Monday, August 03, 2015

Come On Apple - Get Up To Date!

I have had my Apple Watch for a couple of months now and I have to say that I am quite satisfied with it. For me - and for my deaf ears - its most important function is to alert me - with a playful nudge - when my phone rings, but it also has a full repertoire of songs, dances, jokes and other associated apps as you would expect from any Apple product. But there is one shortcoming which I hope will be corrected when the new WatchOS2 operating system is released later this year: it can't tell decimal time!


I have been a ardent believer in decimal (or metric) time for many years and I wrote a blogpost about it back in December 2008 ("It's 4.3170 In The Morning"). Since then I have changed my desktop computer to a Mac and had no difficulty in getting a metric clock app for it, fallen in love with the iPhone, and had no difficulty in getting a metric clock app for it, but getting such an app for the most obvious platforms of the all - the Apple Watch - appears impossible (I did find one which half promised it but merely told my the date based on the French Revolutionary calendar. 

Now I can hear you all asking (even though it is only 45.26 centidays), what possible use is a clock that 99.999999% of humanity doesn't recognise (nay, haven't even heard of)? Surely being a follower of a time system that divides a day into 100 equal parts (centidays) each of which is composed of ten decimal minutes, each of which is made up of 100 decimal seconds, will result in you being out of step (indeed, out of time) with everyone else? Indeed it will, I answer, but so what! For years now I have increasingly come to the conclusion that I am a little different (OK, I will accept a little strange) so why not make a virtue of it and inhabit my own little time zone where I go to bed at 05.452 and crawl out of bed at 36.742. But in order to meet that latter target I need to be able to count on my Apple Watch to wake me up at the right time; and to do that it needs to be able to think decimally. Surely for a piece of kit which can tell me the temperature in Vancouver and the fact that I have just lost The Lad's inheritance on the Chinese Stock Exchange, it is not asking for too much. So, come on Apple, get up to date.

Sunday, August 02, 2015

A Slack Sunday Morning Post From Ephemera Burnett


There is a name for people like me: or so it would appear if eBay is to be believed. It is obviously a slack Sunday morning for the on-line auction site so it sent me a focused email pointing out some upcoming bargains in areas I have been active in - and those areas are as a "collector of ephemera". This obviously sent me straight to the Dictionary to double-check the exact meaning of "ephemera" ("a thing that exists or is used for only a short time"), and reassured that it was nothing too embarrassing, I decided to embrace the description and even considered incorporating it into my name - Alan Ephemera Burnett has a superior ring to it. I shall ignore for the moment (although I might later return to this on some slack Sunday morning in the future) the fact that the bits of old paper and pasteboard I hoard and collect are remarkable for their longevity rather than their transcendental nature and focus on a my bit of Sunday morning ephemera - the receipt for the deposit paid by my father for the house he bought in 1939. It has sat in an envelope for 75 years - until I took it out and scanned it this morning - slowly gathering creases, dog-ears and history. It has soaked up a patina of economic and social significance and achieved a kind of strange beauty that Frank Shepherd would never have believed back in 1939.

Saturday, August 01, 2015

Getting A Spell From A Paper Aeroplane


I can go anywhere in my paper aeroplane. Give me an old bit of paper - be it a photograph, a postcard, a banknote, a share certificate, or the wrapper of an old tin of beans - and it has the power to transport me through time and distance with the efficiency of a TARDIS : and at a fraction of the cost.  With an old bit of paper and a half-decent scanner you can find stories, mysteries, tragedies, and endless beauty. It is more than appropriate, therefore, for this paean to paper to highlight an old share certificate for the West Virginia Pulp and Paper Company.


As you can see the share certificate was issued to the Altoona Hospital in Pennsylvania and the journey it went on to get from their corporate safe to my paper-loving hands must wait for another day (and until the statute of limitations has been exceeded).  Today I just want to focus on the share certificate as art and note, in passing, that whilst curvaceous blonds sitting astride globes are common stock for the common stock of many a corporate giant, a pulp and paper company demands something more rugged and masculine. However, I feel it important to warn my readers not to try lifting tree trunks dressed like this at home - you might find that you get a nasty spell in your shoulder.

Friday, July 31, 2015

Sepia Saturday 290 : On The Boardwalk With Grandma Kate


To the best of my knowledge my grandmother, Kate Beanland, never went to Ostend; and I can pronounce with an even greater degree of certainty that she never stayed at the Hotel Ostend in Atlantic City. It would therefore be a perfectly reasonable question to ask why, given that the prompt for Sepia Saturday 290 features the said hotel in all its wooden glory, am I sharing a Victorian portrait of my mothers' mother. The answer is that the rules of Sepia Saturday allow the most relaxed interpretation of what passes for a weekly theme (I know they do because I made them up) and this week I am going to embrace thematic relaxation in the company of a lady I can only just remember.
Catherine "Kate" Kellam was born in the village of Morcott in Rutland in 1877, the second daughter of a strangely itinerant grocer, Albert Kellam. The family moved to South Wales where her father died when Kate was just 13 and later to Middlesborough in the North East of England. By means that are uncertain in fact and clouded in family rumour, she ended up working as a barmaid in Keighley at the turn of the century and it was there, in the best Beanland traditions, that she met my grandfather (yet another of those endless Alberts).

She lived the rest of her life in Keighley and Bradford and died in 1960 when I was twelve. I remember going to see her (she lived with my mothers' sister Amy and her husband) and recall a little old lady with false teeth and spectacles who smelt vaguely of camphor balls. The image is a hundred miles from the rather pretty young woman in my main photograph and a thousand miles away from the exotic sophistication of the Hotel Ostend in Atlantic City. 

But it doesn't take much effort to start constructing connections. Where did Albert Beanland meet is wife to be other than in the King's Head Hotel in Keighley: so that means we have a hotel connection straight away. The hotel might not have been in America, but take a look at the studio where Kate's portrait was taken and you have the grandly named "American Art Studio" of Mr J Lister.

But it is the design of the reverse of the studio portrait and the advert for the Hotel Ostend that is my favourite connection - that harmony of design, typography and line drawing that is such a feature of the period - whichever side of the Atlantic Ocean you happened to be on.

Kate Beanland may not have been to Atlantic City in her lifetime, but - in my mind - she is accompanying me there now. Her camphor balls and wire spectacles have been left behind and she is as beautiful as she was when she was 23. We walk along the boardwalk, tasting the salty spray of the Atlantic waves. People speak in strange and exotic accents and we are thousands of miles from the woollen mills of Yorkshire. We sit for a second, leaning against two lamp-posts on the sea wall and look back at the Hotel Ostend and think, "what a strange world this Sepia Saturday allows us to inhabit".

If you would like to investigate even more of the strange world of Sepia Saturday then go along to the Sepia Saturday Blog and follow the links.





Thursday, July 30, 2015

Going To A Funeral With An Ormolu Gas Mantle


I was browsing through an old copy of the Dublin Evening Packet yesterday - as one does - when I came across a group of adverts that brought home to me the pace of economic and social change. The adverts in question were the first four listed on the front page of the paper and therefore we can assume provide a representative sample of the type of economic activity that was taking place 150 years ago. But like my Fancy Draper of the other day, these old occupations have been swept aside by the march of technology, washed over the waterfall of antiquity in the great Amazon jungle.

J D'Arcy Scrivener can no longer find employment copying out legal documents carefully and promptly, his efforts, his services and his enterprise having been flattened under the office photocopier. What nobility, clergy and gentry that are left (and considering recent goings-on in the House of Lords, that's very few), no longer need to make an appointment with Joseph Lennan of Dame Street to inspect his first-class saddles, harnesses and horses. They will not be buying a double Brougham from Robert Grady, making do with a Toyota Yaris instead. And neither Mr Gregg nor his son will sell many gas brackets or pendants - either in ormolu or prismatic crystal - this season.



Even if we go back just 100 or so years, we are still dealing with a very different society. An advert in the Yorkshire Post caught my eye (I really must have a word with the newsagent, the papers seem to be delivered later and later) for a splendid outpost of Victorian propriety - the Leeds Mourning Warehouse. It would appear that when your Auntie Betty finally pops her clogs all you need to do is to send a telegram to Frederick Forster and his response will be immediate: not with sympathy, nor a coffin - but with a new mourning suit for your butler.


Mourning was not something to be taken lightly (or cheaply) back in the Victorian age. Intrigued by the idea of a Leeds Mourning Warehouse, I did an online search and discovered this receipt - "for ready money" - for a variety of mourning goods I can't quite interpret. Let us hope that when the time came to read Auntie Betty's will, the expenditure of two pounds eighteen shillings and threepence was worth it.

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

The Steep Streets Of Bradford And An Iced Bun


This morning, the rain clouds took a couple of hours off from their depressing task of drowning the entire population of the north of England, so I caught a bus to Bradford and went for a walk. I was in search of hills to walk up and down : my watch demands such things so that it can record my activity levels. If I manage to meet the targets it sets me I can reward myself with a pint of beer and an iced bun. One of the streets I managed to pull my aching body up was the eponymously named Burnett Street, the kind of grand, steep street that Bradford does so well.


The second of my Steep Streets of Bradford is Queensgate, another of those cobbled hills that dissect fine sandstone terraces. At one time it would be the home of wool merchants, grocers and provisioners - but now it hosts a slot machine arcade. I avoided calling in for a flutter, deciding that I would be better to press onwards, achieve my exercise goal, and buy an iced bun.

Politics And The Co-op Brass Band

I went to the Royal Armouries in Leeds last night listen to Andy Burnham, one of the four candidates in the current Labour Party leadership campaign. Given that the contest now seems to be coming to life (American readers can think of it as a kind of Primary contest in order to pick the person who will lead Labour for the 2020 General Election), the venue for the meeting might have been rather suitable.

As I listened to him calling for a revival of the spirit of 1945 (and that great, reforming post-war Labour government) and setting out what the Labour Party should be campaigning for in the twenty-first century, I couldn't help thinking that the rather slick and media managed performance was very different to the last time I went to Leeds to listen to a Labour Party leader. That was back in 1966 - before Andy Burnham was born! - and the leader (and Prime Minister) in question was Harold Wilson. He was speaking at Leeds Town Hall and behind him were the uniformed ranks of the Co-operative Wholesale Society Brass Band. Before he came on stage they played a selection of Socialist anthems and then onto the stage strolled Harold, smoking his pipe and talking about his vision of the future. Last night there was no brass band, just a couple of Soap stars to introduce the main speaker. But Andy Burnham spoke about his vision for the future with almost Wilson-like conviction. If I get the opportunity I will go and listen to the other contenders - who knows, one of them might have brought along the Co-op Brass Band.

Monday, July 27, 2015

On The Road To The Brewery With Blanche Ring

Another of my experiments with a weekly edition of News From Nowhere; one which will grow day-by-day and track the circuitous route of my random thoughts. In this week's edition:

*  A Round Of Breweries
*  On The Road With Blanche Ring
*  Happy Birthday Gladys






A ROUND OF BREWERIES


I have always been drawn to breweries. It's not just the purpose of them, not just the smell of them, but the look of them as well. Ever since I have been old enough to hold a pint glass in one hand and a camera in another I have been taking photographs of breweries. A recent batch of negative scans threw up a couple: a round of breweries so to speak. The first photograph was taken in the North Yorkshire village of Masham and dates back to the mid 1970s. At that time it would have been the Theakston Brewery but twenty years later - following a split in the family - it would become the Black Sheep Brewery. 


The second photograph was taken some ten years later and was taken in that capital of the British brewing industry, Burton-on-Trent. Whilst Masham is rustic, Burton is on a different scale with grand towers and barrel stores. Looking at the two locations now, it is Burton - the home of the big brewers - that has suffered the most. The small-scale has prospered, the rustic has risen again.


ON THE ROAD WITH BLANCHE RING

When I was young my father had a motor scooter. Some days we would go off together, my father at the front and his ten-year old balanced on the pillion, out into the wide world to explore. The rules of this game were that we would have no destination in mind, we would go out and see where the road took us. They were some of the happiest days of my childhood.

One of the delights of being an aimless blogger is that I can  adopt the same approach to my blog: I can set off with no destination in mind, invite who I want to sit on my pillion, and see where the road takes me. And so I set out this morning with a picture postcard of Blanche Ring in my hand - a card snatched at random from a batch of old picture postcards I bought on eBay a few weeks ago. 

Blanche was an American star of the musical theatre and early Hollywood films, born in Boston in 1871 and part of a family whose links with show business went back several generations. She was lucky because her fame coincided with a series of technological innovations which was able to spread her image and her voice worldwide. She was a popular star in the first decade of the twentieth century and therefore an obvious choice for the postcard printers during that decade of picture postcard madness.

She was a singer of popular songs in the age when the gramophone was becoming a popular form of home entertainment, one of the very first of the record stars. During the early years of the twentieth century she recorded a number of hit songs - The Good Old Summertime; Bedelia; and the impressively named Come Josephine in My Flying Machine - and her 1909 recording of Yip-I-Addy-I-Aye was one of the top selling records of 1909. Here is a sample of Blanche's voice:


And by the second decade of the century, Blanche had struck it lucky again - technology had brought along moving pictures, and Blanche could certainly move. So off she went to Hollywood and starred in films with the likes of W C Fields and Bing Crosby.

Blanche was married four times but none of the marriages lasted long: "she sacrificed her home for her art", her mother once said. She was still making movies in the 1940s and she still sung occasionally until a major operation on her larynx in 1955. By then, her health had gone into decline and she had a stroke in 1959 and eventually died in a nursing home in Santa Monica in 1961, aged 89.

Until I picked that postcard up I had never heard of Blanche Ring, but now that I have shared a brief motor scooter outing with her, I feel that she is a friend. As we motor our way home, you could join in as we sing The Good Old Summertime.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY GLADYS

It would have been my mothers' 104th birthday today.  I found this old, crumbling, tissue-paper thin birth certificate in one of my Family History files and decided to scan it and save it for posterity before it crumbles into paper-dust. Think of it as my birthday card for Gladys.

Friday, July 24, 2015

Sepia Saturday 289 : Let's Not Forget The Donkey


Sepia Saturday 289 : Let's Not Forget The Donkey


It's a seasonal Sepia Saturday theme this week: a sandy beach, a salty sea and the sun beaming down. When you look back you always tend to look through sun glasses because the sun always shone when you were young, the sands were always crystalline yellow, and the sea was always warm and sparkling. And there was always a donkey. Let's not forget the donkey.

My main picture must have been taken in 1949 because the young chap on the donkey looks about a year old and I was born in 1948 (yes, it is me!). Let me introduce the other two dramatis personae: that is my brother Roger on the left, steadying the beast, and my mother, Gladys, steadying the rider. I am pleased I was able to feature Gladys in my post this week as it would have been her birthday on Sunday; she was born on the 27th July 1911. Looking at the photograph, there is a good solid Yorkshire goodness in her face and a clear pleasure at being at the seaside. She loved the seaside, and even when she was in her eighties, her face would light up at the sight of the sea and she would walk along the sands and paddle in the sea water.

It is the donkey that is the star of the show. It appears his name was Hero, an apt description for an animal who dedicated his life to carrying little children up and down Bridlington sands. All things are comparative, however: a few generations earlier and Hero's forebears were probably carting tubs full of coal deep underground. There are many worse ways to spend you days than feeling the hot sands beneath your hooves and listening to the happy chuckles of generations of toddlers.

So thank you Hero, for carrying me all those years ago, and thank you for taking me back to my childhood today. Thank you for reminding me that Yorkshire skies can be blue and the sun can occasionally shine down in this country I still call home.


Tuesday, July 21, 2015

The Day My Mind Was Hijacked By A Fancy Draper


I was walking down Commercial Street in Brighouse last night when I got hijacked: or to be more accurate, my mind got hijacked. I suppose that my mind was susceptible to seizure as my senses had been dulled by several shops displaying "To Let" signs inter-spaced with layers of Charity Shops and pawnbrokers. Only the western end of Commercial Street is faceless concrete and further down the street I was looking at one of the older buildings with its yard passage and its leaded windows and wondering what it was like 100 years ago. And that is when my mind got hijacked; a total prisoner of this thought until I had found some form of answer. My plans to write Chapter 11 of the Great Novel of the twenty-first century (*) were put on hold and I abandoned work on my 3rd concerto. Everything else now takes second place to my exploration of the history of Commercial Street, Brighouse.

All I have managed to acquire so far is a rough picture of the street based on 1911 census returns, but even this provides a fascinating window into social history in the early twentieth century. 

Number    Head of Household and Occupation
5               James Rogers, Corporation Labourer
7               Ann Thornton, Beerhouse Keeper, Royal Oak Inn
9               David Pearson,  Shopkeeper - Wine and Spirits and Confectionery
13             James Stott Atkinson, Pork Butcher
17             Frances Furness, Shopkeeper, General and Fancy Goods
19             George Henry Threapleton, Boot and Shoe Salesman
21             David Walshaw, Butcher
47             Joseph Henry Lancaster, Fish and Game Dealer
51             William Hensworth, Harness Maker
55             Ann Jane Normanton,  Widow
57             James Pilling, Beerseller,  The Ring O' Bells
59             George Henry Beard,  Manager, Grocery and Provision Shop
63             Thomas Herrod,   Butcher
67             Victor Holland, Hotel Keeper, The Wellington Hotel

2               James Dyson, Licensed Victualler and Brewer, The George Hotel
4               George Clayton,  Butcher
6               Frederick Blackburn, Hairdresser and Fancy Dealer
24             Albert Thornton, Tailor and Outfitter
26             Eva Wright, Baker and Confectioner
44             Charles Naylor, Hairdresser
46             Caroline Sykes, Greengrocer
56             James Ball, Gentleman's Clothier
62             Annie Turner, Baker
66             James Crowther, Cab Proprietor
80             Willie Aspinall, Silk Waste Dresser
84             Herbert Pearson, Refreshment House Keeper
86             Emma Stansfield,  Boot and Shoe Dealer
90             Revis Anson,  Fancy Draper
92             Benjamin Turner, House Painter
96             Annie Lizzie Cussens,  Confectioner
102           John Hodgson,  Hardware Dealer
104           Miles Knowles, House Painter and Decorator.

I accept that the above may sound like a boring list to some people, but to me it is poetry. The names are like a list of Coronation Street characters from the 1960s, and some of the occupations fit the names like a kid glove. How could Revis Anson grow up to be anything other than a fancy draper?

Those who know me will appreciate that my eyes were immediately drawn to the four pubs on the list (one of which, The George Hotel, is still in existence). That is where my search will start and we shall see where it takes us to. That is if nothing else comes along to hijack my mind in the meantime.