A fantasy artist once submitted an amazing illustration showing a skull-headed demon glaring hungrily at the viewer from in front of a complex and twisted grove of obviously cursed trees. The editor loved the drawing, but said “You’re not fooling me, you know. You just wanted to draw those interesting trees and added the demon so somebody would actually buy the picture.”
The world works that way, and it was no less true in the world of postcard illustration. In romance postcards particularly, where pretty much the same loving glances and warm embraces were repeated endlessly, being timeless, it is obvious that the photographer was really interested in something else. I don’t mean those cards where the joke is so big it needs to take up space from the lovers just for emphasis.
This one, say, where we’re spending a lot of space on that picturesque stone wall but we HAVE to, to make the joke about his “stile” more obvious.
And sometimes it’s apparent that the scenery was the inspiration for the whole picture, and you HAVE to emphasize the natural scenery.
Here, though, we have a joke which could have been told in a ballroom, on a boat, or even in a broken tree. But we have it being told while our protagonists lean on a stump because the photographer realized that stump was probably the only thing new about a pair of lovers or the gag.
Other postcards, like the illustration mentioned above, look as if the forest was what the photographer wanted to record, and the lovers and their dialogue were an afterthought. People sell better than trees, you see. There were more lovers than nature lovers in the postcard audience.
There’s the question of definition, too, a matter of making something more obvious (always a good thing when dealing with the buying public.) You can call a scene romantic, but why not emphasize it by showing someone conducting a romance in one corner of the scene (where they won’t block the view)?
It’s a simple compromise: some customers will want to buy a card for the lovers and others for the tree. (Though this can backfire: some will pass the card up because they wanted a closer look at the kiss, and others will spurn it since you have those ruddy people in front of that interesting tree.)
It doesn’t have to be trees, of course. Any really interesting scene, fun to photograph, can have a couple of hand-holders added. (Yes, I see the bridge joke. But they thought of it BECAUSE they wanted to take a picture of the bridge and needed the excuse.)
The result is interesting for all kinds of viewer to this day. Some of us will be interested in the fashions worn by the lovers, or the design of that umbrella, while others will say, “Wow! Where would I need to go nowadays to lie down in a field of giant flowers?” (This blog not responsible for heartache or hay fever if you try this at home.)
“That was a sneeze!” said Archels, sitting up in the wagon, awake at once.
“It was,” said Alain. “You don’t need to be the acutest prince in the world to know that.”
A young woman stepped out from among the trees. The princes stared, for this was the first person they had seen since they left the old man, the day before.
The hand she held up was empty. “Greetings,” she said. “This way or that way is the quickest way out of the forest.” She pointed at the road behind them and the road ahead of them. “But I was thinking it might be more interesting to go that way.” And she pointed to the road that branched off to the north.
“Is it a fairy of the forest?” asked Affretz, who had put his helmet back on, though it was a warm day.
“More likely someone’s servant.” Alain gestured toward the small pack on her back. “She stole her master’s things and ran into the forest.”
This seemed to offend the lady, who set her hands on her hips and replied, “I did not steal them. They are mine. They were…given to me.”
Archels noticed a small crown on one corner of the pack. He knew gold when he saw it, and this was not the sort of thing people gave away. “I think we should take her to the nearest sheriff,” he said, starting to climb out of the wagon.
“It’s true!” The woman stamped a foot. “I’m under a curse, and I’m looking for someone to help me break it.”
“That could be true,” said Affretz. “If there’s a curse on her, people might give her things to get her to go away.”
“Yes, yes.” Archels thought this over. “We might be able to help break the curse. What kind is it?”
“Not the kind just anybody could break,” said the woman, who still seemed to be offended.
This did not sound right to the princes. A real damsel in distress would, of course, have asked for their help right away. “Maybe she’s not allowed to tell what it is,” Affretz suggested. “She could be a princess in disguise, who can’t ask for help.”
“A princess?” Alain’s handsome nose wrinkled. “Looking like that?”
“In disguise,” Affretz said again.
“What’s the matter with the way I look?” the lady demanded, stamping that foot again.
The brothers were too polite to point out the dark rings under her eyes, her flyabout mess of a hairdo, the clothes that seemed about a size too big for her, and the general air of someone who hadn’t slept for a week. Just the fact that she did not seem to realize any of this convinced them that she must truly be under a curse. They looked to each other, nodding.
“Of course, she could be a wicked forest fairy in disguise, too,” said Alain.
“So we don’t dare ask her to go with us, then,” said Affretz.
“What don’t we dare?” Being as courageous as he was, Alain was the most daring prince in the world. “I’d ask a couple of trolls to come with us, if I wanted.”
“I’ve wrestled three wild bears at once,” said Archels. “Don’t tell me what I’d dare!”
“Then we should all be safe.” Affretz extended a hand toward the lady. “You could come with us and seek a cure for your curse, if you wish.”
“I’m not sure,” said the difficult young woman. “It seems to me that this truly is a grove of nasty knights. Who are you, if it isn’t too much trouble to ask?”
The brothers looked at each other again. If they told this young wanderer they were princes, she might try to marry one of them.
“We’re no one important,” said Alain. “Call me Sir Ae.”
“And I am Sir Bee,” said Archels.
“And you may know me as Sir Ceee,” said Affretz.
The woman curtsied. “In that case,” she said, walking over to the wagon and climbing up without asking permission, “Just call me Deedee.”
Realizing they had not fooled her for a moment, the brothers began to laugh. The woman called Deedee laughed with them, and then they all turned off onto the northern road, heading for no one knew what.
Well, here it is spring and, ignoring a few random blizzards to kill the sprouting tulips, we are prepared for spring pursuits: basketball tournaments, baseball games, and, of course, what we are told our hearts turn lightly to even though we know very well we’ve been pondering it all winter. So I thought we’d consider the sport of flirting.
Etymologists are not as certain where this word came from as they would like to be. Some derive it from small flowers—fleurettes—given by young men while courting in France, while others derive it from flit: that word for the way butterflies dance near flowers. Which brings us to the birds and bees, suggesting we’re on the right track.
Anthropologists have been studying the whole principle for years, discussing two essential types of flirting: that which is indulged in as a means to an end, and that which is played as a sport in its own right. There are many words to describe the professional flirter, who is only in it to pass a few boring hours without planning anything more intimate, the most frequent one being “useless”. Flirting, according to most anthropologists, is a serious pursuit, like that basketball tournament, with rules and qualifying rounds.
Guides to how flirting should be done go back centuries. Variants of these can be found now on the Interwebs, with videos attached to make it clear how and when to flirt properly. Fashions change in this as in all human matters.
Somehow, though, basic gameplay has changed only by adding new technologies. There is still the Opening Line (“Do let me help you with those hat boxes”), the Misleading Conversation Topic (“The next phase of the basketball tournament has some interesting match-ups”), and, of course, the movements of the hands, head, and especially eyes. (Anthropologists have found flirting females from cultures separated by continents exhibiting exactly the same head and eye movements while having a conversation with an interesting and unattached male. The men in all these societies either learn these moves right away or fail to pick up on them into old age, still wondering what just happened.)
There HAVE been societies, of course, which found flirting random and dangerous. Relations between the sexes are matters for serious discussion and consideration of social and financial requirements. Communities have tried banning it altogether. (Shakespeare covered this in Elizabethan days, an era of enthusiastic flirting.) You might think, since flirting relies so heavily of body language and eye signals, that it would be impossible to regulate. Nonsense. If you’re determined enough to forbid something, you will find a way. (Ban anything that seems slightly suspicious and you’re bound to get all the villains.)
One of the worst things you could call a woman (in public) was a “flirt”, while men who were known as “flirts” were distrusted by all men who were pillars of society (whose wives made sure to invite a few flirts to a party to guarantee its success: that double standard again.) After all, such arid souls point out, flirting could “lead to misunderstanding between sexes” (what doesn’t?) and contribute to “pre-determination” (an obsolete term college administrations used to refer to young people choosing sexual partners before graduation.) It could result in SPOONING, as one generation put it.
Or petting, as the next generation spoke of it.
One result of the battle to suppress flirting is that for generations we have simply assumed that two people conversing with their heads too close together, or their eyes moving in directions which have nothing to do with conversation are flirting. We go so far as to assure them, if they deny it, that they either don’t REALIZE they’re flirting, or that they are just fibbing. And we are correct just often enough to make us supreme in our knowledge of the world and its ways.
Which brings us, and the flirters, back to the old admonition to “gather ye fleurettes while ye may” or something like that. At present, it IS spring, and as long as you’re not living somewhere with a zero tolerance code on the books, run outside and organize a quick pick-up game. There’s bound to be SOMEONE who’s willing to play a round. (If you find out it’s still all about basketball, after all, you can always call for Shirts Vs. Skins.)
Once upon a time, I lived in a town which had a large number of residents who claimed Irish heritage. But a vocal minority was of Bohemian ancestry, with the result that at this time of year, the greeting card racks were evenly divided between green cards for those who wanted to send a note to someone for St. Patrick’s Day, and red cards, for those who wanted to do the same thing on St. Joseph’s Day (March 19.) The Bohemians DID have to share St. Joseph with the Italians, but we did not have enough descendants of Italian foreparents to make a difference in sales.
I don’t see that where I live now (though there are far more Italians around here) but I suspect it has less to do with heritage these days than with those sales. Greeting card companies do not like to try to do too many holidays at once: it dilutes customer interest. (I learned this when I tried to do a line of St. Andrew’s Day cards, for the Scottish, and was told straight out by one card company “We do not need another card holiday between Thanksgiving and Christmas”.) However, those of you who celebrated St. Patrick’s Day a bit too much can take a few St. Joseph aspirin and thus continue to honor the saints. (Nod to the regular reader who tossed me this joke.)
I was eating out on March 16 (or St. Patrick’s Day II, as it is known where I live now. Friday night, you see, was St. Patrick’s Day I, and…you should see what happens when St. Patrick’s falls on a Wednesday, and TWO weekends need to be turned over to the saint. Is green beer really that addictive? In Milwaukee, green bagels were at one time the big thing to HAVE with green beer, and over here we have green egg rolls filled with corned beef and cabbage—only in America–but I have yet to see green eggs and ham offered…where were we?)
Eating out on March 16, I asked, in the name of nothing much, “How come people bar HOP but pub CRAWL?”
I got one of those looks which changed the subject at once. I thought, “Okay, Blogsy, take this question into the Greater Interweb Community, where they appreciate you.” As sometimes happens, though, my dining companions were right.
Apparently, NOBODY bar hops any more. People in this time and place pub crawl. If not, they bar crawl, a term I had not heard until I looked up the question. The term “pub crawl” originated across the pond, as you might expect from the word “pub”. Bar crawling came about in the United States, where people who run pubs are considered unnecessarily picturesque.
I was also unaware that bar crawling is one of the sociopolitical questions that divides American voters today. A number of communities organize special bar crawls, as do several colleges. On these days (frequently March 17), people join a tour group which moves from bar to bar, drinking in the history and heritage of each. That drinking is what put the “crawl” in “pub crawl”, as one’s ability to walk upright slips away after the seventh or eighth establishment.
But this has led other communities to forbid bar crawling. How they regulate this is not made clear to me (does the host check your hand for bar stamps from previous places?) but these communities insist that if you are going to drink too much, you should do it in just one bar and not become a menace to navigation crawling hither and yon. Of course, what worries these communities is that some people have no respect for tradition, and instead of crawling will try to DRIVE from bar to bar. (It’s not a “bar drive”, people. Get with the program.)
This is why some such communities have also banned “happy hour”, which, since it suggests drinking just before Rush Hour, becomes a bad idea as well. I would discuss the history of rush hours and happy hours in this space as well, but I’ve run out of space. I must now go and make a corned beef sandwich for lunch, something which I believe most states and saints would approve, and, having washed it down with something carbonated but not fermented, will crawl to MY version of happy hour, which I call “Nap Time”.
Not far from the castle where Dimity had grown up, and somewhat to the east of the silent, thorn-guarded castle where her uncle’s court slept, there stood a great, dark forest that stretched for miles. It was known by many names in the different ands whose borders touched it, but in the land of Dimity’s people it was called the Grove of Nasty Nights. No one lived anywhere near the forest: the sounds which came from among gloomy trees after dark made it impossible to sleep.
Since it was impossible for Dimity to sleep anyhow, this was the first place she’d thought of going. Naturally, she didn’t mention this to the king or queen. Her parents would not have liked the idea of their daughter going into the grove at all.
Now Dimity stood before the forest trying to decide whether SHE liked the idea at all.
“You are supposed to be finding a prince,” she told herself. “Most princes are not likely to be waiting around in such a place as this. On the other hand, if there are really monsters in here, it could be that one of them has captured a prince, whom you could rescue. This will mean he owes you a favor, and can tell you how to get some sleep. So you’d be even, without any nonsense about marrying the prince, and like that.”
She unrolled her map of the Grove of Nasty Nights. This was mainly blank: hardly anyone ever went more than a foot or two inside, no matter how much they needed firewood, or shelter from a storm. If she didn’t meet any princes, she thought it would be useful for her to at least draw a few landmarks on the map, and take it back to the royal archives.
A little path led her between grey tree trunks. About half the leaves she could see were still green, and many of those were draped with dry brown moss. The moss rustled like whispers as the princess passed among them. Dimity looked around to see if anybody was actually whispering, and tied her hair up in back so it wouldn’t catch on any low branches.
She could see the path in what sunlight came in among the leaves, but these leaves moved in a breeze Dimity couldn’t feel, shifting the shadows and the useful spots of light. This made it impossible for her to be sure whether anything among the trees was moving. When she tripped, but did not fall, on a rough spot in the path, the moss rustled faster, like rain falling on the leaves.
Dimity glanced up to make sure the sun was still shining above the rapidly sliding shadows. “How do they tell around here when night comes?” she grumbled. She tripped again, and reached out for a trailing strand of moss to hold herself up. She jerked her hand away before she touched it, and moved along.
The shadows did make seeing the path difficult, but Dimity did not realize the true reason she stumbled twice more. She was getting tired. People need to sleep, whether they can or not, and though it was so gradual she did not notice it, Dimity was growing weaker and weaker. She had lost weight, too. In spite of getting four meals a day at home, she had been working too hard and resting not at all.
The path was dusty from disuse and lack of rain. Dimity had to keep reminding herself not to cough; someone or something might be listening. She felt in her pocket for the charms and amulets the king had given her to keep monsters away, and thought about where she was walking.
“If there is a troll or an ogre in this forest,” she told herself, “It would know right where to look for a traveler like you: right on this road. Maybe it would be better to walk next to the path, and hide among the trees.”
But were the trees something to hide in, or hide from? She blinked at the dusty branches above her. Were those all dead leaves, or did some of the branches have teeth?
She wrinkled her nose, and stepped off the path. Nothing bit her.
Always glancing back at the path, Dimity took a few steps into the grove. Alarming sounds of something rustling among the dead leaves made her stop. When the sound stopped, she realized it was the noise of her own feet moving through the clutter on the forest floor. She moved on.
Every ten steps, though, she paused to listen, to look back at the path, and to make a little line on her map. “Maybe you’ll be the first person to explore a safe way through this wretched old forest,” she told herself. “Not that anyone would want to know: there isn’t much to see. Oh!”
She had stubbed her toe again. This time, instead of a wooden horse trough, she had stubbed it against something made of stone. Brushing away dead leaves, Dimity found a statue of a squirrel. It had been lying on the ground for a long time, apparently, and had broken off a leg and part of its nose when it fell.
“Not bad,” she said, scraping away a little dirt from behind one ear. “Kind of cute, really.” She marked it on her map and started to move on. But something rustled that was not any foot of hers. The sound was followed by a thud.
Looking around her, Dimity spotted another squirrel statue she had not seen when she was cleaning the first one. This one was still sitting up. Its nose, though, looked just as bad as the one on the fallen squirrel.
Dimity looked from one statue to the other. “Oh!” she said again.
The first statue was gone. Dimity realized it was still around, though. There was no second squirrel statue. The first one had simply decided to sit up after the princess had decided to move on.
When the squirrel decided to walk forward, then, Dimity began to walk backward. That big stone tail waved back and forth. The squirrel moved faster. Dimity backtracked faster, glancing behind her but quickly returning her gaze to the squirrel statue.
“I hope I didn’t disturb your nap, Friend Squirrel, brushing away those leaves,” she said. The squirrel said nothing.
Even as she ran, Dimity wondered A) where she was running, and B) what she was afraid of. “It’s only a squirrel, right?” she told herself. “Nothing but a big stone squirrel in a haunted forest. Why, it might even be friendly!”
She studied the squirrel, trying to smile in a cheerful way. Its eyes were glowing red now. Dimity kept running.
This was dangerous in such uncertain light. One foot caught under a root and Dimity rtumbled toes over top. Her head bounced against a tree trunk, dropping dust and dead leaves on her. She grabbed the trunk to pull herself up the rough bark. When she looked down, the squirrel appeared to be smiling.
“Squirrels climb trees,” she told herself, and reached into her pocket for an amulet or charm.
With a leap and a lurch, the squirrel came on, not as fast as real squirrel, perhaps, because of its chipped feet, but faster than a princess. Dimity, with no time to choose a charm, drew out a crystal key on a silver chain. She dropped this over the squirrel’s head so it hung round the stone neck.
A snarl turned into a hiss, and the squirrel tipped over, lost in a pile of leaves.
Dimity kept her eyes on the pile of leaves, listening for rustles, watching for something else to happen. Nothing moved until she let herself down the trunk and set her feet on the ground again Neither tooth nor claw came out of the leaves. Dimity decided not to reclaim her crystal key.
Backing her way around the tree and away from where she was sure the stone squirrel was lying, she started off again, dry, dusty, but cheerful, too. “There! You’ve had a bit of an adventure without help from Mom or Dad, or any prince, too.”
Once she felt far enough away to feel comfortable, she sketched the squirrel onto her map, and ate a little of the bread and cheese she’d brought along. This was refreshing, if not as good as a nap might have been, and she was able to walk on for another hour or so without noticing anything new about the glum, grey grove. When she did notice something, it was the last thing she had expected.
The path she had been keeping an eye on as she walked went straight on, but here a second path branched away from it.
“No one makes paths except to go somewhere. Who has anyplace to go in this place except out?”
Setting one hand on one hip, she considered both paths, the one she had been following east, and this new one which turned north. East, if her map was anything like correct, would be the quickest way out of the forest; this northward path might involve days and days of travel to noplace in particular. Or someplace unpleasant. She shrugged. OR hidden treasure tucked away here for the first person brave enough to find it. Trolls, treasures, ogres, or princes: anything might be waiting.
“So what do you want?” she asked herself. “A short, easy road to sunlight, or a long, dusty one with trolls and treasure?”
She jumped and looked around when she heard a faint voice say, “This way.”
Her eyes went back in the direction of the treacherous squirrel statue first, but the voices—she heard several now—were coming from the other direction, from the east, and under the voices was the definite sound of hoofbeats. She hurried to the side of the path that went east, taking up a position behind a tree to spot any trolls or treasure coming her way.
Treasure seemed more likely. The man riding at the front of the group was so good-looking Dimity wondered at first if it was the sun himself, coming down to walk in the shade. Her eyes slid quickly past a man riding in the first man’s shade, carrying a helmet, to what she thought at first was someone’s prize bull being transported in a wagon. But this was really a third man, with more muscles than she’d seen on one human being before. Were these three human?
The four horses were good ones: Dimity had spent time enough in the stables to recognize that. The men wore armor that was expensive, and highly polished. No doubt they were knights, and important ones at that. And they were obviously looking for adventure, much as she was, for when the man in the lead spotted the fork in the road, he stopped, frowning, much as she had.
“That’s the short way,” said the man riding in the first man’s shadow. He raised a hand to point out the path Dimity had followed this far.
“Ohm I can see that,” said the man in front. The voices of the two men were very similar, and their accent was that of the east. “You don’t need to be the wisest prince in the world to see that. But do we want the shortest way?”
The horses had kicked up a lot of dust along the path. Dimity was finding it hard not to….
“The story checks out, sir. That was definitely William D. Orcutt walking into the bar and not coming out again.”
“Three weeks after he was murdered. A week after his burial. And how was he dressed?”
“Just like the rest, sir, down to the dirk and sporran.”
“That’s eight murder victims now who made appearances in Highland dress, only to vanish somehow before they could be questioned.”
“He failed to recognize his brother, and ordered a drink far stronger than any his brother could remember him drinking. That fits with the personality changes seen with the others.”
“And our precautions? Everyone was in place?”
“Yes, Captain. All the exits were under surveillance.”
“Except, perhaps…the chimney, Captain.”
“Well, Mr. Holmes! Er, who let you into my office?”
“You know my methods, Captain. I have the killer downstairs. Watson is holding him in the hearse with holy water and haggis laced with garlic.”
“And who is it, Mr. Holmes?”
“The original owner of the land on which the pub was built, Captain. No less than the fourth Earl of Umner, who died in 1715, and was thought to be resting quietly in the family crypt. He is, as you have no doubt deduced, a vampire.”
“A vampire! And a Scottish one! But what was he trying to do?”
“He sought no less than a return to what he considered the golden days of his youth, the seventeenth century. Killing modern pubgoers, he could force their reanimated bodies to be possessed by other noblemen of his time and temperament.”
“You’ve uncovered a vampire conspirator which turned modern men into dead Highlanders?”
“And have brought the culprit to you, Captain. You may now take credit for the apprehension of your first serial kilter.”
I am aware that you do not come flocking to this column to read about ME. Yu come here to learn about my latest research into unsuspected naughty jokes in Edwardian postcards, to learn what new fishing gags I have found on postcards of mid-century, and to share what I have discovered about such culinary treasures as lard sandwiches or bread-and-dripping. (Though this is NOT a food blog.)
But it occurred to me that you probably read my blogs and what I have written on other websites about the postcards I sell there. You may have found the not-terribly-well-hidden site where you can listen to my poetry, my examples of bygone humor, and even, in someone else’s space, those of my short stories which have been performed by an excellent voice actor.
And in all of this, there is still one thing missing. “Is there NOWHERE we can go to escape Uncle Blogsy?”
Well, if you are ever sitting around counting your blessings, I will provide you with a few more. There have, believe it or else, been editors who unwise enough to send me invitations to write something for them. And though I was willing, events intervened to make sure my contributions were left by the wayside, cutting short what MIGHT have been a whole nother career.
Once upon a time, when cable was new and full of promise, there was something called the Cartoon Network, which advertised itself as All-Toon. Even commercials would be animated only, and there would be no live-action announcers or hosts. This was a promising offer, but the new network also began populated almost entirely by Hanna-Barbera cartoons and the occasional Looney Tunes hour. The world, it seemed, had not really been encouraging young animators, so there weren’t many.
To supply the demand for something new, Cartoon Network sent out calls to writers and artists to create ideas for cartoon series. I busied myself with “Wheels For Brains”, a series about a bicycle messenger. His first adventure involved an errand for an aging terrorist who forgot which bag had the bomb in it and which had his payoff money. It was filled with narrow escapes which only you, the audience, would have realized were complete mistakes. But as I was reaching a point at which I could send out the script, a bomb got left at a building in Oklahoma City, and suddenly my plot was no longer suitable for children. Wheels For Brains never appeared, and you had to make do with stuff like Dexter’s Laboratory and Johnny Bravo and like that.
It was not my first failure in the cartoon world. Some years before, I had a note from Gold Key Comics, which was looking for writers for the company’s many comic books based on cartoon characters, particularly Bugs Bunny. I knew I was the one for the job (I had just sold two jokes to Joan Rivers, whose style was not that far off from the Rascally Rabbit’s.) I would need to think up something in the way of plots, but, spotting Bjo Trimble’s Star Trek Concordance on the shelf, I had my inspiration. I had taken fairy tales and turned them into fantasy adventures: why not adapt Captain Kirk’s journeys for the encounters of Bugs? (THEIR styles are not that far apart, either.) Substitute Yosemite Sam for a Klingon captain, and the rest would be clear. Not that these would be set in outer space, Duck Dodgers style. Bugs’s rabbithole would take the place of the Enterprise. Carrots would serve for dilithium crystals, and Elmer Fudd would be useful to take the place of any passing Gorn or Romulan.
Alas, before I got far with THAT project, Gold Key announced they had decided instead to shut down most of their comic book line, so a story like, say, “The Twouble With Twibbles” never happened.
The Dungeons & Dragons folks, TSR, starting up a line of fantasy romances for preteen girls, sent me TWO invitations to submit something to this choose-your-own-ending series. I was warned to keep physical contact to a level suitable for younger readers, limiting the erotic to a “tingling sensation” during a first kiss. I actually completed a book for them, in which my heroine felt a tingling sensation when one of the boys kissed her because he was wearing poisoned lipstick to stop her quest. They passed on this, and, in the end, the series lasted only eight books.
There are more—the second story in a series of three linked science fiction tales based on the human body (I was to be “Torso” but I had to wait for another writer to finish “Head”), the routines for A Prairie Home Companion (this invitation came just a month or so before Garrison Keillor’s first retirement, so the call, like the one from Bugs Bunny, became inert)—but you can’t read any more anyhow, from the tears welling up in your eyes. I will cheer you with a thought suitable, perhaps, for all the upcoming holidays. I sold this to a greeting card company which begged for more, suggesting a career in THAT business.
[Front of card] “I would have sent you some actual cash in this card but I knew you didn’t want to make this festive season a mere occasion for financial gain.” [inside of card] “And my dad said those philosophy courses were a bad investment.” (Er, this greeting card company’s distributor burned down before the card could be printed. You dodged ANOTHER bullet. Go buy a lottery ticket.)
All the people came out to wave as the three princes rode away from home. The princes waved back, even though, as Prince Alain whispered to his brothers, “I get so tired of all those people coming around to look at my face all the time.”
Prince Archels looked at the women who just happened to be drying their hair in the breeze right along the road they had chosen to take. “I know,” he said. “It is such a bore how so many of them want to run up and feel my muscles.”
Prince Affretz simply waved. Since he was wearing armor, he could also wear his helmet, with the visor down. No one could see his face and cry out about how ugly he was, so he felt this adventure was already turning out to be a good time.
All that day and the next. The boys rode on, taking turns sleeping in the wagon, stopping now and again to eat and let the horses rest. Whether they were riding or eating, they spoke of little besides what they would do when they came to that silent castle surrounded by the gigantic thorn bush.
“You don’t need to be the smartest prince in the world to see we’re going to do something important,” Prince Alain told his brothers.
“It will be a fine story one day,” agreed Prince Archels. “We must prevail, since we are the best there is at what we do.”
“We may have things to do soon,” said Prince Affretz, who was studying a map. (He loved maps. “I can’t help being ugly,” he would say, “But I can help not knowing where I’m going.”) “We’re nearly out of our own country.”
They were, in truth, out of the lands they knew, since their progress had been steady. This meant they were also moving out of territory where everyone recognized them. The shields they carried did not show their names or coats of arms, for fear that any monster who heard THEY were coming would simply run away.
“I’d hate to miss out on an adventure just because I’m a famous prince,” is how Prince Alain felt about it.
Not long after midday on the second day, they reached a small, sleepy village. They had already agreed to go around villages when they could, so people would not be falling in love with Prince Alain or challenge Prince Archels to arm wrestle. They could have worn their helmets, like Prince Affretz, but the weather was warm. They could have had Affretz go without his helmet, and scare off everyone, but he was asleep in the wagon, it being his turn for a nap.
They had nearly passed the last buildings of the village when a voice called “Hello, my good fellows! Have you any food to spare?”
The princes looked around and found an old man sitting on a wall. He was a wild-looking creature, with a fuzzy frenzy of white hair and beard all around his face. A blue polka dot stocking cap sat on his head, and he wore peacock blue slippers which curled at the tip. Between hat and slippers came a pair of striped pink trousers, a yellow checkered sweater, a bright green shirt, and white gloves with holes in them.
:You look like good young fellows,” he called, in a voice very big for such a small body. “Prices, no doubt. Surely you can spare a bit for a man who hasn’t eaten lunch since Kwaimor Mountain was an anthill!”
“No!” Prince Archels was annoyed by the rude demand, and also by the man’s guess that he was a prince, when they had finally gotten away from all the people who knew them. “We don’t know how far we have to go and may need all our food to get there.”
“Go shout at someone else,” Prince Lain suggested. “Maybe they’ll feed you to keep you quiet.”
The princes rode on, but they had not gone far when Prince Affretz sat up in the wagon. What time is it?” he asked. “Were you talking to someone just now?”
“Go back to sleep,” said Prince Alain. “You have hours to go before your turn’s done.”
“It was a noisy old beggar who wanted food,” his other brother told me, “And shouted about us being princes. Go back to sleep. We’ll wake you if anything important happens.”
“Wait now,” prince Affretz replied. “Did you give him any food? Beggars sometimes know a lot about the countryside, and know where the dangers are.
Archels frowned. “I’ve read books on this part of the world,” he said, “And we’re not near anything dangerous according to them. But it’s true we haven’t been here before. The old beggar might know something.”
“Not he,” said Alain. “Did you look at his clothes? No one who looks like that knows much of anything.”
“But we won’t know unless we ask,” said Prince Affretz.
In the end, the princes turned and went back. The old man was still on the wall, and didn’t look the least surprised to see them. Prince Affretz climbed down from the wagon and took the old man a roast beef sandwich. He didn’t like to do this. When he was riding his horse or sitting in the wagon, no one could see him limp. But the sandwiches were in the wagon, so this was the easiest way to do things.
“Sorry if we were rude, old beggar,” said Prince Alain. “Can you tell us anything about the road ahead?”
The old man, biting into the sandwich, nodded his head. The princes waited until he had chewed the first bite, and learned “It has rocks in it.”
The princes awaited, not really sue if he meant the road or the sandwich. Then Prince Archels said, “In return for the food, which we didn’t have to give you, you know, we’d like to know something about what lies ahead of us.”
“Oh,” said the old man. He swallowed another bite of sandwich and then said, “Naps are good for people. Flowers aren’t always a nice present. If you ignore your problems, they’ll go away sometimes.”
“Ah yes,” said Alain. “Thank you very much.”
“You have been heaps of help,” said Archels. And, grumbling, the princes rode away.
Affretz was disappointed about how this all had turned out. They had not gone quite a mile when he called to his brothers, “You know, I don’t believe that old man is smart enough to know to throw that sandwich wrapper in the trash. It has our royal seal on it, and people might figure out we passed this way. I’ll just go back and remind him not to leave it lying on the ground.”
“You’d be better off sleeping,” said Archels, shrugging. We have to take care of ourselves so we’re ready to face dangers. But if you don’t want to take that nap your wise old friend suggested, go on back and catch up with us when you’re done.”
Affretz, putting on his helmet so he didn’t scare the old man and taking his shield, so he could hde a piece of chocolate cake behind it, limped back to the old man on the wall. He didn’t like to mention that in the books he’d read, beggars by the wayside often turned out to be fairies in disguise. (None of the brothers, due to their history, necessarily thought fairies were a good thing.) When he found the strange old man still sitting on the wall, he handed him the chocolate cake and whispered, “Did what you said mean something? Or were you just talking?”
The beggar looked at the prince for a moment and then said, “Never drop a friend.”
“I won’t,” said the prince. “But why not?”
The old man’s eyes opened wide, and he looked up and down the road before whispering back, “It might hurt.”
This seemed to be about as much help as the old man was planning to be. Affretz thanked him and picked up the sandwich wrapper, which did NOT have a royal seal on it, murmuring, “I can’t help being ugly. But I can help being untidy.” Then he hobbled off to rejoin his brothers.
He found them at the top of a hill, looking down into a valley. “I’ve never read of such a thing,” Archels was saying.
“I’ve never even dreamed of such a thing,” said Alain.
“What is it?” asked Affretz, coming up beside them. Then he stared too.
The valley was filled with red flowers waving in the wind. No person, no tree, no stream, showed among the blossoms, just a tiny yellow streak which showed where the roadway passed through.
“Such perfume!” Affretz exclaimed, as they all started downhill. “It must be from the flowers.”
“Of course!” said Archels. “You don’t need to be the wisest prince in the world to know that.” He yawned.
Affretz yawned, too, since he was missing his nap. He wondered why his brothers were both yawning as well.
“Maybe it’s a trap!” he said. “This might be what the old man meant about flowers!”
Prince Alain pulled his horse to a stop. The horse yawned. “Of course!” said Archels. “I know what these are! They’re magic sleeping poppies. The perfume can put you to sleep forever if you breathe in too much of it!”
“We’ll never make it through,” yawned Affretz. “We’d better go back and go around.”
“They’re only flowers,” said Alain. “Take it in a run and we’ll get through in no time.” He charged forward, pushing poppies left and right. After eight strides, his horse stumbled and fell. The horse and Alain disappeared among the blossoms and did not get up.
Archels jumped down from his horse and peered down the roadway. “We must rescue Alain or he’ll sleep forever,” he yawned. “But how? The ancients, I’ve read, killed such poppies with snow.”
“We don’t have any snow,” Affretz told him, covering his mouth as he yawned again.
“I know, I know,” said his brother, with another yawn. “I’;m sure there’s another way. I just have to sit for a second and think what it is.”
“Good idea,” said Affretz.
“Sknerf,” said Archels, falling backward with his eyes shut.
This seemed very sensible to Affretz. If they all just slept on it, they’d surely cone up with an idea. Anyway, it was his turn to sleep, not theirs. The weather was warm, and the air was a bit sticky. He fumbled with his canteen for a drink of water.
To drink, he had to raise his visor. The poppies nearest him trembled. “Oh,” said Afretz, as an idea came to him.
Hooking his canteen to his belt again, he then reached up to remove his helmet. He sighed, just before he lifted it off.
Then, with a cry of “Yarrrrrrh!” he scowled his fiercest scowl down into the valley.
Such an ugly expression on such an ugly face was effective. Every single flower in the valley collapsed at once.
Unhooking his canteen again, he tossed water on his brothers and then on the face of the horses. “Oh, very good!” said Alain, after Affretz had explained. “That’s why we all three came on this adventure, so there would always be one of us to rescue the other two.”
“I didn’t think you’d be the first to do the rescuing,” said Archels, “But we’ll listen if you think of anything else the old man says that might make sense.”
“Glad to help,” said Affretz. “I can’t help being ugly, but I can help being useless.”
Mounting their horses, the brothers rode through the valley as quickly as they could. At the very edge, Affretz saw one poppy which had not wilted. He wondered if he should take it along, in case they met some monster which needed to be put to sleep. He decided not to bother. It would just be one more thing to carry.
Meanwhile, Alain and Archels were looking at something far worse than a valley filled with flowers. “If anyone ever wanted to look at the ugliest forest in the world,” said Alain, “I think this would be the best place for them to go.”
“This is known as the Forest of Dreary Dreams,” said Archels. “Most people stay away while they’re awake and come here only in their nightmares. No one knows if there is a horrible monster in the center or not, for no one who went in has ever come out.”
“That sounds like the sort of thing we rode out to see,” said Affretz. His brothers agreed.
The fact that fashions change is one of the surest rules of nature. Coming in a close second to THAT rule is the rule that we will laugh at the fashions which have passed. (And I think third place is that we all deny that we will ever laugh about what we’re wearing NOW. This says something about us, but why fight it as long as it gives us something to blog about.)
Today we are not going to consider such issues as the changing lengths of hems (as at the top of this column) and what years a handlebar mustache was the mark of a fashionable man. I thought we might look at some fashions of the past which make people today heave a sigh of relief at having missed THAT style. For example the slit skirt seen here could, with modification, has made numerous comebacks, and that absurd little handbag never really went OUR of style among some people. But the fashion which required an entire bird wing fixed to each side of a hat (and yes, they did use real bird wings) went south a long time ago and would cause too many shudders ever to migrate back into style. (I hope. That any prediction of future fashion will prove wrong is ANOTHER major rule of life.)
We have already blogged about the high starched detachable collar, a fashion so cursed by the wearers even when it was expected in daily life that its demise was mourned by no one (except possibly the makers of collar buttons.)
Yes, the foundation garment has never quite left us. But at least the fashions which decreed that every woman (and many men) simply HAD to wear one have slipped away.
And most of the figure-shaping undies of today are designed to be easier to put on, so that the corset lace beloved of no one but cartoonists and certain lingerie lovers have largely gone the way of the collar button.
We also, nowadays, would member put up with the walking stick, a feature of so many photos and drawings of men of the past that we stop seeing them after a while. Notice how fashionable this young man is, with his high collar, his spats, and his monocle. We may one day SEE detachable collars make a comeback, and even spats, while the monocle has never gone away in some circles. But that walking stick is NOT going to come back. We like our hands FREE (for holding our phone.)
I think the same thing applies to the parasol. (Look over at THIS young man, by the way. Was the pocket watch just a distant ancestor of the phones of today? I think so, but really, that’s a whole nother blog.)
The parasol does have its place in modern fashion, but like the monocle, it looks out of place as the bearer walks along a crowded street. Parasols are limited to photo shoots, or events where a person has the leisure to twirl (kind of like the handlebar mustache.)
And the hatpins you have probably noticed in this and the previous postcard are also largely gone, except as things you turn up at a flea market and say “What the heck is THIS for?” Maybe women don’t wear hats the way they once did, or maybe they don’t wear hair that would hold onto a hatpin, or maybe they’ve just found a better way to handle the whole problem. (Anyway, don’t you have to let that hat blow off anyhow if you’re planning a Meet Cute for your rom-com?)
Men as well as women wore shoes that buttoned way, way up, one of the reasons the buttonhook was invented. The only current use of a button hook is for people to find it at a flea market and mistake it for a hatpin. These buttons way down near the floor added extra complexity to getting dressed and undressed every day.
As, of course, did the long johns with the buttoned trap door at the back. These, also, can still be purchased, but most people just turn up the thermostat instead. And gone from most of modern civilization is the custom of being sewn into your flannels at the first frost and not being able to take them off again until the world thawed out months later. You may think the usual jokes about keeping your trap shut would mean this column has come to the end.
But nay, I say thee. Linger just long enough to consider that before the snap and the zipper were invented pants were secured with buttons. (Remark also on the spots for attaching your suspenders.) In fact, before the invention of elastic, underpants needed that same array of buttons. This allows me to revive an obsolete advertising slogan of the 1930s, when the first boxer shorts with a popular brand of snap closures hit the market. The man in the ad proudly announced, “I don’t need a wife! I wear shorts with Grippers!”
See what I mean about the relief at changing fashions? Until now, you’ve been able to avoid THAT.
Ah, the Interwebs are a wonderful place to spend an afternoon. You think you are looking up something, and find you have gone down another rabbit hole. This, of course, can happen in any style of research: print, audio, video, or digital. But out here in the Interwebs it is not only possible but even common, to find you are coming up out of an entirely different rabbit hole than the one you THOUGHT you were exploring.
Maybe I should have used the phrase “fishing hole” instead, since I was actually trying to find out where and when people say “tunafish” instead of merely “tuna”. And while I was at it I would find out why one of my favorite authors declined to use either term, preferring “tunny” instead.
But that hardly became even a shallow rabbit hole. Some people, not all of them, refer to “tuna” when it is swimming or when it is hauled aboard a boat, and use “tunafish” ONLY for tuna which comes out of a can. Hence you will find tunafish sandwiches and tunafish salad (if you hang out with those sorts of people) but never see a tunafish swimming in the wild. Tunny, it seems, is used mainly to refer to a specific species of tuna which is used primarily for oil instead of food. Why my hero insisted on using it may simply reflect his upbringing.
But as long as I was involved in fishy pursuits, I thought I’d just check on why some people say “anchovy” and some people say “anchuvvy”. This, too, was hardly even a detour. The online experts say the first is the American pronunciation and the second is the British. No puzzle, really. Then I thought I’d inquire why anchovies are used mainly on pizzas and sardines are seen in sandwiches, if at all. Are they really the same thing, like tangerines and Mandarin oranges?
NOW I was stepping into an area where dozens of experts want to explain your error. Before I knew it, I was swimming in a sea of anchovies, sardines, pilchards, and sprats. I had failed to mention before I went in that I objected to being seated in the sprat section, and there I was.
But it was a learning experience, especially for someone who has eaten anchovies exactly once, and has never even been offered sardines, pilchards, or sprats. With all of these, we are dealing with small oily species of herring. But assuming all herring are alike is like going to Chicago assuming everyone is a Cubs fan (good luck getting out of certain bars in one piece if you make THAT mistake.)
One website insisted that sardines are from the Mediterranean Sea while sardines come from the Atlantic Ocean. Another was just as determined to tell me that sardines come from the EASTERN Atlantic and anchovies from the WESTERN Atlantic. (They may have been mixing up their anchovies and pilchards.) A third website seemed to be on firmer ground (water?) by explaining that sardines are a lighter color: especially after they are canned, anchovies are much darker. But then they spoiled it by explaining to me about “white anchovies”, which throws off the whole explanation. Anyhow they also pointed out that sardines are usually canned in one piece, while anchovies are sliced into filets (though how the fishermen tell which is which, then, eludes me.)
Pursuing that line, however, several experts pointed out that the sardine has a more delicate, complex flavor, somewhat buttery, while anchovies are saltier and fishier. Several cooking sites suggested we CAN substitute anchovies for sardines in a recipe as long as we know to use fewer anchovies, But one epicure insisted this will NOT do, and suggested tuna (or tunafish, if you have to open a can) as a substitute for sardines.
If you are interested, they went on to say that pilchards are much fishier and saltier than sardines, and went on to explain the difference between the two species by pointing out that pilchards average about three centimeters longer than sardines, and are known by the scientific names “Sardina pilchardis”, while sardines are known by the scientific name “Sardina pilchardis” (yeah, I’m still working that one out. Beats having to take a ruler into the kitchen and measure fish.) I think the fact that you can go online and buy cans of “pilchard sardines” kind of gives the game away.
Anyhow, they ARE unanimous that anchovies and sardines are distant cousins, not twins, and that the Interwebs sees them primarily as SALAD ingredients rather than something for snacks, sandwiches, or pizza toppings. On the way, I also picked up the incredible information that “The lard sandwich is a popular dish in many regions of the United States and it is a favorite among people who enjoy eating lard.” Ours is a world filled with wonders.
Blogsy Babbles 