Paper

Sometimes I think about writing paper letters regularly again. Something like once or twice a month maybe, just short notes to different people I used to correspond with that way. Even those of us who used to create voluminous amounts of paper letters – and I did – don’t do so any more. I keep up the volume of postcards, but not letters. I toy with this idea, but nothing has come of it yet.

That came to mind rummaging through my letter files recently. I found this.

Twenty years ago, my 78-year-old mother in Texas writes to her six-year-old granddaughter in Illinois, whose 26-year-old self happens to be visiting us now. I don’t think my mother sent an email or text message in her life, and she was no worse for it. I’d say as long as this paper letter and others of hers are accessible to those of us who knew her, her memory is no worse for it either.

A Palatine Water Tower in its Blue Period

On short Sunday, we made our way to Palatine, Illinois, in the afternoon. As home to more than 67,000 residents, it’s no small chunk of northwest Cook County.

Those residents need water.

I’d driven by that water tower on the Northwest Highway (US 14) periodically for years, and decided it was high time I took a look while standing still. Once upon a time, up until 2016, the tower was painted to look more like a stereotypical lighthouse, including figures that evoked the sort of windows you might see on a lighthouse. That was done away with, but it’s a pleasant blue.

Another source tells us that it is an “18,000 ton water tower,” but not whether that’s without water or the weight of the water that it can hold. Wouldn’t the capacity of water towers be in gallons? It is, at least according to Watermedia.org.

Not far away, but tucked away from any major street, is the village hall.

Looks newish, as indeed it is: completed in 2016 by Camosy Construction.

I couldn’t go inside. Maybe that’s where the distinctive civic details of Palatine are, such small memorials or plaques or the like? There was nothing outside that I could see, unless you count this.

The mayor’s parking spot, within view of Wood Street, named for a resident of early Palatine (founded 1866). The mayor, since 2009, happens to be James Schwantz, a former pro football player.

Magic Places

First thing to do today is Remember the Alamo.

There’s been a recent uptick in bogus comments here, which I almost always delete, along the lines of (this example, verbatim): Thanks for a marvelous posting! I genuinely enjoyed reading it, you could be a great author. I will be sure to bookmark your blog and will eventually come back later in life. I want to encourage continue your great writing, have a nice day!

The “author” is usually listed as some service- or product-oriented operation, occasionally lewd but more often personal accessories of some kind, with a gmail address. To recall Buck Turgidson, I’m beginning to smell a big, fat AI rat.

I hung up the last 2024 wall calendar the other day, fourth of four in the house. One might think that illustrates my procrastinating ways, since we’ve burned through a sixth of the year already (the crummiest sixth, I should add). But no, I hung an accurate calendar there around New Year’s. The 2018 Metropolitan Water Reclamation District of Greater Chicago calendar.

The year’s different, but so what? The first two months were the same as this year, but that changed on February 29, so I needed another calendar to avoid confusion, a year in which March 1 is a Friday. The most recent leap year to fit the bill (besides this year) would be 1996, but I didn’t seem to have one of those around or, oddly, any other calendar that qualified. No worries, I saw a wad of ’24 calendars at Ollie’s not long ago and picked one of the lot for $4, compared with a list price of $17. Nice discount, and I get 10 months at 40 cents each, instead of 12 months at about $1.40 each. Not much you can buy for 40 cents these days.

It’s a Plato calendar, an imprint of BrownTrout Publishers, which asserts that it is The Calendar Company. I had to look that up: headquartered in El Sugundo, California, BrownTrout published 1,500 unique titles as of 2020, according to the latest press release boilerplate issued by the company (recommendation, put a few newer releases on your site, BrownTrout). The site also says the company is the largest calendar publisher in the world, and it may be so, if that means calendars sold. Or does it mean days put on paper?

The one I bought at Ollie’s is called Magic Places. Handsome Rocky Places might be more like it. Mostly it pictures extraordinary rock features, natural and partly man-made, the kind of flawless and painterly pics you get from this kind of calendar, including sites in Scotland (three), England, Turkey, Greenland, Russia, and more. The likes of the Old Man of Storr, Cappadocia, Machu Picchu and Hegra in Saudi Arabia. One month wasn’t rocky but a monumental tree in Epping Forest in Essex, which I vaguely had heard of, but didn’t really know.

Just shows that Greater London is so vast, not even a month there is enough to hear of everything, especially in the days before the Internet. Once a royal forest, these days Epping is owned by the City of London Corp., even since – this isn’t hard to guess – the Victorian period.

Magic Places is a good-looking trilingual calendar, including Spanish and French as well to cover North America, and it has most of the standard holidays: U.S., Canada and Mexico civic, Christian, Jewish and Muslim, along with those days peculiar to American calendar-making tradition, such as Ground Hog Day, April Fool’s Day and Grandparents Day. There are also Low Countries holidays, which I suppose is a good market for the calendar maker.

It made my day to learn that besides being Cinco de Mayo, May 5 is Bevrijdingsdag in the Netherlands, Liberation Day. A holiday to celebrate ousting Nazis is one we can all get behind.

Whatever You Do, Don’t Land in 1348

An online ad today made me laugh. For an airline offering service to Dubrovnik. The tag line:

The mind boggles. What does United have, a fleet of Tardises? I think you’d be at some risk of landing smack dab in the Black Death, but if not that, a generally unhealthy destination for us moderns, even with all our shots. That’s not all. This might be a direct flight, but does another route offer a stopover at the Enlightenment, or maybe the Belle Époque?

I get it. The copywriter – he, she or it – is trading on the romance of Dubrovnik, which by all accounts is a picturesque yet modern place. But still I laugh. What currency did they use in 14th-century Dubrovnik anyway, which would more properly be the Republic of Ragusa? Surely they don’t want dollars, so maybe you’d have to take silver or gold specie. And good luck finding anyone that speaks English there or even decent wifi.

I had to look it up. The currency would have been the tallero, one new to me, but from the right period. Numisma also gives the following table:

Figuring out the purchasing power of any of these would be a real chore, so I’ll pass. But be careful that you don’t get hundreds of follari in change.

V.S. Pritchett ’83 (Part 2)

The VU class that V.S. Pritchett taught in 1983 was fiction writing, which makes sense, since he was a fiction writer of renown and, presumably, Vanderbilt’s attenuated reputation for literature was still important to the English Department at the time. It’s hard to recollect much about the class, though. It’s been 40+ years, of course, but it’s more than that. To undergraduates, professors seemed to ply their trade from the perch of an advanced age, one that was hard to imagine. That didn’t always interfere with a student’s ability to absorb the material, however, provided the professor had some skill as a teacher.

Pritchett was 82. That was more than advanced; that was positively antediluvian, in my youthful estimation. I still feel that way a bit, though I know that advanced age doesn’t necessarily — or even that often — cut into ability in the intellectual arts. Regardless, aged or not, he wasn’t one of the great teachers that one encounters along the way. I’m not even sure he was that good. He seemed to like to listen to students read each other’s stories out loud – we wrote stories for the class, and read them, but not our own. I think. Then we talked about the stories in a meandering sort of way. He made comments, but for a writer of stories, didn’t seem to tell that many in class.

VU prof Walter Sullivan (d. 2006, curiously at 82), whose fiction writing class I’d taken in the fall of 1982, read student stories himself, ones he’d picked to illustrate some point, and then led the discussion. Not with an iron hand precisely, but the firmness of the former Marine that he was.

One student wrote a story about (again, I think) about a little girl and the death of a baby bird, or some such. Dr. Sullivan read it, and then thundered: “Don’t write stories about animals! Or little children! Short stories should be about grown men and women.”

Sullivan was, as I recall, the better teacher. Still, we liked Pritchett. But being in his class was something of a squandered opportunity. We were dense youth, so we didn’t really ask him many good questions. No followup about Orwell, as I’ve mentioned, even though Pritchett did tell us a snippet or two about him.

But here was a man who, for instance, remembered World War I as a youth (though not in the fighting) and who went to Paris in the 1920s as a young man, and who took a ramble through Spain and Ireland during that same decade. I wish I’d thought to ask about those things. Or what about the other writers that he knew? Or his opinions on such luminaries as Chekhov – he must have been thinking about him when he taught us, since he published Chekhov: A Spirit Set Free in 1989. Ah, well. At this remote time, all I can do is shrug.

This is the second part of my interview, published February 11, 1983.

Television was killing the printed word in those days; had been since Howdy Doody started shilling for Wonder Bread. Seems almost like a quaint notion now, its dumbing down role famously usurped by social media, though I’d say that TV is still in the game.

I have a collection of Pritchett’s short stories somewhere or other, and I dimly remember reading some of them. I also have a book of his literary criticism, Myth Makers (1981). I know where that one is. That’s pretty close to the time I interacted with him.

“Essays on major European and Latin-American writers of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, by the distinguished English man of letters, include lucid, sensitive interpretations of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Flaubert, Stendhal, Kafka, Borges, and others,” notes the Amazon squib. I ought to get around to reading it.

V.S. Pritchett ’83 (Part 1)

I’m not one to drop names. One reason is I don’t have many to drop. There was that time I was pretty sure I saw Neil Young having lunch at the International Market in Nashville, ca. 1985, or at least someone who was a dead ringer for the musician. I let the man eat his food in peace.

And of course there was the other time (spring 1980) two friends and I saw Gregg Allman and his entourage enter the same Nashville restaurant we were having lunch, making a bee line back to a private room. If one of my friends hadn’t pointed them out, I wouldn’t have known.

The same with Larry David. A colleague and I were passing through the lobby of the Boca Raton Resort & Club in 2004 and he (my colleague) made a startled announcement: “That’s Larry David,” referring to a fellow we’d just passed whom I’d scarcely noticed in the crowd. That was the first I’d ever heard of him. Later I discovered that his brand of humor isn’t really for me.

Which brings me to Sir Victor Sawdon Pritchett (1900-97), a British writer best known for his short stories. V.S. Pritchett, his byline is usually styled. I expect many (many) more people, Americans anyway, have heard of the other notables I’ve mentioned than him.

Still, I not only saw Pritchett, I met him, since I took a class he taught as a visiting professor at Vanderbilt in the spring of ’83. I’ve mentioned him precisely once in 21 years, so I can’t call knowing him earth-shaking or otherwise consequential to the course of my life. Even so, I’m dropping his name now.

Besides sorting postcards, I’m opening up old files – physical files, of which there are many – with a mind toward sorting them as well. One I opened this week was labeled “Clips Before 1984.” Most of them are items I wrote for The Vanderbilt Hustler, the VU student newspaper. I was its news editor in the spring of ’83, and one of the items I did was a longish interview with V.S. Pritchett.

I’d completely forgotten about it. But there it was in black and white, to use the cliché. A front-page interview, but below the fold.

The first part ran on February 8, 1983. 

The second part was published on February 11. Not a bad interview for a college kid. But why – why – why didn’t I ask him about George Orwell? He knew Orwell. At least I know my degree of separation from Orwell is exactly two, a thought that pleases me for some reason.

Because of the nation’s absurd copyright laws, I suppose the article technically still belongs to Vanderbilt Student Communications, but I doubt they’d begrudge me posting it nonprofessionally after more than 40 years. If they do object, I’ll take it down. Until then, it represents an interview with Pritchett that probably isn’t posted anywhere else, a thought that also pleases me, though it surely doesn’t add or change anything about the record of his life.

RIP, Sir Victor.

Frozen K-Food

We’ve all heard of K-Pop, even if we pay it no mind. Go to a Korean grocery store here in the northwest suburbs, and you’ll be aware of K-Food. Frozen K-Food, too.

Convenient and delicious for any occasion, it seems. I didn’t do a comprehensive look-see at the Frozen K-Food aisles, but did notice a few things. Such as a version of K-corn dogs: mozzarella and fish cake on a stick.k-food

The marvels of globalization never cease. People worry that globalization = homogenization, but I don’t think so.

Korean breakfast links, or anytime sausage? The taste you always wanted? In any case, true to the tradition of cartoon mascots gleeful about the human consumption of their own kind.

This is diversity.

But maybe not quite as much as at first glance, since the maker of Red Baron, Schwan’s, was acquired by South Korean food conglomerate CJ CheilJedang a few years ago. So there you have it: a popular North American convenience food named for a German flying ace owned by a South Korean operation. All there in a frozen food bin.

Durians and jackfruit!

Once only available in Southeast Asia, now in your frozen food aisle. Must be popular in Korea these days, too. Why not? For me, jackfruit brings back fond memories of Thailand. As for durian, that is a fond memory from Malaysia.

Not long after I wandered away from the frozen food, I encountered fresh jackfruit. jackfruit 2024
jackfruit 2024

A Hindenburg-class fruit, it is. More than 20 lbs. of jackfruit for less than $20. I’ll assume that’s a good deal.

Robot on Aisle 7

When I took Ann back to Normal yesterday, I didn’t stop anywhere else in that town. But the last time I was there, we went to a grocery store just off I-55. And who should we meet in one of the aisles? I’d say it was strolling around, but I don’t think inventory robots stroll. Wheel along, maybe. It was puttering along.

That’s Tally, which isn’t precisely new tech, considering that you can easily find an article about the machine from 2016. Then again, maybe the one we saw is a more advanced version or, for all I know, it’s an older one still perfectly fine for its job. Never mind what the tech industry says, tech still has value as long as you find it useful.

“[Tally] can traverse a shop’s aisles for eight to 12 hours on a single charge, counting and checking up to 20,000 individual stock keeping units (SKUs) with greater than 96 percent accuracy,” the PC magazine article reported then.

A robot replacing a human. A human going up and down the aisles for hours holding a electronic wand of some kind. That sounds like the kind of really boring job that robots were going to take in the future, as it was once more optimistically imagined. Were supposed to take.

On the other hand, I asked the check-out clerk about the robot. How long had the store had the robot? She didn’t know, a while. We hate it anyway, she said, but didn’t elaborate.

Good Old French Know-How

No shortage of odd press releases lately. The first few lines of one that came recently read:

Bonjour à tous,

Voici notre catalogue Le Luxe Artisan pour ceux qui n’ont pas pu venir à Paris.

15 artisans d’art français venant des 4 coins de France étaient présents pour expliquer leur savoir-faire. Une très belle aventure humaine et un travail d’équipe. Scénographie de la talentueuse Julia Bancilhon, créatrice de papiers peints – studio Made of Matter.

I couldn’t let that go untranslated, since the machine now offers that service. So by machine translation, I got:

Hello everyone,

Here is our Le Luxe Artisan catalog for those who were unable to come to Paris.

15 French artisans from all over France were present to explain their know-how. A great human adventure and teamwork. Scenography by the talented Julia Bancilhon, wallpaper designer – Made of Matter studio.

Interesting that savoir-faire is translated know-how, which suggests a more workaday meaning in French for a term that acquired some social graces when it drifted into English.

So That’s Miffy

Another press release that isn’t for me came today. Actually, I get a fair number of those, but in this case I took a look. Its first two paragraphs were as follows:

Miffy, the internationally loved bunny created by Dutch artist Dick Bruna, enters the new season of fashion with an exciting update. Miffy is partnering for the first time with Dumbgood – the legendary pop-culture-inspired clothing brand. The new collection is available at Dumbgood/Miffy for Miffy fans located in the US.

Born of a beloved bedtime story tradition between Bruna and his son, Miffy has been a child-favorite character for 68 years for her positivity, adventurous nature, and innocence. Dumbgood blends 90s-2000s nostalgia and iconic pop culture brands to create apparel collections that feel new and relevant for today’s streetwear customer….

90s-2000s nostalgia? Really? No, let’s leave that aside. After all, when Happy Days premiered 50 years ago this month, it was cast successfully as nostalgia, for no more than 20 years earlier.

I was pretty sure I’d never heard of Miffy, 68 years of positivity notwithstanding (or Dumbgood either, legend notwithstanding). Miffy didn’t happen to be in the mix when I was a child reader, or at any other time. But then I did an image search.

I do know Miffy, by sight anyway. I saw Miffy a lot in Japan. Miffy is very popular there. I showed the pictures to Yuriko, who knew the bunny instantly, and by name.

Somehow I never got around to thinking much about the character I’d seen in Japan, and until today would have assumed – had I simply been shown the pictures – that it was a Japanese character. But no, a Dutch artist created it, perhaps with a keen unconscious notion of what would be big in Japan. Odd the things you learn, even from misdirected press releases.