Elephant Bank

1960s/1970s Circus Elephant Still Bank

When I stumbled across this little elephant my first reaction was: what is it? The slot in the top suggested it was some kind of bank and the penny rattling around inside was evidence I was not the only person who thought that. Yet, I turned it over several times, trying to figure out if it was part of a larger item or some kind of metal-work art project. Finally, it became clear this required further investigation – so I brought it home.

It turns out this is a cast metal 1960s/1970s reproduction of a 1920s era Still Bank, which means it’s a bank without moving parts. The original 1920s banks were manufactured by Hubley A. C. William. I have no idea who manufactured this reproduction because there’s no imprint or logo (or anything).

You’re probably thinking I got all of that off of the internet – and you would be mostly correct. A google image search for cast iron circus elephant and metal circus elephant turned up quite a few items that were very similar, thereby providing the words ‘still bank.’ This new information led me to John Marquand and his Etsy shop: The Still Bank Shop.

John’s Etsy profile invites anyone with a Still Bank question to contact him. So, I sent a photo of my little elephant and provided as many details as I thought relevant – being a complete novice in this area, I was floundering around trying to figure out what details he might need.

After sending the message, I went to work on the list of 1000s of tasks always in need of being done, assuming I’d hear back in a few days. He must have been working at his computer at the same time as myself because I get a reply in less than 15 minutes!

Here’s what he had to say: “Your bank is a modern reproduction of the elephant on the tub bank. Any old banks will have flat head screws, not Phillips head. The paint is not correct for an old bank but yours is pretty colorful! I would say it’s from the 1960’s or 70’s.”

As you can imagine, I thanked him for his amazing help! I also learned two helpful little tidbits about cast metal still banks: 1) The little screw on the side provides crucial information (who knew?) and 2) John Marquand is a really helpful guy!

What’s the moral of this story? If you ever have any questions about Still Banks, stop by The Still Bank Shop and chat with John!

If you would like your very own elephant bank, you can purchase this one at the Wild Raccoon Market or visit The Still Bank Shop for a larger selection. 🙂

Art Rescue in Blue

This post will begin with a shameless plug: I’ve created an Etsy shop! Please visit the Wild Raccoon Market and consider buying something. 🙂

Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way…

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Adora helping with the flea market booth in the late 1970s/early 1980s.

When I was a kid, my family spent large quantities of time locating sale-able items and hawking them at flea markets. It was less profitable than collecting recyclable materials (plastic, metal and glass) and selling them to recycling plants (at first) and recycling collection machines (later).

After spending many grueling, and often humiliating, childhood-hours sifting through garbage, discount bins, second-hand shops and garage sales; I entered adulthood ready to never, EVER, deal with the used-items market again. Coming from poor family, I quickly learned the new-only lifestyle is not an option available to the likes of me – no matter how hard I work, how many hours I put in or my level of education. Some of us are born into a second-hand, tossed-away world. That is reality. It does not go away. (Deal with it.)

Over the years, I learned to appreciate this aspect of my life and have come to view discarded objects as treasure troves filled with fun decor and fine art – most in need of nothing more than a careful cleaning, a new frame and (maybe) a few small repairs.

Which brings me back to the Etsy site. The reason I went with Etsy instead of eBay is because I have developed something of a talent for spotting and rescuing artwork. Some of it is truly valuable. Some of it simply appeals to me or does not belong in the garbage.

An example of rescued artwork featured in the Wild Raccoon Market is Rita Orr‘s winter trees serigraph. I found this piece in the ‘frames’ bin of a second-hand store. It was encased in (and protected by) a dreadful, heavy, scratched and chipped glass frame which was on the verge of breaking and either destroying the artwork or simply dragging the art into the local dump by virtue of association.

I really liked the painting, so I bought it with the intention of getting an icy, winter-blue, rough-wood frame and either a blue or purple mat, to go with the image. Every time I look at it, I can see the colors being drawn out by a different mat and frame.

Sadly, my finances have not allowed for the re-framing efforts. In fact, the original frame continued to deteriorate, despite it’s protected location on my wall, and had to be removed and disposed. Luckily, the artwork survived the ordeal unharmed.

Recently, I located and emailed Rita Orr, asking for confirmation – is this one of hers? She took a look at the photo I sent and replied in the affirmative. This is, indeed, one of her limited edition prints, from the 1980s. How cool is that?

I hope I can find a good home, where it will be properly respected and appreciated.

Vacation Film Viewing

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While on vacation, I attended a workshop presented by Mick Caouette of South Hill Films. The workshop consisted of viewing and discussing twp South Hills Films documentaries:

Both films were extremely well-done and a pleasure to watch.

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Mr. Civil Rights provided some fascinating insight into the strategies utilized by the legal team that established the NAACP and achieved both the integration of the school system and the elimination of Jim Crow.

Hubert H Humphrey went into the behind-the-scenes dramas that occurred while Humphrey was vice president. During his time as Vice President, this Vietnam War era politician was vilified for being pro-war. According to the details presented by this film, he was not pro-war, and the undisclosed political maneuverings were significantly more complicated and (frankly) vicious than most people realize.

Becoming a Real Writer

Like many bibliophile and bookworms, I have been wanting to write a book for as long as I can remember.

When I was a kid, before I was able to read, write or even recognize letters, I made my mother a book. It was a folded piece of paper covered in drawings. While my mother accepted the gift in the same manner that she accepted all arts-and-crafts projects (like most parents). What I remember most clearly about this moment was my own inability to get across the importance of this act – I wanted to make a book. A real book.

My career has involved writing professionally, in some form or another, since the early 90s. I am particularly skilled at technical writing and report development, which is about as far removed from fiction (or anything fun to read) as a human being can possibly get.

As much as I enjoy searching out information, verifying facts, identifying needs and creating documents that present the appropriate data in a useful and accessible manner, a part of me still wants to be a writer. And, like most aspiring writers, to my mind being a writer…a real writer…means writing fiction.

I don’t often make regular original postings to this blog because my life is busy and I don’t have time to really sit down and write (edit) a proper post on a consistent schedule. Since I spend every moment on the bus, and during my lunch hour, reading; I decided to fill this blog with quotes. Do you want to know who I am? What I’m about? What I’m interested in? Take a look at these topics, authors and quotes. It works.

Yet, I’m not spending enough time on creative activities. I can’t seem to carve out moments to focus on music and fiction, and I’m not willing to reduce my workouts at the YMCA or my time spent with family. Work and commute time are inflexible – they are what they are (as everyone knows). So, the creative stuff just wasn’t happening.

Until now.

There are a few projects I have been slowly chipping away at. Recently, I spent two weeks making them top priority (read: temporarily reduced time at the gym and early/late nights). One of the results is the Wild Raccoon Farm blog.

Wild Raccoon Farm is a work of wishful fiction, which is more of a writing technique than a genre. It is both a networking tool, created for the purposes of finding other writers interested in Intentional Communities, and a very scheduled fiction-writing exercise. It is updated every Wednesday and Saturday.

Thus far, this project has worked out. I have been able to find time to write and I have had plenty of ideas to write about. It feels good to dive into fiction again. In fact, I feel like the creative part of my personality is sighing with relief and uttering a heartfelt “Finally!”

Whatever the outcome, it feels right and I guess that’s the most important part of this project and the experiences that come with it.

T-Shirt Dreams

Quote

Last night I woke from a dream I do not remember. It wasn’t a very memorable dream, so there was no regret in not remembering. The sole memory that remained was the following statement:

Change is a choice,
Choice is a change.

I’m seriously considering putting it on a t-shirt.

-Adora Myers

Big Bird on the Chain Gang

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Music is weird. It can transport a person’s mind back to a time long-since past. It can lead the imagination into dangerously (sadly) hopeful places in the never-to-be-realized future. It transforms a moment so completely, an individual can (potentially) forget the important truths about the present reality. Fun, powerful, and necessary – music is power, magic, human strengths and human weaknesses all rolled into one.

When selecting quotes for this blog, I approach the selections from the perspective of printed poetry. Quotations are posted because of their strength without music. Which brings me to this selection; while I like both the song and the words, they are not something I would normally quote here on this blog.

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However, every single time I hear this song I think of a friend I used to have – a really close non-romantic friend who is no longer around. I miss this old friendship and find myself dipping into a momentary sadness every time I hear this song – or see/hear Big Bird.

Yes, that’s right, Big Bird. I would like to say Big Bird was this individual’s favorite character but, honestly, it’s only because the personality and the voice of the Sesame Street character has an uncanny resemblance to my old friend.

While I was sifting through quotes and images, it occurred to me that the nature of music and the nature of both memory and human relationships are equally strange.

So, here is my example of a combination of seemingly incongruous items that perfectly represent someone who once held a very important part of my life and still retains a non-romantic, yet deeply heart felt, portion of my memory. I rather suspect that this memory-experience is a common one among human beings everywhere. I encourage anyone with a similar story to share in the comments below.

Quotes:

“Threw sand in our eyes and descended like flies
and put us back on the train, yeah (ho-ah)
O-oh, (ho-ah) back on the chain gang

The powers that be
That force us to live like we do
Bring me to my knees
When I see what they’ve done to you

Well, I’ll die as I stand here today
Knowing that deep in my heart
They’ll fall to ruin one day
For making us part…”

Back On The Chain Gang by The Pretenders

Unforgettable Wild Blueberries

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Back in the late 1980s, while working in the boundary waters for the SCA as a teenaged volunteer worker, there was a weekend when the team took a canoe trip to an island, just for fun. Given we were living on an island and every trip to a work site required a canoe made the fact that we were canoeing to an island rather mundane – which is odd to think about, so many years later.

The ‘boundary waters’ is a term applied (by locals) to a very large area of water and land lying between the United States and Canada. It is used to refer to areas of Minnesota, Michigan and Wisconsin (on the USA side). Yet, the landscape has many similarities, across hundreds of miles. This novel is located in Minnesota, which is where I was located while working the ‘boundary waters,’ and some of the descriptions of the landscape and life in the outdoors reminded me of that summer in Superior National Forest and the Boundary Waters Canoe Area.

Which brings me back to the island. To get to a specific hillside, we had to canoe to the island itself, tie up the canoes, hike in, tie our shoes and supplies in bags held onto our heads and swim across this amazingly beautiful still-water (and extremely deep) lake. It was a short swim and the water felt wonderful. On the other side was a hillside covered in blueberry bushes and we spent most of the afternoon just relaxing and collecting blueberries.

When I read the following quote, I immediately remembered the island, the swim and the blueberries. Everything described below made me think ‘yeah, I know that.’

QUOTE:

He picked a handful for both of them to see. Blueberries. Small ones. These were like the green berries she had seen on the Big Island, except they were blue. A whole hillside of blue. Nika put one in her mouth. The taste was sharp and sweet, better than the fat puffy blueberries from the store. Ian laughed as he watched her face. The three of them went to work. For a long time there was no sound except the drumming of blueberries onto the bottoms of aluminum pots. Nika moved to a new patch of little bushes heavy with berries, eating most of what she picked. Ian looked her way as she stuffed another handful in her mouth, as though she were unwrapping a gift he’d given her. He smiled, then returned to picking. She was blown away that the blueberries just grew here. Nobody planted them. Maybe they had been growing here for a thousand years. Or more. Eagerly she began filling her own pot.

Summer of The Wolves by Polly Carlson-Voiles

Adora Translated

IMG_0485Many years ago I visited Disney World and Epcot Center. During that visit I bought a paper fan with a landscape painting from a woman who was selling both the fans and her services as a translator. for a nominal fee, she would write the buyer’s name on the upper right corner of the fan, in Japanese characters.

The little table where she worked was located on a relatively quiet (for Disney World) sidewalk populated by street artists drawing caricatures and portraits of tourists willing to pay the fees for their services.

Walking up to the table I indicated that I wanted a fan with my name. She smiled and we went through the usual formalities of clarifying the service and making payment. I recall liking her sincerity – for reasons I cannot explain she came across as a person who was inherently authentic and trustworthy. Ready to begin the work, she my name.

“Adora” I replied. Just to be clear, my name is pronounced Uh-Door-Uh, with the emphasis on the second syllable. In other words, ‘Dora’ with an A.

The look this poor woman gave me was something I had become all to familiar with over the years. There are many variations, ranging from simple I-don’t-understand panic to outright anger (yes, anger over the audacity of admitting to my legal name…but that is a story for another blog posting). This woman fell under the former category and, for a brief moment, I thought she was going to ask me to repeat my name but (for whatever reason) decided against it. She nodded, bent over the table to complete her task and handed me the completed fan.

At the time I wondered whether or not she had actually written my name and how I would even know if she hadn’t. Regardless, it was a pretty fan and my ‘name’ looked elegant, painted in the corner, so I went with the flow, proudly displayed my fan, and told people it was my name…no doubt about it.

Recently, I have been using Fiverr to complete some work for my WildRaccoonPress.com website. (Many aspects of my Wild Raccoon plans are still in the formation stage, so the work is somewhat exploratory as I test out ideas.) I noticed Fiverr has an entire category for translation, which reminded me of that old fan.

Amazingly enough, the fan has survived many decades of time and thousands of miles of travel. So, I took it outside, snapped a picture and posted a gig to Fiverr, requesting a translation of the text. I did not provide an explanation of the fan’s original or my decades old request to write my name. Several Fiverr-accounts posted their bids and I selected a company that specialized in Japanese, Chinese and Korean because I honestly could no longer remember what language it was.

For $5, I requested a translation that included the following: 1) the language, 2) a roman letters translation of the foreign language text (read: the text in the non-English language but using the English-language alphabet) and 3) a translation of the text into English. Here is what I was provided:

雅ya多duo娜na.
雅&多 are both existing in Chinese and Japanese, but 娜 only can be find in Chinese.
雅 多娜 is absolutely a girl’s name. But actually, this kind of name is often the transliteration from Japanese name. So this 娜na could be a translation from Katakana.
Thus, this name also have a possibility from Japan. In this way, it is 雅多ナ(雅-みやびmiyabi,多-たta,ナna).

From this I gather that Adora (Uh-Door-Uh) was translated into Yaduona, and I’m guessing the pronunciation would be Ya-Doh-Nah, which isn’t to far off.

In the end, my $5 Fiverr translation has made me re-appreciate that old fan, which is more than worth the money.

 

 

The Right To Live As Nature Designed

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(Note: I have scheduled this commentary for Wednesday because the research described was primarily focused on Linguistics with some commentary about the subtle cruelty of pun-based name. Otherwise, it is primarily science, conservation and outdoors focused.)

When I was a teenager, working in the boundary waters or northern Minnesota (many years ago), I had the privilege of working alongside a wilderness guide. He was a man who knew true respect for the wild, the water, and the unique area in which he worked. He was a hunter and, as such, had some interesting arguments with a fellow student – a sometimes vegetarian and extremely youthful animal rights activist. One of the arguments he made has stuck with me over many years (paraphrased from memory): “…you eat that animal that was raised on a farm. It spent its whole life locked in a cage or trapped behind a fence. this deer [venison stew he’d brought to share] lived in the wild. It got the chance to be a deer. Now you tell me which is worse, the animal that dies on the farm, or the animal that lived in the wild?”

At the time I thought he’d made sense in a very important way. It wasn’t about whether or not humans lived up to their predatory nature by eating the flesh of other animals. It was only partially an issue of quantity – do we eat entirely too much meat? What was at the core of the issue of animal rights was the quality of life as dictated by the animal’s ability to live within its own birthright, as an animal. Being hunted is part of the deer’s life experience, just as hunting is part of the life experience of a wolf, cougar or bear. By trapping animals in cages and pens, we remove their ability to live and die, according to their own nature.

This long-ago argument kept resurfacing in my memory as I read this article. The author provides some heartbreaking descriptions of cruelty toward animals at the hands of researchers. It was hard to pull out quotes because my heart kept going out to the animals described in the story. I wanted to heal their pain and set them free to experience the life, pleasure, hardship, and pain that an animal deserves to experience – the life they were meant to live as the creature they were made to be.

However, the core of that cruelty seemed to be based on the human perceptions, and individual arrogance, about the nature of both animals and humans. The following quotes (hopefully) illustrate that lack of respect for the animals subjected to research and lack of understanding of both human and animal nature.

QUOTES:

Speculation on the origin of human language was long discouraged among linguists; inquiry into the subject was formally banned by the Société de Linguistique de Paris in 1866, and the taboo thereby established persisted for nearly a century.

“What makes us human?” The way we phrase the question—which presupposes that the answer must be a definite thing we possess—tends to make language the most satisfactory answer.

There is something glib and thoughtless about bestowing on another conscious being a pun for a name. Glibness and thoughtlessness, as one sees in the documentary, are just a couple of Terrace’s winning traits, and Nim Chimpsky’s name was only the first indignity in a life full of indignity and suffering, which is the main subject of Marsh’s film.

“We enjoy mocking that sliver of biological difference between us and chimpanzees. Yet anyone who has ever looked with curiosity and respect into the face of a chimpanzee has seen a presence there. If we abandon the notion that language is necessarily the bedfellow of consciousness, we get a better understanding of ourselves, while our relationship to the other beings we share this planet with becomes more enlightened, more humble, and more humane.

The Last Distinction,” by Benjamin Hale – An entry in The Best American Science and Nature Writing 2013, Edited by Siddhartha Mukherjee