Spitball Army

Transcribing correspondence from the World War II era, starting with that of Beverly Anderson, has been an ongoing, truly enjoyable experience for me, and an educational one. I have always had a fascination with history, particularly cultural history, and find the War era especially rich. “Ancient” American culture is a puzzle: discovering what was once in vogue, what customs we have retained, what practices have fallen by the wayside. I have been particularly surprised with phrases and sayings from this period, some familiar and some that might as well be in a foreign language.

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There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.

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I went over to Atlanta a few hours early last Tuesday, before dinner and the Josh Ritter concert, planning to do some exploring in the High Art Museum.

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Speaking of No Depression, I was really sad when they “folded” late last year. Not only was their bi-monthly publication consistently interesting and well-written and filled with good humor and enthusiasm, but the small staff was a joy to deal with, from a retailer’s viewpoint.

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And when he got going good he was completely lost in his work, so absorbed that he had no idea what a comic face he was making. His tongue lolled out in a fat roll, his cheeks puffed out, and his eyes popped out and crossed themselves.

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Grace Bergere, a young rock drummer, remained hospitalized yesterday with an injured hip.

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Temporary impact? Possibly. But you can bet that the non-freezers in the station that day thought about the experience for days or, at least, hours afterward.

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Philip Glass performing at Change Your Mind Day in Central Park in NYC (1999)

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