Vernal equinoxes come and go ....

Doing something beneficial and fruitful is one thing; doing something you enjoy is another thing. If the two meet and mix and meld, you are lucky. So spaketh Fram Original ....

Some of my recent hours have been utilized going through / reshuffling / dusting books, with periodical moments spent opening a few and thinking about when and why I obtained them. Three of them are shown here. All three have met the criteria mentioned, but two are on their way to early obsolescence because of the internet. The third might be, as well, but, for me and an at least a few undefinable others, Ernest Hemingway will never be relegated to the internet.

The first video features the KamiBand, among other things the backing band for BabyMetal, performing an instrumental piece. Each member portrays a "god (Kami) of music." The guitar man on the left is Mikio Fujioka, who died January 5, 2018, from injuries sustained in a fall from an observation tower. He was 36. The second video is 43-plus minutes of songs from Zard, a Japanese pop rock band, during a memorial concert for Izumi Sakai, who died on May 27, 2007, at the age of 40. Cancer caught her. In many ways, she was Zard.

Here today .... gone tomorrow

During my life I have had a propensity for overindulging in what I consider to be the necessities of life: Books, firearms, coins, liquor and smokes.

Unlike many, I neither smoked much nor drank alcoholic beverages to any degree as a boy or a teenager. The only cigarettes came when one of the "crew" liberated a parental pack and we sat around in an isolated location and smoked until they were gone. I often say I can count the number of beers I consumed during my school years on my fingers, and the same was pretty much true for the "hard stuff."

With coins, I have a taste for the bright and the shiny, which translates into silver or gold. With firearms, I am deadly with a handgun or a rifle and less than average with a shotgun, so you can figure for yourself which I prefer. I have bought and sold and traded since I was a teen, but never owned more than 60 at a single time. Owning means care and cleaning, whether one is shooting them or not. I assume you get my drift there.

Books have come in all shapes/sizes/genres. In recent years, my focus has been on the "Plains Indian Wars," which ran from roughly 1850 through 1890. My interest has been great enough to devote six weeks on a "tour" of frontier forts and battlefields which ranged from Minnesota to Montana then south to Texas and back again. I also have participated in two archaeological surveys as an amateur volunteer -- one of which meant walking and hands and knees crawling long days in and around Fort Phil Kearny in Wyoming.

Many of the nonfiction and fiction books I have been reading center on that era, as well as the transmigration of settlers from Europe to North America. I am constantly suggesting people read writers like Frederic Manfred and Mari Sandoz and Ole Rolvaag and Hamlin Garland and ....

I periodically purge my collection of books, with the largest being 150. By purge, I mean give them to libraries. There have been occasions when librarians have said, "Sorry, not interested." Those words always shock me, but, I do understand that, like individuals, institutions occasionally must purge their holdings. One of my "sneakier" techniques is simply to "dump" a dozen books into a library's return chute.

One of my "chores" the past few days has been to sort through and rearrange a few bookshelves. Two of my more interesting finds have been these: "Exploring Literary America," a 1979 book by Marcella Thum, and "The Dictionary of Cliches," a 1985 offering by James Rogers. The former book offers a few pages of biographical material on 70 writers and the latter is data on more than "2,000 common or amusing clichés -- their meanings and origins."

Both books have been useful to me at times, but cannot "hold a candle" to the near-instantaneous internet these days.

Moving sideways a few steps, my ability to curse for five or six minutes nonstop without taking a breath I blame on or I credit to -- depending upon one's viewpoint -- to the Marine Corps. I have my doubts the internet will make that "skill" obsolete ....

Semper whatever, baby ....

 

"Dear March -- Come in -- How glad I am"

I more or less stumbled across this Colt Lightning Model 1877 revolver for sale in New Mexico and brought it "home" to Saint Paul, Minnesota. The then-new revolver -- still in remarkably good condition for its age -- was shipped from the Colt factory in Hartford, Connecticut, to the William R. Burkhard Sportsman's Headquarters at 23 East Third Street in Saint Paul on June 28, 1888. From there, the handgun was sold to an unknown person and was "lost to history" until I obtained it. The Sportsman's Headquarters was in business until the 1930s and was located about 10 miles from the current residence of the revolver .... sort of like it has come home after 132 years and who might know how many adventures. The original posts about the Lightning appeared in June 2015 -- for the curious among you. The book below has a similar tale, for those who wish to read on ....

 

Where have you been, what have you seen

"If only 'it' could talk" is an expression we occasionally use and hear.

Most often, I think, the "it" refers to walls.

More often -- for me, anyway -- it refers to a coin or to a book or to a firearm.

Will Durant, formally known as William James Durant, was a historian / a writer / a philosopher who, in collaboration with his wife, Ariel, published an eleven-volume masterpiece, "The Story of Civilization," and a number of other books. I thought I very probably had read all the Durants had in print until I encountered and purchased the book, "Transition," which he had published in 1927. It is subtitled, "A Sentimental Story of One Mind and One Era."

No, this is not a post about the Durants or about "Transition," a thinly-disguised autobiography posing as a novel. It is about a book in the context of "if only it could talk."

A name, "J.C. Arnout, M.D.," is stamped on the inside of the cover. My assumption is that Doctor Arnout was the first owner. I am fascinated by the Durants and, guilt by association, also am somewhat interested in anyone interested in them. The address, "2626 S. Robertson Blvd. Los Angeles, California," is stamped below the name.

It is obvious the odds of anyone practicing medicine in Los Angeles in the 1920s would still be walking the Earth are beyond remote, but I did a cursory internet search on the last name thinking about possible descendants and other relatives. I came up empty on the name, so I typed in the address and came up with a building and this information about it.

"Nearby schools include Shenandoah Street Elementary School, Cheviot Hills Continuation School and Alexander Hamilton Senior High School. The closest grocery stores are Joe's Market, Venice Market and Vena Market. Nearby coffee shops include Undergrind Cafe, Helms Bakery Cafe Truck and Hayden. Nearby restaurants include Campos Tacos, Taco Bell and The Empanada Factory. 2626 S Robertson Blvd is near Reynier Park, Carthay Circle Park and Northrop Grumman Headquarters."

The parcel is assessed at approximately three-quarters of a million and is not currently on the market.

So much for that -- except, 2626 S. Robertson Blvd. is only about ten miles from Los Angeles International Airport, which I do pass through on occasion. Be fun -- for me, anyway -- to see the place once occupied by a medical doctor who read Will Durant. And, I cannot help but be curious about the taste of the coffee at the Undergrind Café and if, perchance, banana cream pie is on its menu ....

I purchased the book from an elderly woman in Grass Valley, California, nearly 450 miles north of Los Angeles. It would be interesting -- to me, anyway -- to know the story of the book's journey between L.A. in 1927 and Grass Valley in 2021.

But, since a book cannot talk in a literal sense, there is no compelling reason for me to try to trace and to track its journey. Right now, I simply plan to read and to learn from the words put to paper nearly a century ago by William James Durant.