his broom.
The man looked around confused, “What the hell?” Then he took the spare change that one of the girls offered him and walked away.
“Oh no,” the Catholic’s Daughter cried. “Look at my car.” The passenger side window had been smashed and glass shards covered whatever remained inside, which wasn’t much. Just that sculpture of a man’s head looking wistfully up at them. “Oh no! My flute! My flute is gone! We’ve got to call the police.”
“They won’t come down here. They won’t even take a police report.” Daniel said.
“That’s so awful.”
“That’s why you guys need to get out of here. Go across the street to the service station and ask the owner to help you. He’s a crusty old guy but his heart is pure.”
“How about you?”
“It’s time for me to go.”
They seemed perplexed. “We’ll never forget you.”
He grinned. “Get on your way now.”
The girls drove across the street and told the old man who’d been watching them: “Daniel said you would help us.”
“You saw Daniel? A guy about thirty, wears thick glasses, quotes a lot of scripture?”
“Yeah. That’s him.”
“Where is he?”
They looked across the street and Daniel was gone. “Well, he did say it was time for him to go.”
“He did? I guess that’s good. You wait here and then, yeah, we’ll patch those windows.” He disappeared into the station and then returned with some cardboard, duct tape and a newspaper folded neatly into a square.
He handed the newspaper article to the girl who seemed the most sensible.
“Terrible thing. What happened to him shouldn’t happen to a dog, no sir. And that poor woman,” he shivered. “Terrible. Unthinkable. Gives me the willies. You know, Daniel was a good kid, a little mixed up but then you should have met his mother. That lunatic held vigil here at the station for three days thinking her son was going to resurrect like the friggin’ Christ.”
The girls didn’t say a word, even amongst themselves. Perhaps I should have softened the blow, Buckley thought, but then he hadn’t had much experience with the so-called fairer sex. “It’s been a whole damn year and they still don’t have any suspects. Not a one.”
“Daniel’s dead?”
“Yup. And you know it happened not too far from here. A year ago. Yeah.”
“But we were just …”
“I told you there was something evil going on in that apartment.”
“Daniel, evil? Nay. He studied to be a priest. You know, the winos claim they’ve seen him too but then they also see rats the size of German Shepherds,” he laughed. “Okay, nuff said, let’s get you gals fixed up and outta here.”
He helped them sweep out the inside of the car and put cardboard over the shattered window. He even gave them a can of oil after checking the dipstick and sighing in disgust “women never check the oil, or the tires. We’d better check them as well.” When he was satisfied the little car just might make it to Massachusetts, he gave them directions on how to get out of town. He watched the little car as it sputtered down the road. They’ll never make it, he thought, but he waved back anyway.
Happy Halloween Everyone! Have you ever spent the night with a ghost?
Saying nothing in particular 