Plush

Two exposures do one pillow make—

They also double the fluffy kitten goodness: same kitty, two poses. The only difference is that on the front cover (right), the poor thing is missing a bit of ear because I tried to remove an annoyingly placed price sticker.

Inside this 1971 booklet, a very '70s bentwood and wicker bench is the main photo model for assorted handiwork.

I do like this other period approach, of making a Modern Design cozy—

Eat Out Often

(Enlarged): logo, Michigan Restaurant Association, from the group's 1968 publication—

Along with restaurant listings and recipes, this 66-page booklet includes a guide to state-wide travel—

Here's a closer look at the cover restaurant's bounty—

On the back cover is—

—a place that's still there, and with new, improved necessities of family fun.

The company's official history is rather funny. There's all that ancestral uprightness of founders William and Emilie Zehnder, yet—

"Prohibition was a conflict... in that alcohol, primarily beer, was part of the culture of Frankenmuth. Many businesses, including Zehnder's and Fischer's (now the Bavarian Inn) sold alcohol to the "right customers". Zehnder's and Fischer's were raided by Federal agents on July 30, 1930. William and Emilie, along with Herman and Lydia Fischer, were arrested and spent the evening in the Saginaw County Jail. Bond for the Zehnder's was set at $5,000 and $8,000 for the Fischer's.

It sure was a painful "conflict," but opportunity knocked, the competition down the street was cleaning up, etc.

As to the other establishments (with or without bootlegging history), I've searched a number of names, but haven't found any that still exist. Or, they only exist in random memorabilia posted by local history buffs.

Sure, restaurants come and go, but this guide also hints at the decline of a state with a once mighty economy. And many of the establishments were in a city that had been the 4th largest city in the country, hitting (says wiki) a population of 1.9 million in 1950.

It happens that I was finishing up these scans around the time Michigan's CEO governor was making his hostile takeover of Detroit's duly elected government.

As many problems as Detroit may have, there clearly are still public assets to be picked off.

But: back to 1968, when it was generally assumed that rising prosperity would lift all—and that was considered a good thing...

Among the departed Michigan institutions are echoes of former commercial glory: a department store that once boasted of having, after Macy's, the country's second largest square footage.

The store is long defunct, along with the services listed in its full-page ads (reduced here). Ads for store eateries—

Food and wine departments—

One-time giants aside, most ads here are for much smaller enterprises, and locals no doubt regretted those closings. After all, who doesn't want to go to a friendly place—

Considering some of Detroit's history—a couple decades before events closer to 1968, the quaint name can't help but also hint at the clientele—

Tastes in entertainment do change; one is aware that the crowds may no longer clamor for a constant supply of organists—

Movies lasted a couple more years at this location; the theater's closing may well have finished off the shop's business—

Fondly remembered by the class of 1960—

This incarnation of the building—

—was in operation from 1945 to 1976. The restaurant located there now has been kind enough to provide a little history and a post card.

A tootling train brought the goods all the way from N'awlins—

—to Ecorse—

Sophisticates could have their appetites teased at—

A couple more places evocative of days gone by—

While it's sad that none of these places have survived, the guide also featured a representative from one particular family business that I am truly delighted to see gone.

Sure, the guy's descendents have no shortage of cash and power, but as of recently, the holding public office branch of the family business is over—and dead for good (or so one can hope)—

Irresistable Objects...

... so tiny and impractical, yet so cute—

Japanese stationery store item, mid-1980s: Puchikko kurippu.

The second word, kurippu (クリップ), is simply Japanese pronunciation and written rendering of "clip."

Puchikko (ぷちっ子) isn't as easy. The basic meaning of 子 (ko) is "child," but it's also the most common ending of feminine names. (Here, the っ that comes before it doubles the "k" sound).

My dictionary shows puchi (プチ) as a Japanese version of the French word petit; used as in, puchi furo (petit fours), and, puchi buro (petit burgeois).

Despite the difference in writing puchi as プチ in katakana, normally used for words derived from other languages, vs. ぷち in hiragana, which usually renders syllables of Japanese meaning origin, it sure seems "puchi" should mean, "awfully small." In that case, puchikko kurippu might suggest something like, "junior peewee clip."

Though it also could be a proper name for the rabbit character, whose ears are adorably configured to echo the clip prongs.

As pervasive as miniaturization (and cuteness) are in Japan, this product may have been inspired by a particular one that was a big deal around the same time. Too bad I can't remember the name, but it was a miniaturized desk accessory set: a bento-inspired plastic box containing a stapler, scissors, plus a couple of other items, made in interlocking shapes to all fit inside. As I remember, it was designed by women office workers, which contributed to the novelty and amount of publicity.

That product was useable, as well as decorative, but these clips are not so practical: really too tiny to hold much of anything together.

Now, these are effective clips—

Even if "F. Cats" fit best on the surface space, it's mere shorthand for the true identity of these characters.

They are: Flying Cats, who had many amusing adventures on a mid-80s line of school supplies.

Souvenir

USSR "Beriozka Souvenirs"
— wrapping paper, early 1980s

Actually, the gift (and paper) were brought back from one of the satellites by a friend.

The cheap and tissue-y paper is crumpled, and barely legible in a scan, yet I've always liked the color—and inadvertent meaning.

Even if, for some reason, the initials remind me of going back to the office tomorrow...

Little Helper

That's an enlarged view; back of this—

A box of larger (4 and 5/8 by 2 inch) labels had room enough to include a zip, which suggests the product is from the early '60s.

Some detail, from the larger box—

The "Label House full of ideas"—

These were found recently, when cleaning a place full of... well, all kinds of stuff—after my father's death. These labels were never used, yet they were kept, like so many other things.

The company that made these must be long gone. There's no related business listing for Cheltenham, PA., and one always has to assume the company disappeared through some combination of product obsolescence and de-industrialization of Small Town, USA.

Whatever happened, I wouldn't blame this; business success has never been all that sensative to English skill...

Government Work

Here we are: on the eve of an election that follows over thirty years and and unknown millions invested in turning anti-government propaganda into mainstream narrative.

November 6 is mere days after a disaster that kind of illustrates the need for effective government.

As it happens, Sister J, the brother-in-law, and I drove west from the East Coast in time to beat the storm, just two days after the funeral of our 93-year old father. We were lucky to have plenty of warning, through FEMA alerts and local governors' advance state of emergency declarations.

We brought back family photos and whatever priority items we could get in the short time available. J is now the keeper of a World War II veteran's army memorabilia, mostly printed. There's a lot that needs to be scanned at some future time; it's fascinating material, and a reminder of how valued "government work" once was.

For now, here are a couple of items.

The letterhead is from a WWII posting for ordinance training; graphic detail is in the style of an engraving—

These are from a couple of decades later [enlarged from a 2 x 5" ticket folder]—

Oh, là là!

From the library's free cart of sale leftovers: a 1948 paperback—

Written in 1928 and first published in the U.S. nine years later, this is a comedy of life in an imaginary small town of the Beaujolais region. The plot summary—

A story marketed to "the male palate"—

The author opens with a page-long guide to the characters. The "Masterpiece of Nature" who drives the local men to desperation, and her opposite, the spiteful old maid, are among the large cast of local lovelies, merchants, functionaries, and notables. Some others are "THE CURÉ PONOSSE: A gentle priest who was filled with embarrassment by the confessions of the women of Clochemerle, a town in which the men were not inactive"; a pair of "eloquent" town gossips; "THE GIORDOT FAMILY: Of whom the less said, the better"; and so on (and on)...

Following this long (and rather tiring) list, the author adds that the action is joined by "a great assortment of excited artisans, tradesmen, winegrowers, soldiers, and politicians."

Dated as it may be, I would give this a try, if it weren't for the loose pages. ... Well, that and the moldy smell; nice art, but this is ready for re-tossing into a free pile.

The 1948 French movie version might be fun, at least as a period flick.

A fond tale about the amusing follies of the provincial cousins could have been a good source of post-war cheeriness.

Possibly cheering to the French, that is; the New York Times was offended by the movie's "feeble attempt to be witty at the cost of considerable bad taste." Said even as Bosley Crowther observed that "the picture is so extensively cut, for good and respectable reasons, that all you will now see on the screen is some rather crude French clowning in a virtually meaningless farce."

From presumably the same time is this Czech poster, with literal "bell-blackbird" rendering of the town's name.