Pam’s Pictorama Post: This photo postcard makes me think about my mother who loved ducks, geese and swans. Frankly she was less romantic about chickens which she grew up around although she bore them no ill will and being a vegan did not eat them nor their eggs. Mom did tell stories about her childhood and how they roosted in the neighbors trees and would occasionally torment her on her way to or from school.
It’s a pity this photo was poorly made, overexposed and with an odd sloppy line of poor printing at the bottom. (I have improved it some before sharing with you.) However my mom would have liked this card.
Those things notwithstanding, it is a compelling image and caught my eye online a week or so back and I purchased it for the house here in New Jersey. It is a photo postcard and was never used.
Photo of a photo of the house I grew up in.
As some readers know, I grew up in a house on an inlet of a river here, the Shrewsbury River. It was within walking distance of the ocean and as a result my childhood was full of time on the water – swimming in the ocean and walking the beach or crabbing off our dock or taking a rowboat out in the backyard. Mom’s nascent passion for animals first took the form of cats and dogs, strays and kittens that needed home.
However, later in life mom started feeding a flock of swans inhabiting the secluded inlet near our house. Then, slowly, she started helping out with an injured swan, goose or duck. Before long she was traveling to fetch a stranded pinioned one here or one that swallowed fishing line there. Betty became the go to for injured waterfowl for not just the surrounding counties but even in the surrounding states. Swans and geese that could not be released back into the wild were placed in areas in New York and New Jersey with appropriately large water bodies where food would be available and people would care for them.
A dahlia also on the hummingbird path of nectar.
Betty fought for these birds as well as other animals – helping to shut down puppy mills, purveyors of sick dogs. So many rescued bunnies found a home in our backyard that they were all so tame they would come right up to you if you sat out in the yard. I would come to New Jersey for a visit and the guest bathroom would be commandeered by a swan. Even at the same time, a rescued cat might be healing in an upstairs room. Somehow it all seemed quite natural at the time. Or at least it was our normal.
Strawberry plant currently on the deck which seems to be a happy stop for hummingbirds.
In her last years mom had a commanding view of the deck and the yard from the chair she spent virtually all her time in. It was planted for the explicit pleasure of birds, bees and butterflies. However, it wasn’t until after her death that I started spending time outside here and on the deck and began to realize how successful she was. Furry bees buzz busily everywhere, but especially early in the morning and evening. Hawks fly overhead, but sparrows, robins and a host of other birds amass. Bunnies of the more shy variety nibble greens in the yard – I think they and the chipmunks eat more heartily when unobserved, or so it seems from the consumption of my berries and veg.
Front of the NJ house earlier this week.
Most notably I never knew about the hummingbirds. I have loved the idea of them from the first I learned about them in sixth grade, but it was years before I saw one in person. I used to try to temp them to feeders with syrup water concoctions. It turns out that they love this yard! They appear to have a path from my dahlias, to a strawberry plant with bright red flowers and then to two Rose of Sharon trees (one white and one purple) that technically belong to my neighbor but hang heavily over my side of the fence. and amazingly enough, if I sit quietly on the porch long enough, one will pause en route, pausing, suspended in front of me in greeting.
Pam’s Pictorama Post: Today is an oddball post – I wish to introduce you all to Peaches, the second youngest, female cat of the New Jersey tribe of five. She’s also one of the meanest cats I have ever met. Perhaps considering her story she has some snark coming to her. I will let you decide.
Most readers know that in April of ’23 I inherited a house and five cats from my mother. At her behest, the cats continue to reside here where someone cares for them and the house when I am not here, as Deitch Studio in Manhattan is still our home base. This presents some logistical problems, but fewer than I might have expected when my mother first presented this request, as it became clear that her time was limited.
Shown here with Hobo, our outdoor visitor. They look so much alike! Seems impossible that they are related – Hobo lives too many miles away. But still…
For some background, my mother had briefly whittled her cat family down to something manageable a few years ago when she adopted, first, an all black kitten (Beauregard or Beau) from an agency in Newark, but then followed in rapid succession by two who came to the backdoor (Gus and Stormy) and Peaches whose story I am going to tell today. After the acquisition of Stormy (the youngest) I did request that she stop acquiring cats as it was clear that these were indeed going to end up being my cats.
Our holiday card featuring the whole family (including Hobo) for a quick cat reference.
Unlike the others who, as outlined above, either came through the front door via adoption or showed up repeatedly and starving at the back, Peaches was acquired sight unseen. My mother loved to tell the Peaches acquisition story.
Prized spot in our bedroom.Forbidden territory when the NYC cats are here.
At that time, now about three years ago, my mom had a cousin living with her. They had both grown up in a nearby town called Long Branch and her cousin inherited a house there, but lived with mom for a few years. Word was, back near her house in Long Branch, a friend heard a cat meowing over several days and had called Animal Control to find out what was going on and get the cat.
Seems somehow this cat had gotten away from the mother and the litter and was trapped in a basement after falling down a hole. Poor little thing was starving and crying.
Peaches does play with toys.
My mom knew that it was likely that a feral kitten would ultimately be put down as unadoptable. She called Animal Control in Long Branch as soon as the cat was picked up and told them not to put her down and that she would take it.
I guess the guy said, Lady, you don’t want this cat! It is the meanest cat we’ve ever had to catch. So wild we had to use a broom handle to move the carrier with her in it! And of course mom said she didn’t care and wanted the cat.
She very much enjoys watching the activity on the deck where chipmonks and other critters have been known to roam. Recently I found what I think were groundhog muddy tracks across it so quite a show.
She arrived and was christened Peaches for the woman who had heard her and called Animal Control originally. She entered our house at the time as the youngest and only female cat of the house. To my knowledge no one has ever actually touched Peaches since she came to Oxford Avenue. She hid at first and then slowly assimilated to the extent that she would hang with the pack of cats but keep a wide birth (six or more feet) from any human.
Left to her own devices (which she largely is) she seems quite content.
Over the past several years she has thawed slightly. She now willingly sit in the same room as us, sometimes quite close. When I am feeding them she will come right up to me but if I try to touch her or get too close where she is curled up she will hiss, spit and growl. On this trip however, she “accidentally” jumped up on the arm of my chair and stared me in the eye for several long moments before panic set in and she flew back off. I was as stunned as she was.
Milty and Peaches.
She has one outstanding cat friendship in the house, with Milty, our most senior cat. I will occasionally find them sleeping together. She’ll go over and gently groom him once in a while. It seems like an unlikely pairing, but I am pleased she has a compatriot among the cats.
This just the other day. Happy Peaches.
There have been days this summer when I have caught her rolling and stretching happily. I think she is a contented cat in general, even if her interactions with the human population are limited. I used to joke with my mother that in ten years when Peaches was happily installed on my lap being petted we would look back and remember how we couldn’t get near her. I am less sure of that future, but she’s one of the Butler family cats now to stay.
Pam’s Pictorama Post: Sometimes where my nose leads me surprises even me so I assume it must occasionally raise an eyebrow for my readers. While I have many tributaries I pursue on a regular basis, sometimes I am gob smacked by something I didn’t see coming or ever really think about before. I assume in a time before the internet I would have found my odd bits at flea markets and antique stores that have been pushed out or disappeared.
Smidge of paint loss but nice!
However, Ebay, Instagram and Etsy are among the places I buy from now, but Instagram is the one most likely to surprise me with something I didn’t know I needed. I will be scrolling through my rather perfectly delightful feed curated to present me with cats, kittens, antique jewelry and clothes, some antique toys, ephemera and furniture.
The one I didn’t buy. Maybe still there if you have to have it!
Once in a bit something like this vase strikes me and I think, Huh. I don’t know why, but I really want that. There was another, larger, one with figures on it that was the one really being offered, but I could see half of this one is the same photo so I asked about it. I only just stopped short of buying both, but size and cost made me decide to control myself.
Peering in the top.
This vase is about 9 inches high and is ceramic with some tooth to it – bits of sand probably in the clay making it substantial and heavy. It appears to have been thrown on a wheel and then hand painted. Weirdly there is something about it which reminds me of the (admittedly much less impressive) pots I threw or hand built back in high school and college. I never would have thought to paint a scene like this on a pot though, although I did paint too.
Water scene on one side.
The style of the landscape reminds me a little of paintings by my great aunt Jennie. She was self-taught and at one time her paintings hung throughout our house. At some point they were offered to and taken by my cousins who were closer descendants. I always liked them and although it was hard to argue with the thought gesture I missed them.
Many, if not all, were landscapes copied from the American Paintings galleries at the Metropolitan Museum. I was shocked when I first visited and saw them although it made perfect sense. Strange to know them so well for having lived with the copies all those years. I could see how much better the originals were but I missed hers. In particular there was one with a path between birch trees. I tried but failed to find it on the Met’s website. This Kensett below is in the same spirit.
Kensett rom the Met’s collection.
I have a distinct memory of showing her a package of plastic cowboys and Indians someone had given the tiny tot me to entertain me for a day at my grandparents. There was a garish sunset on the cardboard top where the bag was stapled together. She admired it and asked me if she could have it to make a painting from and I agreed. (Such an oddly distinct memory. As an aside, thinking back on it now it also seems odd that my parents purchased endless such bags of cowboys and Indians for us, and racing cars. I think soldiers seldom if ever. There never seemed to be a question about a little girl circa 1967 or so, routinely playing with cowboys and Indians. I’d like to say that this was a statement on the part of my parents, but it just wasn’t – unless the not thinking otherwise was a statement of its own!)
This bit has some paint loss unfortunately.
Having lived most of my adult life in a Manhattan apartment, the concept of cut flowers from my yard is a relatively new and very welcome phenomena. Suddenly it is as if I never really understood the full usefulness of vases. I mean the occasional bunch of posies from the bodega or gift of some extra thoughtful person and you need a place to put them. But the extreme pleasure of clipping a bit of what is blooming in the yard and having it in the house is a new one.
There sadly is some paint loss on one side. Shipping may have made it a bit worse. I am putting it in a quiet cat free space – to the extent that exists in this house.
Dahlias from the yard which would look pretty good if I thought it could hold water!
I deeply suspect that this vase is no longer water tight. There is a hairline crack in the bottom which makes me unlikely to try it. I can easily imagine how nice it would look with some nodding peonies or spring roses from the bushes in the yard might look. I am, however, quite content with this just as it is!
Pam’s Pictorama Post: A few different things conspired to prompt a rather wonderful childhood memory recently. The first was our friend Bruce bringing over a bag of Ranier cherries – the ones that are sort of orange fading to a bright red, rather than the dark maroon of the more common ones. Despite the story I am going to tell, I somehow came to gobbling cherries late in life, but have eaten them with an abandon to make up for lost time. I generally buy the dark red ones, but cast no shade on the Ranier variety.
The next things was this little device shown at top – a cherry pitter. I also use it for pitting olives. I was in New Jersey a few weeks back and realized that I only had my decades old one, acquired in cooking school tucked happily away in our New York apartment.
Not much to look at yet it is perfectly adequate for these two tasks and if you are trying to cook with either cherries or olives it is a much needed and appreciated tool. To be without it means any chance of a perfectly sliced cherries or olives for decorative effect will likely not happen. I promptly ordered the contemporary equivalent from Amazon. I searched cherry olive pitter and there is was. The beauty of the internet age. I sent it to NJ and it was waiting for me when I got here on Wednesday; it is a decidedly zippier, upgraded version. A happy summer of cherry and olive pitting awaits.
Meanwhile, the memory in question was one of an annual cherry picking at my grandmother’s house. She had an enormous Ranier cherry tree in the backyard. In retrospect as an adult I don’t think I realized that cherry trees got that big. It required a proper ladder to get to the top.
Was actually a bit hard to find a photo online of a large-ish one. My grandmother’s was much larger than this!It makes me remember it being in bloom though.
Anyway, the kids, spouses of kids and grandkids were all assembled and we picked cherries all day. There were sea green plastic buckets I can still see in my mind and we filled them with those orangey red cherries. My grandmother would then take them and cook them down and can them. They would supply pie filling and get spread on toast for the rest of the year and long winter ahead. (Mom’s mom who I have written about before here with a historic photo of that yard – sadly the tree was in the other direction and would have been tiny!)
These are exactly as I remember them.
Oddly, I don’t remember eating them off the tree. Now, I was at the time probably the youngest family member of the team, probably about five or six at the time I am describing before my brother was born. Perhaps my mother, always a worrier, didn’t want me eating pit filled cherries. I can see her fretting about that. Anyway, I didn’t and somehow didn’t really get into the swing of eating cherries until I was more or less an adult. If I were able to visit that tree today I’d be popping half in my mouth as I went, eating my body weight in cherries off the tree.
On one of those days I remember it ending in, if not a barbeque at least a picnic. (My Italian grandmother wasn’t really much into barbeque – she liked to cook her food on her stove and in her oven and make the table grown with delicacies which were not of the grilled burger variety.) I wandered around and found my way to a small tree. Much to my horror, as I touched the tree I was immediately covered with ants! I screamed the way only a small child shocked by ants can scream. It took a minute for mom to figure out what was wrong with me, get them off and set me right. (Tree must not have been well to be full of ants, but I don’t remember much about it.)
Dusk on the deck with the fairy lights on. Deck (and lights) had to be completely redone last fall – boards were all rotted! This is my first evening of return on investment! Well worth it.
Perhaps that memory came back to me because as I write this I am sitting on my deck in New Jersey, in the evening of July 4. Next to me on the fence I share with my neighbor, I discovered a huge and evidently industrious ant colony. I can see those hard working fellows even by the dim light of my fairy lights out here. Do ants ever stop and rest? These don’t appear to as I spotted them early this morning and they are still at it.
On of the solar lights I have around which I love!
A gentle boom, boom of distant fireworks is going off, but not enough to bother either me or the five New Jersey cats who have had their dinner and are largely sleeping. Fireflies have come out and look like miniature versions of the fairy lights. (People ask me if we still have fireflies and I am glad to assure them we do – have they really disappeared from places?) The mosquitoes, whose enthusiasm for my flesh has been somewhat tempered by some spray will chase me in soon. But my first evening on the deck this year and I guess summer has begun.
The back gate! Newly installed light here also last fall – so we have a bit of light coming and going at night. It is motion activated.
Pam’s Pictorama Post: One of my favorite new hobbies is purchasing bits of local memorabilia to decorate the New Jersey house. Having grown up in the area I have always found local history interesting and I am having fun finding ways to celebrate and embrace it as well as my own history there. Along those lines I picked up this postcard recently with the intention of framing it for the house there. This is a bit of a long summer and childhood post so settle in if it appeals. I guess I am kicking off summer officially today.
In a parallel universe I think I bought a tiny wooden house in Highlands on the water and live there. In that world I either live with and/or disregard the constant flooding of the area and I have no idea what I do for a living. There was a moment in this world where I gave serious consideration to such a purchase for a weekend house (affordably due to the aforementioned flooding), but my ever practical minded mother talked me out of it. I lived through enough flooding to hear her talking sense about it. Nonetheless, my heart does remain with the idea of a few rooms in a wooden house, just a few minutes walk from the river and ten or so minutes over the bridge to Sandy Hook beach.
Back in the early days when Bahr’s was still a rooming house and bait and tackle shop.
When I was very young, we had a house – one sold by Sears and Roebuck – on the nearby spit of land in Sea Bright we call the North Beach. I adored that house and did consider making it my home when my parents sold it in my early 20’s. My earliest summer memories are there, with beach access across the (incredibly busy) street and clubs with pools where I would ultimately learn to swim. In recent years, the bridge between the two, Sea Bright and Highlands, has been remade from a simple old fashioned one (up from the glorified foot bridge that would have existed at the time of this postcard) to a very high, super highway version which I guess you can walk over, but seems a bit threatening.
Anyway, Highlands and its kissin’ cousin tucked nearby, Atlantic Highlands, were always there as part of my childhood. It has an interesting mix of real estate, multimillion dollar homes on the steep hilly incline overlooking the water (mom and dad would speculate on how terrible winter driveways and roads they must have) and down to the small, wooden homes near the shoreline. For those of you who followed my nascent ferry adventures to and fro Manhattan, this is where the ferry leaves you, or conversely picks you up. As a child we mostly drove through it as a way of avoiding round trip beach traffic to Sea Bright or a to get out on the highway.
Nearby ferry landing.
One of the fixtures of Highlands is Bahr’s Landing restaurant. It is currently billed as the oldest restaurant in New Jersey, dating back to its earliest incarnation as a seasonal houseboat chowder and boarding house for those working the waterfront in 1917. Boats were rented and on the off season the family went back to their necktie business in Newark.
Eventually the business took off sufficiently in the 40’s to become year round and, according to the article I found, the original houseboat established the existing building today. Oddly, I only learned recently that the family is one I know – I went all through school (kindergarten through high school) with the current generation owner, Jay Cosgrove. Yay Jay!
Undated photo from their site but maybe not too far off from when this postcard was made.
In an unconscious way, Bahr’s played out through my childhood, young adulthood and has come back for me in middle age. As a small child I remember off-season celebratory birthdays there – as year round residents my parents preferred it in any season but summer when the local traffic would increase ten fold overnight. I could be wrong, but they may have introduced oyster crackers into my life which I adored as a child.
Postcard not in my collection shows rickety original bridge between Highlands and Sea Bright to Sandy Hook beach.
As teenagers and on summers home from college we didn’t care and braved the traffic cheerfully. The restaurant proper was too expensive however and we were instead content (very content indeed) to sit next door on benches near the water for services outside until late in the evening, eating lobster rolls and juicy fried clams. There was a movie theater a few blocks away which showed second run and old films for 99 cents and so a reasonably affordable date night was established.
I had not been inside the restaurant for many years when my sister Loren suggested it for a birthday lunch one year, shortly before she died and we celebrated our childhood there. Bittersweet, it was my first and last time there for a number of years as I thought going back would make me sad.
Bars from the water side in an undated photo.
However, in my mother’s final year or so we ordered in food a fair amount and I figured out Doordash from there on a few occasions which we enjoyed. I did it weekly or so until they could no longer find drivers. Mom was a vegan, but there were a few vegetable dishes she liked and everything we ordered from there was delicious and a wonderful change of pace.
In the subsequent year since mom died, a good friend and I have taken it up again as our occasional treat. We generally go at lunchtime during the week, occasionally dinner, when even the summer traffic is more bearable, taking an inland route which spares us some tussle.
Yup, the mug I purchased full of the chowder and some of those oyster crackers from my childhood shown here.
I wish I had copies of the old photos the interior of Bahr’s is decorated with – some go back to the days of it as a houseboat, renting rooms. Others show fishing in the immediate area – I always take time to study them. There was also a time when it had an early life as a ferry stop for cruise ships that would head down to the South from New York City. Ancient majolica oyster plates fill another vitrine. A small gift shop is at the front, near the bar and the oldest part of the building. I recently purchased chowder size mugs, one for the house in NJ and one for 86 Street.
This is the bar area where for some reason I have never eaten. I think we favor the water views. I always like to go and look at the photos and art in it though when I can.
The fare at Bahr’s is the absolute top shelf of what you expect and want from a local seafood restaurant, perched right over the water. Plates groan with ultra fresh local scallops, clams, oysters, lobster and various other kinds of fish. I remain partial to a warm lobster roll which has come to define this item to me, simply lobster chunks with butter on a traditional roll, served with homemade potato chips if I feel decadent. Homemade biscuits are served for starters – this is not diet dining. My friend Suzanne remains largely devoted to a plate of scallops and vegetables. We both occasionally go off script however and in this way I discovered their “original recipe” spicy clam chowder which is stupendous! I am a fan and have begun buying a container for the freezer in NJ each time I go and it makes for a very happy meal subsequently.
Recent image from the parking lot at Bahr’s.
The postcard I have acquired appears to most likely be from the 40’s given what I know and that it is a linen postcard – those were produced in the 30’s and 40’s. As you can see from my recent photo, not much as changed, down to the neon sign which must flash to boats like a beacon. That is Sandy Hook, now a state park, across from it on a tiny spit of land with the ocean beyond. Seen today the immediate surrounding area is a busy dock, as shown in my photos, and Moby’s, the affordably cousin they also own, next door. If you sit outside near the water and the docks, fat seagulls rule while ducks and geese placidly come and go. There is a parking lot where it is just sand here.
Verso of card.
On the back in very neat pencil print it says, The air is wonderful here on river. There are five children here & they have such a good time. Hope everything is well with you. Love Marg. It is addressed to: Mrs. M. Martin, PO Box #137, Gibbstown, New Jersey without a stamp so maybe it went in an envelope or just was never sent. On the back of the card, printed at the top it says, Bahr’s Seafood Restaurant Highlands NJ. Lobster and Fish Dinners. The “Half Moon” Bar and Cocktail Lounge, Charter and Deep Sea Boats for Hire. Est. 1917 – Highland 3-1245.
So Bahr’s has earned its place to be enshrined at our New Jersey residence. With any luck, some old photos will show up to join it and I look forward to treating you to a bit more of that local lore.
Pam’s Pictorama Post: I guess I have on occasion posted about father’s day. (Most notably in an unusual post before he died which can be found here.) Generally I tend to find it painful and assume others may as well. However, I just came across this photo of my dad the other day while looking for something else and I decided I would share it today.
November of 2017 seems like worlds ago for me, for all of us I guess in many ways since we managed to have two pandemic years we didn’t see coming in the midst of it. I had started my new job at Jazz at Lincoln Center earlier that year after almost 30 years at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I had already been to Shanghai with the orchestra and was trying to adjust to a very different pace of work. (Posts about leaving the Met and that wild trip to Shanghai can be found here and here.)
Shanghai toy cafe.
Meanwhile, my parents had recently moved into this house, the house I inherited and will visit later today. That alone has changed so much. First my mother directed much of the planting in the yard which went from somewhat neglected to a sanctuary, but even in the year since she passed I have transformed it further with more plantings, a vegetable and herb garden and made the deck an oasis.
The NJ garden in clean up mode a month of so back. Strawberries and cherry tomatoes are evidently already producing. More on that later today.
The years she and my father spent in this house were years of caregiving and the house was set up around that. The bedroom I have taken was my father’s. (I used to sleep in a sunny room on the second floor which in some ways I preferred, but mom wanted me to take the main bedroom at a later time and ultimately it made sense so I could be closer to her at night.)
Recent photo of the front of the house in NJ.
Pictorama readers have seen, most notably, the garden transform. However, I have made many changes inside, redoing the floors, adding furniture, rugs, lamps and, of course since it is me we’re talking about, interesting stuff I have collected – already.
An older Milty on a very recent visit.
Still, this view out the window remains largely unchanged. It is a sunny, favorite window. I still have that chair, but it was moved a bit during mom’s last illness and has remained there. (That chair is Beauregard the cat’s favorite spot and if you sit in the chair with him he will pat your head.) For several years it gave first dad and then mom the best view of the small but cheerful yard to enjoy daily.
I remember the day I took this photo very well. It is the only picture I took that day. Dad had returned from a stint in the hospital and Kim and I were visiting and I snatched it discreetly. He had a rare very good day that day, arguably the last really, and I pretty much knew it was a real moment of grace in an inevitable decline. I remember him being very lucid and remembering all sorts of things in conversation with some prompting by me and mom; his memory turned to Swiss cheese at the end – bits he would recall perfectly and then complete holes. He was very candid about it.
Dad is taking a rest and enjoying the sun here. His extremely devoted cat Red on his lap. (I have written about Red here – a real prince among cats that one!) Our other cat, Milty (still around today at about 20 years of age and one of the New Jersey five) is observing from a favorite spot on the window sill – much beloved. Mom filled it with plants over time and although I keep fewer there than she did, there are still a bunch. I’ve changed the blinds as the existing ones (like so many things – think roof, deck!) broke shortly after mom died.
Red on my bed, a photo taken about a year after the one of dad.
Also on that window sill are some reproduction Remington bronze sculptures which were among dad’s favorite possessions. He always loved bronze sculptures and liked to have these around him. (There was at least one other, enormous one, at one time.) I recently found myself in someone’s office who also had some of these, including a large reproduction made for a restaurant, and immediately felt at home. All the walkers, bottles and other paraphernalia of illness is there too.
I have written posts about my father and his interesting and fulfilling life as a cameraman for ABC news, and about his youth and riding a motorcycle across the country (those can be found here and here), but today, just a small tribute to that moment in 2017, coughed up by my phone and as a gentle nod to the Father’s Day holiday today.
Pam’s Pictorama Photo Post: Today’s post is of a family photo, something I haven’t done in a long time, and it is one of my mom. The one year anniversary of her passing is tomorrow.
I wrote frequently about the surprisingly interesting time caring for her at the end of her life, here and here, and at her death I wrote a brief tribute to her here. However, a friend suggested that I find a photo of her to frame for my office as a way of recognizing the anniversary so I dug through some mountains of pictures in New Jersey last weekend and emerged triumphant.
Many years ago my mother’s mom put together a photo album for mom and her brother John for Christmas. I don’t remember seeing my uncle’s, but mom’s, although slim, is made up of wonderful early childhood photos of her that I had never seen. Mom’s father died young of a heart attack. He was much beloved to me during the short time I knew him (Poppy!), but I was only about four or five when he died. There aren’t a huge number of photos of him at all so it is extra nice to find these.
However, in addition to those photos which are mostly Betty and John as small kids with their various pets, mom had tucked a number of other early photos in and today’s photo is from that batch. This would have been taken around 1969, mom was still wearing her hair a bit long – she cut it short a year or so later, Snoopy just out of kittenhood.
Without knowing for sure I am fairly certain that this was taken at our house in Englewood, New Jersey, It was a tiny, cozy two bedroom cottage on Jones Road and across from what seemed to a tiny tot me to be an enormous park. (Actually, a google search shows a very substantial park on Jones Road, so perhaps my childhood estimate was more accurate than I think!)
Mom is holding the very first pussy cat in a long line of pets, Snoopy. I think I named him, for the comic strip and because he had black spots – he was a cow spotted kitty. In retrospect it is hard to believe that my older sister would have allowed me to name him (she was bossy!), but nonetheless that is my memory.
Snoopy was just a great cat. You’ve heard tales of my dressing him up in doll clothes and pushing him in my doll stroller – also playing circus dog with him and the German Shephard, Duchess. He was a lovely, easy going boy cat. He and the dog were buddies and unlike the dog, he rarely got into trouble (there was the time he walked across wet red paint on the porch and then through the kitchen, but that would be the exception that made the rule) and was loved by all equally. I believe his origin was as a barn cat – friends of my parents had a farm in South Jersey and supplied us with rather excellent cats for many years.
It’s funny that seeing him so many years later (his life was sadly cut short by an Akita several years later) his spots and markings are surprisingly immediately familiar. Black over one eye. I can remember petting him when I look at this.
My guess is that dad was trying out a new camera as this has a hallmark of being a rather posed photo. Dad wasn’t typically at his best with still photos. If anything I am better with those and lesser with moving images and he the opposite. He had an extraordinary eye for shooting movies, but somehow it didn’t quite apply to still images. This photo for me is an exception however. It captures mom and Snoopy perfectly and even reminds me of the wonderful garden at that house where these trees likely were. (When we moved to the shore, probably later that year, it was many years before we lived in a place with a garden and our first home was sandy, often salty soil right on the river, which flooded frequently. Mom struggled mightily to at least have a vegetable garden and some scrubby trees. Readers know I now glory in keeping up the garden my mom created at the house I inherited.)
One thing of note for me is that mom appears to be wearing both a watch (although on her right arm and she was right handed) and a wedding band. Mom never wore either later in life. I think she went through a series of wristwatches when she was younger and gave up – her active life and hands constantly in things probably did both that and the ring in. I know that the early version of her wedding band wasn’t gold (turned her finger green!) and she stopped wearing it. Years later my father gave her a gold band which I now have, but to my memory she just almost never wore jewelry. (Early arthritis in her fingers exacerbated this. I fight it in my own hands, especially with the fingers I broke a few years ago running.)
She is wearing a camel colored sweater coat, a very mom color. If it was a few years later jeans would be on the bottom half of her, but this early it was probably a skirt or some other trousers. She has a white (cotton I bet) top under the sweater. Mom was very allergic to wool and gave it up early in life. She wore a lot of polar fleece later on.
There is a little tear on the left of the photo where the color emulsion has peeled. I need to keep this in a not especially light or hot place I think. The color is faded.
Clearly I take after my father’s side of the family in this regard as I consider the purchase and wearing of jewelry to be one of life’s great pleasures! (I have written about some of my favorite finds here and here.) My paternal grandmother loved jewelry (Gertie! There’s a whole post for her here.) and my dad inherited that love and bought us three women in his life jewelry frequently. As a result, I have all of mom’s (virtually unworn) and my sister’s which tended toward a more contemporary design than the vintage pieces I am drawn to.
While it is mostly accepted that I resemble my mom more than my dad, I’ve not been sure about that as I age and look somewhat more like Gertie. Having said that, the resemblance between me and mom is strong in this picture, the differences in our coloring being less evident. (Mom was extremely freckled, fair and green eyed – I am fair but less freckled and brown eyed. Her hair had red tints that mine never had.)
Finding this photo was a gift and I am grateful! To have mom and Snoopy together to consider in this picture is a treat I had not anticipated and I cannot think of a better way to honor her life and the sad anniversary of her passing. Thank you mom.
Pam’s Pictorama Photo Post: Good morning! Sunny April day here and today’s picture post presents these three self-possessed looking miscreants curled up in a variety of battered chapeaux. Although this was evidently used as a Valentine greeting (written in admirable script at the bottom), I am thinking of it as a nod to the season and time to break out my straw hat.
The two tabbies, who are remarkably identical, are curled up in the first two hats while my sort of tuxie friend is vacating his black one. The disintegrating straw hat is the most interesting, not sure what is perched on the side – a tossed out cigarette? A bit of paper? What I call a claw paw grips the brim. Comfy kitty in the first hat fits nicely, tail curled around himself, the very tip pointing out. The odd fellow (or gal) out appears to be a tux or tuxie mix of some kind, hard to tell as his entire back half is in this black hat. The bad guy hat!
All three kitties have had their attention drawn off camera in the same direction. To that extent at least they are posed.
Someone has scratched into the negative, The Latest Thing in Hats in Wilawana. PA. According to my (albeit limited) map reading on Google, Wilawana appears to be a small town near the Chemung river and on the border of New York state.
In penned script on the back it reads, With love, From Mrs. ME Knighte and For Beulock Cosaiy [?] Wills NY Hamilton Co. However, there is no stamp so it was hand delivered or ultimately put in an envelope.
Dad in his white hat, more or less dead center of this photo.
My father was a devoted wearer of hats. I have written about Dad’s career as a news cameraman for many decades. (One of those posts can be read here.) At more than 6’5″ and with a ubiquitous fisherman’s hat on his head he was easy to pick out in a crowd and we would look for him on long shots of events on other news stations. Although a cotton fisherman’s cap (usually a fairly crisp, newer one) was most frequently worn to work, the older ones and a series of baseball style caps were employed outside at home. My father kept his hat on a great, small bronze statue of a running horse which I (sadly) no longer have, on a table outside our kitchen with his keys in it. I’m not sure I ever saw my father outside without a hat and prescription sunglasses.
The style of hat most frequently worn by my father.
The rest of the family did not sport hats. I cannot remember my mother wearing one, even on the coldest of winter days. (Mom would head outside with her short hair wet and the ends would freeze. She was hat resistant.) My sister Loren skied and therefore must have worn the occasional winter hat, although I can’t remember it and must feel she eschewed them in general. Edward (who may be reading this) was not especially inclined toward them either. (Ed, have you become a hat wearer?)
The much beloved Buck Jone Rangers hat.
I had an early inclination to hats, but in practice did not really figure them out until well into adulthood. There is my much sweated in cotton baseball cap for running (from the Gap, no logo) which reminds me of Dad’s, keeps the sun and sweat out of my eyes and also helps keep my hair up. Winter running requires a warmer (but washable) hat however – sometimes a hood too – something over my ears. The NJ variant is bright yellow green so I don’t get shot in the woods or runover in the low morning light.
I am very devoted to hat wearing in the cold in general and have a series of wool hats, always one stuffed in my purse in the transitional seasons, just in case. I lean toward a loose black wool one these days. As a kid I delighted in stocking caps and went through a stage of rather electric long ski hats that were popular for a bit. I was employing a wool cowboy style one in winter (sun protection, but good in light precipitation) until it was accidentally taken from a party. It was returned to the hostess, but I have yet to retrieve it from her. That one came from a hat store in Red Bank, NJ near where I like to have brunch if I first come into town on the weekend, the Dublin House.
This time of the year I break out one of a few straw hats. I like a small brim fedora style straw hat, although it has been pointed out to me that if keeping the sun off my face is my motive (which it is in large part) that a wider brim would serve better, but I don’t seem to be able to commit to those hats the way I can to a smaller one. For one thing my head size is small and it has helped to learn that a large hat is awkward on me. I like being able to smush it into my bag if needed. Like Dad I have adopted prescription sunglasses.
These days the favored hat is an aging straw one purchased in the airport on the way back from a business trip. I was in an airport in Arizona I think, on a leg back from California, San Diego I want to say which makes it a number of years ago now. I was killing time and vaguely in the market for a new summer hat. As these things go, I had no idea that I would still be wearing it daily for 2.5 seasons a year for so many years to come. It has only become every so slightly disreputable.
Recently purchased and subsequently installed hat and coat rack in NJ.
It’s elderly cousin is a blue straw version which was purchased in San Francisco on a donor visit years ago when I worked at the Met Museum. I had gone to visit an elderly (and remarkably fashionable) woman out there, Mona Picket, who was appalled that I was wandering around California in spring time without a hat so we went to a department store and bought me this one. Mona has subsequently passed on and I do think fondly of her when I wear that hat. It is very nicely made (and terribly expensive) and will probably outlast me if I continue to care for it.
Last summer Kim and I were on our way to meet people for dinner on the lower Eastside and I stopped us in our tracks to go into a store and buy a rather electric blue one. It was actually a yellow cousin which caught my eye but they did not have that color in my size. This blue one got a lot of action last summer and is my “good” work hat now.
Kim is an inveterate hat wearer in the tradition of my Dad. I’ve seen him through numerous baseball caps since we met, all of which somehow crossed his path and acquired somewhat (although not entirely) indiscriminately. To my memory, in some order or other, the following baseball hats have been employed: a blue Tar Heels one, a favorite was one acquired at a reading he did in Seattle for Fantagraphics, and the sort of stone favorite was a Buck Jones Rangers hat – the remains of which sit on a shelf over my head even as I write.
Seasonally a series of straw cowboy hats followed and there was one purchased at a K-Mart on a trip to Butte, Montana; a business trip for Kim. (Read about that trip which featured a whorehouse museum here!) For a cheap hat it lasted a good long while.
Kim keeps a bright Kelly green leprechaun-ish bowler around for wearing on someday other than St. Pat’s. Early in our relationship I stretched my wallet and purchased him a very good Stetson as a gift. It languished for several decades before it evolved into use and has now been his daily hat for a number of years. It is getting a good worn-in look and gets frequent compliments.
Kim was willing to pose for this out-the-door pic earlier.
I just installed a coat and hat rack in NJ. However, much in the style of my father, our hats are piled near the front door, some decorating an unused lamp. I do try to resist the temptation to put hats on the cats, but sometimes the Devil wins on that one.
Miltie, senior feline of NJ, in a hat from a post earlier this year.
Pam’s Pictorama Photo Post: I guess Pictorama rules are made to be broken, although there aren’t really many. Generally speaking the cardinal rule of Pictoama is that I own the object under discussion. I had barely set the parameter when I broke it back in the earliest days of this venture. (That post, devoted to some wonderful Norakuro toys can be found here.) However, since then I have pretty much stuck to my guns on that and if I have done it subsequent before today, I cannot remember when.
From a very early, not in my collection post!
However, I have an excellent reason for bending the rules today. An email came to me via the blog asking about what I call the giant cat chair photo postcards. I own several of these – many fewer than my photos of folks posing with Felix which seem to have started earlier (a few Felix tintype posts here and here), gone longer and reached the shores of Australia where folks posed with him in Katoomba among other resorts. (One of these posts can be found here.) I even have evidence of a giant Felix who appears to be directing traffic in Kualo Lumpur. (Here!)
Pams-Pictorama.com collection. Felix in Kuala Lumpur.
However, folks with the big kitty seem to have been exclusively in Great Britain. (We were simply backward here in the US, weren’t we? I haven’t seen the slightest evidence of any of the above. Nary even an early Mickey. Huh.)
Back to our story. Chay Hawes, a denizen of Great Britain wrote to say, My mum was looking through some albums and said “here’s my dad on this weird black cat thing at the seaside” (he’s the boy in the middle of the cat leaning towards his mother) so I typed “weird black cat photo margate” and amazingly your site came up as the first hit. I didn’t expect to find out about the cat so quickly! (Pictorama is always here to help with the important things. Posts about Margate and black cat goodness, including this very kitty, can be found here and here.)
Margate as a beach resort seems to have been redolent in photo ops and looking over my collection and former posts there seems to have been more than one of these giant black cats, an outsized Felix and an odd unidentified clownish character at a minimum. Black cat luck seems to also be particular to sailors so perhaps its seaside location upped the ante on black cat fortune.
I have a bit of a weakness for these, especially as plates, but not in my collection.
He asked if there was anything in particular affiliating black cats with Margate. There are copious postcards and bits of souvenir china which feature the felines and boast good luck. While I can find nothing which specifically ties good luck black cats to Margate, I am reminded that the Brits are well ahead of us in their affection for black kitties. I believe I have opined before on the subject of black cats representing good luck there whereas we take the very backward position that they are bad luck.
One of many Margate lucky black cat postcards. Not in my collection.
One particular superstition I discovered this morning is that in parts of England if a bride receives a black cat as a gift on her wedding day it is believed she will have luck in her marriage. I say let’s all move there! Happy black cats must abound. They are also thought to bring prosperity in Scotland if found on your doorstep or porch. (I’ll add that with Blackie and Beau in the family, we know we are lucky and prosperous indeed!)
Not a great photo but here Blackie and Beau meet for the first time last summer. Recognition that they are indeed both black cats seemed to be in the air.
I believe that Mr. Hawes’s photo is the first that I found in the wild so to speak – not being sold but a family photo, still being enjoyed by the family. It is also rare in that it is dated and noted on the back as below.
Chay says his mom is good about labeling photos and they have nice albums full as well as some wall space devoted to them. It has inspired me to do more with some of the family photos found in Jersey as I organize the house there. Mom and I went through many, but of course have found a bunch of them since she died and now no one to help me identify the folks within. (In fact, heading to NJ now.)
Back of postcard is nicely noted.
Few of my photo postcards of this genre have any notes and none have been mailed. I go on record by stating that I controlled myself admirably and did not beg him to sell it to me. It is a gem though!
The photographer was having a splendid day in the way he set the kids up on the chair, presumably between their parents. Mom wears a lovely fashionable outfit and an especially nice hat. Dad sports his cap and a pipe. Dad is in front of some sort of sign I am a bit curious about. The children all have a remarkable family likeness. It really is a wonderful family photo! The kitty might be a different actual one than any of the others I have as his white mouth (almost bejeweled looking!) and toes are very prominent – claw paws on this kitty. He has nice whiskers as well.
Chay also noted that his still young grandfather was shown clad in uniform a few short photos later. A sobering reminder that our family photos are snatches of time, a story told in pieces but a story nonetheless.
It gives me great pleasure to know that this photo resides with the family and enjoys status as part of family lore. Thank you so much Chay for writing in and sharing this photo!
Pam’s Pictorama Post: Sometimes in the (ideally) long running life of a marriage by necessity gift giving becomes a bit mercurial. In reality, for me buying gifts for Kim always has been largely so (our first Christmas together I bought him a lightboard), however and I seem to veer between the extremely practical (he always gets new socks and underwear from me each Christmas, albeit in sportier prints than he might choose on his own) or on the rare occasion I find something like this year’s gift.
There have been past posts about Mia, aka @ The Ruby Foxes Jewellery (or http://www.therubyfoxes.com) who sold me this. She and her family live in the British countryside and she sells jewelry and other small finds online. Over the years and beyond some jewelry, I have purchased all sorts of things including some lovely jewelry boxes (a post about one of those here), a cat door knocker and an ancient cat match holder (posts here and here). In addition to her wares, I enjoy a stream of photos of the stunning countryside near their home, the pups and kitties – especially the fluffy senior cat, Enid Noodle – as well as the exotic bat-eared Astrid and Sigrid.
Another match related acquisition from @therubyfoxes. Pams-Pictorama.com collection.
I can go for months without purchasing anything from Mia and then find myself sitting on the subway in Manhattan heading to work (back when I did that – I walk now) and discover she’s posted a tidbit I must have.
One morning over early coffee months ago, I saw this in her feed and for some reason immediately decided I would buy it and keep it as a Christmas gift for Kim. Mia, knowing me and having experienced my ineptitude with the closure on one of the jewelry boxes, wisely supplied a video solving the mystery of how to open it. (thank you again Mia!) We did indeed need to refer to her video on my phone Christmas morning to be reminded how to open it.
For any not in the know, a vesta is a container for carrying matches, both to keep them dry and prevent them from igniting in a time before safety matches and of course matchbooks and ultimately lighters. The first friction matches appeared in 1826 and I guess the need to carry the makings around followed shortly after. The term comes from the Roman goddess of the fire and hearth of the same name.
Size comparison between the vesta and an American match safe. Both in Pams-Pictorama.com collection.
Vestas abound in my Instagram feed – I don’t know what exactly this says about me although in a sense it probably means that, at least for me, I am doing something right. They seem to frequently be made of silver and occasionally appear on a chain for a woman to wear around her neck.
I’m not sure however that pre-pandemic and the curation of my feed to feature antique jewelry in addition to cute cats, that I even knew the term vesta although I do own two cat match safes. (Those rather prized and beloved items have been lovingly described here and here and an elephant one that was actually a Christmas gift from Kim, here.) The internet informs me that these terms are interchangeable although the term match safe is the more prosaic American term for the British vesta. British matches were shorter and a vesta is in general much shorter than a match safe.
Back of the vesta.
This little fellow does indeed seem singular. It is made of silver (plate as we can see where it has worn a bit around its much used edges) and has a striking surface on the bottom, both more or less de rigueur for a vesta, but the engraving on the front is what got me. I immediately loved the funny little Devil, pointy with pitchfork and the script invitation, How the [Devil] do you open it? He is an imaginative incarnation of a Devil, sort of a horned, skeleton dog creature with a arrow for a tail and long arms. On the back, inscribed in the same hand of fancy script, A Bliss. How about a drink Will? We’ll never know who Will (aka A Bliss?) is or about his drinking habits, but he is with us now.
For readers who remember my posts over the holidays, you know that we were experiencing a crescendo of activity which included my job at Jazz ending, acquiring a horrible stomach virus and immediately packing up the New York cats and heading to New Jersey for a month long holiday stint. Luckily I remembered to dig this out and put it in a bag of gifts (mostly underwear and argyle socks of course).
It also opens wider if needed.
Even more fortunately, I remembered Mia’s little video unlocking the mystery of opening it. I still have to refer to it! While quite easy and logical once you know, it is a bit confounding if you forget. There is significant wear along the side you press, below the striking spot, which should be a good reminder that this is where you push to open.
I am glad to report that Kim loves it. He generally leaves it open and keeps some pills in it queued up for taking, as our current match needs are fulfilled by a large box of wooden ones in the kitchen or a lighter. It was one of those rare finds that has become a part of Deitch Studio and another shout out to Mia for finding it and sharing it with us!
Pam's Pictorama 