Parkview_Package_Store_MD
Colorful and whimsical treatment for this large neon liquor store sign - Parkview Liquor Store, Cumberland, Maryland.
Uploaded by PopKulture on 21 May 10, 4.34PM PDT.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
MALIBU, CALIFORNIA, EARLY 1970S BY R.L.HUFFSTUTTER
MALIBU, CALIFORNIA, EARLY 1970S BY R.L.HUFFSTUTTER
Uploaded by roberthuffstutter on 8 Aug 10, 8.25AM PDT
Uploaded by roberthuffstutter on 8 Aug 10, 8.25AM PDT
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
ONE VERY BEAUTIFUL YOUNG WOMAN
a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/29578994@N08/3526099779/" title="026 by hikaru_yf19, on Flickr">
There is a sensuality about the young woman that will surely guarantee her a most successful modeling career wherever she might choose. There is, too, the world of cinema. If I was a producer, a director or the owner of a movie production company, I would pursue her and feel as though she would become the star she looks like. My congratulations to the photographer, and to the young lady. Wishing you the best in your future.
There is a sensuality about the young woman that will surely guarantee her a most successful modeling career wherever she might choose. There is, too, the world of cinema. If I was a producer, a director or the owner of a movie production company, I would pursue her and feel as though she would become the star she looks like. My congratulations to the photographer, and to the young lady. Wishing you the best in your future.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Riding Amtrak (1975)
Riding Amtrak (1975)
Eastern USA, November 1975.
Uploaded by Hunter-Desportes on 22 Nov 09, 11.37AM PDT.
Eastern USA, November 1975.
Uploaded by Hunter-Desportes on 22 Nov 09, 11.37AM PDT.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
THE WAY IT WAS DURING THE LAST WAR...
THE STORY OF HOW I CAME ABOUT MY ALMOST COMPLETE COLLECTION OF NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINES By Robert L. Huffstutter
CHAPTER ONE
When I was a little kid (child), I had an elderly couple who lived across the street from me. She was a cheerful lady, always out in her yard tending to her flowers, always wearing a floral bonnet tied up beneath her chin with long, wide strings.
Those outfits she wore were nearly as colorful as her garden.
And her garden? My, what an array of floral splendor, but a most informal type of garden. It was only in the last few years that I learned the definition of English garden. Thus, it was an English garden she was tending, all dressed in her gingham outfits and bonnets, always smiling.
She had the cheeks of a character illustrated in a very deluxe and leather-bound tale of English fables with graphics that were the state of the arts in the late 1890s. She was a child of the 19th century who had grown old and grand in the mid 20th century. But more about her as the feminine half of the couple I mentioned before entering upon this detailed and refined description of the lady whose name was Mrs Bresingham, an English name, perchance, but it was the name of her man, her husband, that male counterpart of this couple I want to tell more about, but in time.
Now, Mrs. Bresingham would trim her garden with snippers as I watched, tossing leaves and greenery behind her but never near me. She sensed my presence before she peered up with her blue eyes that knew no shadows and only reflected the sunlight that streamed through the gaps between the many diverse and mature trees that adorned her yard. But not her yard alone, for it was her husband's yard too.
"Hello, Bobby," she would speak so precisely as our eyes met. And her eyes were so blue they fascinated me. It was only later in life that I imagined they might have reflected the sea near the White Cliffs of Dover on a clear day, but at that time, at that moment in time, I had yet to hear about the White Cliffs or the songs that were sung about them in the war years. And the war years had ended only five years from the time when this scene I am describing took place.
"Hello, Mrs. Bresingham," I would respond and stand at a kind of attention stance, watching her.
Alas, she would take off her gloves, lay down her shears and adjust her bonnet while untying her chin strings. "The mister is expecting your visit, " she would say softly. "He is so happy you are going to visit with him for awhile."
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER ONE
When I was a little kid (child), I had an elderly couple who lived across the street from me. She was a cheerful lady, always out in her yard tending to her flowers, always wearing a floral bonnet tied up beneath her chin with long, wide strings.
Those outfits she wore were nearly as colorful as her garden.
And her garden? My, what an array of floral splendor, but a most informal type of garden. It was only in the last few years that I learned the definition of English garden. Thus, it was an English garden she was tending, all dressed in her gingham outfits and bonnets, always smiling.
She had the cheeks of a character illustrated in a very deluxe and leather-bound tale of English fables with graphics that were the state of the arts in the late 1890s. She was a child of the 19th century who had grown old and grand in the mid 20th century. But more about her as the feminine half of the couple I mentioned before entering upon this detailed and refined description of the lady whose name was Mrs Bresingham, an English name, perchance, but it was the name of her man, her husband, that male counterpart of this couple I want to tell more about, but in time.
Now, Mrs. Bresingham would trim her garden with snippers as I watched, tossing leaves and greenery behind her but never near me. She sensed my presence before she peered up with her blue eyes that knew no shadows and only reflected the sunlight that streamed through the gaps between the many diverse and mature trees that adorned her yard. But not her yard alone, for it was her husband's yard too.
"Hello, Bobby," she would speak so precisely as our eyes met. And her eyes were so blue they fascinated me. It was only later in life that I imagined they might have reflected the sea near the White Cliffs of Dover on a clear day, but at that time, at that moment in time, I had yet to hear about the White Cliffs or the songs that were sung about them in the war years. And the war years had ended only five years from the time when this scene I am describing took place.
"Hello, Mrs. Bresingham," I would respond and stand at a kind of attention stance, watching her.
Alas, she would take off her gloves, lay down her shears and adjust her bonnet while untying her chin strings. "The mister is expecting your visit, " she would say softly. "He is so happy you are going to visit with him for awhile."
CHAPTER TWO
Sunday, February 14, 2010
MOTOMACHI MEMORIES: REMEMBERING JAPAN OF THE 1960S
IN RESPONSE TO A COMMENT MADE ABOUT THIS PHOTO ON MY FLICKR PHOTOSTREAM. Comment made by Quietude
TO QUIETUDE...Thank you for your comments.
We share many of the same memories and this makes us good friends in that the sights we saw are memories. That we now realize that change takes place and removes the realtiy of returning, we share the same thoughts about those memories being real, and memories that trigger pleasant thoughts.
Thank you very much for mentioning Motomachi, an area where a young man from far away found much joy and friendship among the people there at that time. I knew many of the shop-keepers, the owners and cooks of the small soba shops and restaurants.
There were many weekends spent in Motomachi. Although pizza was relatively a new item, especially in Japan, we found a place where pizza was sold. So, the weekends were filled with special moments, conversation, sketching, reading haiku and American poetry, pizza and sometimes sake and sometime soft drinks.
If the night was cold, the innkeeper would bring us a small iron vessel with charcoal embers that radiated heat enough. The rooms were traditional, with tatami mats, one small and low table, and a futon. There was no Television provided, but a radio was tuned to the popular Japanese songs of the day, thus the nights were filled with melodies and haunting, romantic lyrics, love songs mostly, long gone, songs that are probably much like the USA's Golden Oldies.
Yes, I loved the Japanese music too. Sometimes, specail times in our lives are not destined to last, but to serve only as memories of our youth and special times in youth, a time to remember when we grow older and need to reflect on our youth. Thus, that is the view I must take of Motomachi memories, lest I be burdened by too many regrets. Regrets, I have a few, but far too many to remember everyday. Frank Sinatra said it best in song...
TO QUIETUDE...Thank you for your comments.
We share many of the same memories and this makes us good friends in that the sights we saw are memories. That we now realize that change takes place and removes the realtiy of returning, we share the same thoughts about those memories being real, and memories that trigger pleasant thoughts.
Thank you very much for mentioning Motomachi, an area where a young man from far away found much joy and friendship among the people there at that time. I knew many of the shop-keepers, the owners and cooks of the small soba shops and restaurants.
There were many weekends spent in Motomachi. Although pizza was relatively a new item, especially in Japan, we found a place where pizza was sold. So, the weekends were filled with special moments, conversation, sketching, reading haiku and American poetry, pizza and sometimes sake and sometime soft drinks.
If the night was cold, the innkeeper would bring us a small iron vessel with charcoal embers that radiated heat enough. The rooms were traditional, with tatami mats, one small and low table, and a futon. There was no Television provided, but a radio was tuned to the popular Japanese songs of the day, thus the nights were filled with melodies and haunting, romantic lyrics, love songs mostly, long gone, songs that are probably much like the USA's Golden Oldies.
Yes, I loved the Japanese music too. Sometimes, specail times in our lives are not destined to last, but to serve only as memories of our youth and special times in youth, a time to remember when we grow older and need to reflect on our youth. Thus, that is the view I must take of Motomachi memories, lest I be burdened by too many regrets. Regrets, I have a few, but far too many to remember everyday. Frank Sinatra said it best in song...
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
RARE PHOTO OF MY GRANDFATHER, BORN IN 1856
To Kayceetee and Salinagrrrl...........Thanks for the comments, feedback and suggestions. No, it is the way it is, the way I happened to find it several days ago. Had never seen it and I have only a few photos of this man who is responsible for my presence in that, of course, he is my grandfather.
His story is somewhat unique in that he began a second family in the 1890s, the family that includes my uncles and my dad. According to the family legend, he wanted to leave what was his original home and journey to Missouri to begin a new enterprise. There are several stories about where he called home. What is somewhat odd is that he was married and had children in whatever was his location. And like so many men in today's world, he simply decided to go to greener pastures. His wife, however, was not willing to pack up and leave. Here is the rub--was she simply an independent woman who felt like she had a right to weigh in on the decision or was she, according to Scripture, disobediant in that she did not obey her husband's wishes and did not support his plans for seeking new opportunities?
Now, so far removed from that domestic situation, I have no way to find out the exact details. I do know that wherever he was when he decided to move without his wife and family, there would be the descendents of those who know the details. Whatsmore, since he had a very large family, there are descendents to whom I am related but have not responded to any of my inquiries.
In more than one instance when inquiring, I received not even an acknowledgement that there are other people who are related to them.
That my grandfather was a man who followed his dreams can be attested to by the fact that, according to the stories I've heard, he simply "packed his wagon and headed to Missouri." From what we have been able to put together, he settled first in Tarkio, Missouri, northwest of Laredo, Missouri. To bring this part of the story to a conclusion, Robert Levi moved to Laredo, a railroad town, in the 1890s and married a woman named Sarah Jane or Sarah Ann Rooks. She was twenty-plus years his junior. I do not know if she was previously married or whether her union with Robert Levi was her first marriage.
Robert and Sarah had a large family. His first child was Frank, born on New Year's Day in eithr 1899 or 1900. (If there are relatives reading this who know the exact date, they are welcome to contact me via my Flicker E-mail, the only E-mail that I am able to use due to a real large amount of confusion using the messenger service, etc).
Grandad Huffstutter and Grandmother Huffstutter's family consisted of: George Francis Huffstutter, James Eldon Huffstutter, Ella Huffstutter, Lenore Huffstutter, Marietta Huffstutter and my dad, the last sibling, born in 1912. Sarah, the mother, died either in childbirth with my dad, or within several years thereafter. The information is available, but I have forgotten. Grandad Huffstutter lived from 1856 until 1938. He passed away four years before my birth. Yes, it would have been great to have known him.
His youngest grandchild would be, according to my calculation, my sister Linn, born in June of 1943. According to my stats, I am his last grandson, thus I do feel a link to him that transcends much time with very little interruption from his birth to mine, the only link, my dad. Many people believe I am referring to my great grandfather when I mention that my grandad was nine years old when President Lincoln's life ended. No, he was my grandfather.
Throughout my lifetime, I have met Huffstutters who know nothing about this tale. I have also met other Huffstutters, or talked with them via phone, who acknowledged that they were related to my grandfather, but were not sure where the links were.
One of my first contacts with another Huffstutter I never met was in the autumn of 1958 when my high school buddy and I decided to drive to Denver. We were only 16, and we surprised our parents by taking this unauthorized trip. Anyway, while in Denver, I looked in the phone book and found a Huffstutter, called them and recall they said, "yes, we are related." I do not recall their first names, but I was elated, finding a new family member. It was a real find for a 16 year old boy.
My next encounter with a Huffstutter was while in Japan. I decided I wanted to go to Hiroshima and caught a ride on a USN plane from NAS Atsugi to MCAS Iwakuni, Japan. Upon checking into the desk at the Marine Corps Air Station, a Marine behind the counter asked if I was related to Colonel (Lt-Col) Hardy V. Huffstutter, a base or wing commander, I cannot recall. He might have been the base commander, I do not know. I responded truthfully, elated that I might be related to a Marine officer. "Yes, I think we are distant relatives," I answered.
There are many Huffstutters out there. According to the family tree, one I viewed at a website that existed several years ago called "The Huffstutter Connection" the first Huffstutter, arrived in this country from Switzerland. The year was 1732, the port, Philadelphia, the vessel, the Priscilla. According to extended history, he fought in the Indian wars and the Revolutionary War.
There was a cartoon series I enjoyed when I was younger. It ended with the familiar words, "That's All Folks." Thus, that is the story around my Grandfather in a nutshell. If there are those who want to share more information, feel welcome to send me a Flicker E Mail.
Robert L. Huffstutter
His story is somewhat unique in that he began a second family in the 1890s, the family that includes my uncles and my dad. According to the family legend, he wanted to leave what was his original home and journey to Missouri to begin a new enterprise. There are several stories about where he called home. What is somewhat odd is that he was married and had children in whatever was his location. And like so many men in today's world, he simply decided to go to greener pastures. His wife, however, was not willing to pack up and leave. Here is the rub--was she simply an independent woman who felt like she had a right to weigh in on the decision or was she, according to Scripture, disobediant in that she did not obey her husband's wishes and did not support his plans for seeking new opportunities?
Now, so far removed from that domestic situation, I have no way to find out the exact details. I do know that wherever he was when he decided to move without his wife and family, there would be the descendents of those who know the details. Whatsmore, since he had a very large family, there are descendents to whom I am related but have not responded to any of my inquiries.
In more than one instance when inquiring, I received not even an acknowledgement that there are other people who are related to them.
That my grandfather was a man who followed his dreams can be attested to by the fact that, according to the stories I've heard, he simply "packed his wagon and headed to Missouri." From what we have been able to put together, he settled first in Tarkio, Missouri, northwest of Laredo, Missouri. To bring this part of the story to a conclusion, Robert Levi moved to Laredo, a railroad town, in the 1890s and married a woman named Sarah Jane or Sarah Ann Rooks. She was twenty-plus years his junior. I do not know if she was previously married or whether her union with Robert Levi was her first marriage.
Robert and Sarah had a large family. His first child was Frank, born on New Year's Day in eithr 1899 or 1900. (If there are relatives reading this who know the exact date, they are welcome to contact me via my Flicker E-mail, the only E-mail that I am able to use due to a real large amount of confusion using the messenger service, etc).
Grandad Huffstutter and Grandmother Huffstutter's family consisted of: George Francis Huffstutter, James Eldon Huffstutter, Ella Huffstutter, Lenore Huffstutter, Marietta Huffstutter and my dad, the last sibling, born in 1912. Sarah, the mother, died either in childbirth with my dad, or within several years thereafter. The information is available, but I have forgotten. Grandad Huffstutter lived from 1856 until 1938. He passed away four years before my birth. Yes, it would have been great to have known him.
His youngest grandchild would be, according to my calculation, my sister Linn, born in June of 1943. According to my stats, I am his last grandson, thus I do feel a link to him that transcends much time with very little interruption from his birth to mine, the only link, my dad. Many people believe I am referring to my great grandfather when I mention that my grandad was nine years old when President Lincoln's life ended. No, he was my grandfather.
Throughout my lifetime, I have met Huffstutters who know nothing about this tale. I have also met other Huffstutters, or talked with them via phone, who acknowledged that they were related to my grandfather, but were not sure where the links were.
One of my first contacts with another Huffstutter I never met was in the autumn of 1958 when my high school buddy and I decided to drive to Denver. We were only 16, and we surprised our parents by taking this unauthorized trip. Anyway, while in Denver, I looked in the phone book and found a Huffstutter, called them and recall they said, "yes, we are related." I do not recall their first names, but I was elated, finding a new family member. It was a real find for a 16 year old boy.
My next encounter with a Huffstutter was while in Japan. I decided I wanted to go to Hiroshima and caught a ride on a USN plane from NAS Atsugi to MCAS Iwakuni, Japan. Upon checking into the desk at the Marine Corps Air Station, a Marine behind the counter asked if I was related to Colonel (Lt-Col) Hardy V. Huffstutter, a base or wing commander, I cannot recall. He might have been the base commander, I do not know. I responded truthfully, elated that I might be related to a Marine officer. "Yes, I think we are distant relatives," I answered.
There are many Huffstutters out there. According to the family tree, one I viewed at a website that existed several years ago called "The Huffstutter Connection" the first Huffstutter, arrived in this country from Switzerland. The year was 1732, the port, Philadelphia, the vessel, the Priscilla. According to extended history, he fought in the Indian wars and the Revolutionary War.
There was a cartoon series I enjoyed when I was younger. It ended with the familiar words, "That's All Folks." Thus, that is the story around my Grandfather in a nutshell. If there are those who want to share more information, feel welcome to send me a Flicker E Mail.
Robert L. Huffstutter
Monday, February 8, 2010
80's spandex girls
WHEN I SAW THIS PHOTO, I THOUGHT ABOUT THE EARLY MORNINGS IN THE 80S WHEN I FIRST TURNED ON THE TUBE AND SAW A SEXY GROUP OF MOST APPEALING YOUNG WOMEN DOING AEROBICS. OH', IT WAS SUCH A STIMULATING SHOW, SO FULL OF APPEAL AND PURE LUST; IT WAS CALLED "THE TWENTY-MINUTE WORKOUT." YES, I BECAME AN INSTANT FAN. I WORKED OUT RIGHT ALONG SIDE OF THEM. IT WAS NOT TOO LONG AFTERWARDS THAT I BOUGHT MY FIRST 55 INCH TV....
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80's spandex girls
Uploaded by lovesthesmokeyladies on 21
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80's spandex girls
Uploaded by lovesthesmokeyladies on 21
Decatur, IL Neon Shoes
WOW.............yes, it has the "wow" factor I kid you not. These old signs are a definite reminder of an era when coffee was a nickel or a dime and beer was usually no more than 25 cents per large mug. I cannot tell you how many times I wandered beneath these signs back in the 60s after a night at the Cozy Inn, to check into my hotel room for the night in some city across the USA. Oftentimes, there was one of these buzzing neon "hotel" signs right outside my window.
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Decatur, IL Neon Shoes
Decatur, IL: Looking south...Classic neon sign for Raupp's Florsheim Shoes on Water St. in downtown Decatur.
Uploaded by pobrecito33 on 19 Nov 09, 4.19PM PST
POBRECITO HAS A REALLY FANTASTIC PHOTOSTREAM ON FLICKR AND I HIGHLY RECOMMEND READERS TO PAY THE PHOTOSTREAM A VISIT. Robert, Editor BLOGABOUTMEMORIES...
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Decatur, IL Neon Shoes
Decatur, IL: Looking south...Classic neon sign for Raupp's Florsheim Shoes on Water St. in downtown Decatur.
Uploaded by pobrecito33 on 19 Nov 09, 4.19PM PST
POBRECITO HAS A REALLY FANTASTIC PHOTOSTREAM ON FLICKR AND I HIGHLY RECOMMEND READERS TO PAY THE PHOTOSTREAM A VISIT. Robert, Editor BLOGABOUTMEMORIES...
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Happy New Year for all!
Happy New Year for all!
I wish 2010 will be an amazing year for all of us!
Uploaded by Princess Cy on 31 Dec 09, 7.50AM PST.
I wish 2010 will be an amazing year for all of us!
Uploaded by Princess Cy on 31 Dec 09, 7.50AM PST.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
bare midriff
A BEAUTIFUL IMAGE............
bare midriff
Young woman with tied underware shirt revealing bare midriff.
Uploaded by hotsin07 on 4 Jul 09, 9.31AM
bare midriff
Young woman with tied underware shirt revealing bare midriff.
Uploaded by hotsin07 on 4 Jul 09, 9.31AM
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Broken Road
Dave, this is one of your all-time classics. When I look at this one, it makes me realize what an amazing photographer you are and how much I have learned about photography through these past few years by the simple look and see methods. Just a note to say that your photos will always be special. Here's hoping you are having a great wintering over season in your mountain domain...Rob
Many years ago, while hitchhiking across these great United States, I thought I had a sure ride into Los Angeles, but little did I know that the driver had planned on turning north, or south, about three hundred miles away from Los Angeles. This could be the lonesome spot where my ride ended, the spot where I spent one of the coldest nights in my life. There were few auto traversing this route then, and few were eager to pick up a young man in a sailor suit, or perhaps I was wearing scraggly clothing, I can't recall, but I do recall the howls of the wolves and coyotes at night. For the record, when you publish that coffee table book........................
Many years ago, while hitchhiking across these great United States, I thought I had a sure ride into Los Angeles, but little did I know that the driver had planned on turning north, or south, about three hundred miles away from Los Angeles. This could be the lonesome spot where my ride ended, the spot where I spent one of the coldest nights in my life. There were few auto traversing this route then, and few were eager to pick up a young man in a sailor suit, or perhaps I was wearing scraggly clothing, I can't recall, but I do recall the howls of the wolves and coyotes at night. For the record, when you publish that coffee table book........................
Friday, January 1, 2010
GRANDFATHER WITH LITTLE FRANK, JR.
ESSAY ON OLD VINTAGE PHOTOGRAPHS
This is one of many vintage photographs I have saved from our family albums. It has taken some doing, but through the years, whenever I saw a box of our old photos that seemed to be destined for attic storage or out of the way in some remote location, I have saved them in special places for just such times as these. I knew the time would come when I would want to review them once again.
Having been to some old estate sales as a young lad in Missouri, I saw tons of boxes of old photos being sold in odd lots by relatives eager to rid themselves of all the memories of beloved relatives. At the time, it seemed very odd and confused me. Why would one get rid of old photos of people who were dear to them I asked myself. I would have purchased those boxes had I had the money, but I will never forget the sadness. Will we all end up in old boxes at estate sales someday? Hopefully, we have taught our children better; hopefully, the memories they have of us will spare us such fate.
Robert L. Huffstutter
This is one of many vintage photographs I have saved from our family albums. It has taken some doing, but through the years, whenever I saw a box of our old photos that seemed to be destined for attic storage or out of the way in some remote location, I have saved them in special places for just such times as these. I knew the time would come when I would want to review them once again.
Having been to some old estate sales as a young lad in Missouri, I saw tons of boxes of old photos being sold in odd lots by relatives eager to rid themselves of all the memories of beloved relatives. At the time, it seemed very odd and confused me. Why would one get rid of old photos of people who were dear to them I asked myself. I would have purchased those boxes had I had the money, but I will never forget the sadness. Will we all end up in old boxes at estate sales someday? Hopefully, we have taught our children better; hopefully, the memories they have of us will spare us such fate.
Robert L. Huffstutter
Saturday, December 12, 2009
FIRST COUSIN, SECOND COUSIN AND THIRD COUSINS
GLORIA AND HER DAUGHTER, CHERYL...and her little ones. Time flys. This photo was taken in 1970. See other references to and about this photo: MARIETTA MC DANIELS, SUMMER OF 1959, BILL MC DANIEL, NIGHT IN JUAREZ, FIRST TRAINTRIP TO CALIFORNIA 1959
My California cousins. The last time I saw them was in the summer of 1959. This photo was taken in approximately 1970 and was mailed to my Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Jim.
My California cousins. The last time I saw them was in the summer of 1959. This photo was taken in approximately 1970 and was mailed to my Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Jim.
CALIFORNIA COUSINS AT DISNEYLAND IN 1959
REFERENCES IN MY FLICKR AND BLOGS:
CALIFORNIA COUSINS AT DISNEYLAND IN 1959
MARIETTA'S DAUGHTER AND GRANDCHILDREN.
SUMMER OF 1959, FIRST VISIT TO CALIFORNIA, GLORIA AND JACK, AUNT MARIETTA, BILL McDANIELS
Uploaded by roberthuffstutter
CALIFORNIA COUSINS AT DISNEYLAND IN 1959
MARIETTA'S DAUGHTER AND GRANDCHILDREN.
SUMMER OF 1959, FIRST VISIT TO CALIFORNIA, GLORIA AND JACK, AUNT MARIETTA, BILL McDANIELS
Uploaded by roberthuffstutter
LIL' GLORIA AND BILLY McDANIELS IN 1920S
THESE WERE IN ONE OF MY OLD TRUNKS. THE PARENTS OF THESE TWO YOUNGSTERS WERE VERN AND MARIETTA McDANIELS (McDANIEL). AUNT MARIETTA WAS MY AUNT, DAUGHTER OF ROBERT LEVI HUFFSTUTTER (BORN 1856) MARIETTA BORN APPROXIMATELY 1908. CHILDREN IN PICTURE BORN IN 1920S. THESE TWO LITTLE ONES GREW UP TO BECOME MY CALIFORNIA COUSINS WITH WHOM I VISITED IN THE SUMMER OF 1959.
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THESE WERE IN ONE OF MY OLD TRUNKS. THE PARENTS OF THESE TWO YOUNGSTERS WERE VERN AND MARIETTA McDANIELS (McDANIEL). AUNT MARIETTA WAS MY AUNT, DAUGHTER OF ROBERT LEVI HUFFSTUTTER (BORN 1856) MARIETTA BORN APPROXIMATELY 1908. CHILDREN IN PICTURE BORN IN 1920S. THESE TWO LITTLE ONES GREW UP TO BECOME MY CALIFORNIA COUSINS WITH WHOM I VISITED IN THE SUMMER OF 1959.
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THESE WERE IN ONE OF MY OLD TRUNKS. THE PARENTS OF THESE TWO YOUNGSTERS WERE VERN AND MARIETTA McDANIELS (McDANIEL). AUNT MARIETTA WAS MY AUNT, DAUGHTER OF ROBERT LEVI HUFFSTUTTER (BORN 1856) MARIETTA BORN APPROXIMATELY 1908. CHILDREN IN PICTURE BORN IN 1920S. THESE TWO LITTLE ONES GREW UP TO BECOME MY CALIFORNIA COUSINS WITH WHOM I VISITED IN THE SUMMER OF 1959.
LIL' GLORIA AND BILLY McDANIELS IN 1920S
AUNT MARIETTA'S TWO CHILDREN.........
When bill was only two years old, he and his sister lived at one of the finest residential apartment hotels in kansas city, near the country club plaza. Rumor is that he fell out of a third story window and was severly injured. Bill enlisted in the u.S. Navy just as world war two was closing. I vaguely recall bill taking me into one of his old haunts while he was home on leave. My mind tells me that it was a pool hall and tavern. My relationship with bill was one that would last throughout his life. While living with me and my family, bill enjoyed the last months of his life trying to win the battle he had fought with alcohol throughout his lifetime. As so frequently happens, fate was not kind to his rehabilitation efforts and bill passed away in the summer of 1983.
BILL WAS A GRACIOUS HOST WHEN I STAYED PART OF THE SUMMER OF 1959 WITH HIM AND HIS WIFE, JUNE, AND FAMILY. THEY LIVED IN PACOIMA, IN THE VALLEY. MAY HE REST IN PEACH......
When bill was only two years old, he and his sister lived at one of the finest residential apartment hotels in kansas city, near the country club plaza. Rumor is that he fell out of a third story window and was severly injured. Bill enlisted in the u.S. Navy just as world war two was closing. I vaguely recall bill taking me into one of his old haunts while he was home on leave. My mind tells me that it was a pool hall and tavern. My relationship with bill was one that would last throughout his life. While living with me and my family, bill enjoyed the last months of his life trying to win the battle he had fought with alcohol throughout his lifetime. As so frequently happens, fate was not kind to his rehabilitation efforts and bill passed away in the summer of 1983.
BILL WAS A GRACIOUS HOST WHEN I STAYED PART OF THE SUMMER OF 1959 WITH HIM AND HIS WIFE, JUNE, AND FAMILY. THEY LIVED IN PACOIMA, IN THE VALLEY. MAY HE REST IN PEACH......
MARIETTA McDANIEL, CALIFORNIA AUNT, 1959
My favorite aunt, Aunt Marietta, my uncle's sister and my dad's sister found out real quickly about me once I landed on her doorstep in the summer of 1959. She met me at the Santa Fe Station in Downtown Los Angeles, a day later than I was scheduled to arrive because of a side trip I made to Juarez, Mexico. See the story in my photostream on Flickr about NIGHT IN JUAREZ. Aunt Marietta would be over one-hundred years old if living today. After my summer in California, she ceased to favor me as a nephew and I became the wayward nephew. Such is life. She wasn't perfect either. Her son, Bill Mc Daniel and I were close cousins, so close, unfortunately, thathe passed away at my home in 1983. Bill was an alcoholic and was on the road to recovery when he died of a heart-attack. I told Marietta he was not drinking when he died, but she never forgave me for letting Bill stay with us. She never could get it through her head that he was recovering. She wrote me a nasty letter. She demanded that I send his television and BBQ grill back to her. Afterall,she had purchased it for him. Oh, it goes on and on. And it was, according to her and her daughter, Gloria, all my fault. Well, to set the record straight--it wasn't. I had bought Bill a car and helped him get a job. I had given him a room in my home. Unfortunately, he died. And once the ashes were sent to Marietta, I never heard a word from anyone in the family. Not a word. Nor did Bill's children ever contact me. Life goes on and I remember that old saying, a good deed never goes without punishment. So, to whomever might be reading this on the West Coast, Cheryl, Diane, Gloria, Rodney, June or Jack, know you know the rest of the story....
1975 BUICK SKYLARK: CARS WE HAVE LOVED
ESSAY ON THE BEAUTY OF BUICKS AND THE TASTE OF BEER: THE CONFESSIONS OF AN EX-ALCOHOLIC
Incidentally, the child sitting on top of this revered classic is our daughter. Note the shadow person in the left corner, ready to dash to her instantaneous rescue if necessary.
This was the year of the model change for GM. We had purchased our first Buick Skylark in 1970, and a second Skylark only eighteen months later. When it caught fire one cold winter evening and was totaled by the insurance company, it was replaced with this new and neatly appointed Skylark with red interior and full power. I recall how much it appeared like a new toy to me.
Because I had been in the previous Skylark when it was totaled, looking at this photo makes me realize how fortunate I was that I did not burn with the auto. The steering wheel had melted, the mileage indicator was charred beyond accountability of the mileage, thus the "new" replacement. For some months thereafter, I had some serious lung problems. I also kept my vow not to leave the engine running when I felt like I needed to sleep in my vehicle for the night after a tad bit too much partying.
This was one of a number of miracles that happened, miracles I account as Divine. By all accounts, using that television program as a line, "I should have been dead by now." If but by the grace of God. There were five other seperate incidents that were equally, if not more, eerie, where my life had been in serious danger and I was whisked out of danger if by an Angel or the hand of the Divine.
Sometime I will write about those times, but then I had most likely leave them sealed in the vat of memory. Let me simply say that in all case but one, there had been alcohol involved. I have said it many times before, " If I had my life to lead over, I would never have taken my first drink of beer one summer evening back in the 1940s while my Aunt Marietta was visiting and sat her can of beer down behind her lawn chair where I was playing cars. That's right, I will blame it on her, typical alcoholic rationale. No, not really. It was a child's curiosity to taste what the adults were drinking in those so attractive and shiny cans that seemed to make them laugh and be so merry.
By R.L. Huffstutter
Incidentally, the child sitting on top of this revered classic is our daughter. Note the shadow person in the left corner, ready to dash to her instantaneous rescue if necessary.
This was the year of the model change for GM. We had purchased our first Buick Skylark in 1970, and a second Skylark only eighteen months later. When it caught fire one cold winter evening and was totaled by the insurance company, it was replaced with this new and neatly appointed Skylark with red interior and full power. I recall how much it appeared like a new toy to me.
Because I had been in the previous Skylark when it was totaled, looking at this photo makes me realize how fortunate I was that I did not burn with the auto. The steering wheel had melted, the mileage indicator was charred beyond accountability of the mileage, thus the "new" replacement. For some months thereafter, I had some serious lung problems. I also kept my vow not to leave the engine running when I felt like I needed to sleep in my vehicle for the night after a tad bit too much partying.
This was one of a number of miracles that happened, miracles I account as Divine. By all accounts, using that television program as a line, "I should have been dead by now." If but by the grace of God. There were five other seperate incidents that were equally, if not more, eerie, where my life had been in serious danger and I was whisked out of danger if by an Angel or the hand of the Divine.
Sometime I will write about those times, but then I had most likely leave them sealed in the vat of memory. Let me simply say that in all case but one, there had been alcohol involved. I have said it many times before, " If I had my life to lead over, I would never have taken my first drink of beer one summer evening back in the 1940s while my Aunt Marietta was visiting and sat her can of beer down behind her lawn chair where I was playing cars. That's right, I will blame it on her, typical alcoholic rationale. No, not really. It was a child's curiosity to taste what the adults were drinking in those so attractive and shiny cans that seemed to make them laugh and be so merry.
By R.L. Huffstutter
Greetings From San Diego California
I COULD WRITE MANY BOOKS ABOUT THE GREAT MEMORIES CONJURED UP BY THIS POSTCARD. SEE AMHPICS FOR ONE OF THE GREATEST COLLECTIONS OF POST CARDS ANYWHERE ONLINE.............
____________________________________________________
Greetings From San Diego California
Uploaded by amhpics on 12 Sep 09, 9.32AM PST.
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Greetings From San Diego California
Uploaded by amhpics on 12 Sep 09, 9.32AM PST.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
JAPANESE RICE FIELDS: ORIGINAL PHOTOS BY R.L. HUFFSTUTTER 1961
JAPANESE RICE FIELDS: ORIGINAL PHOTOS BY R.L. HUFFSTUTTER 1961
Originally uploaded by roberthuffstutter
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Greetings from Las Vegas - 1960s
At the very end, on the left, there is the GOLDEN GATE HOTEL, the oldest in LV and for years the best place to stay downtown. Rooms were $20 and the shrimp cocktails were 25 cents..........The dude once blew smoke and said "howdy pardner."
Greetings from Las Vegas - 1960s
Uploaded by nyctreeman - on 2 Nov 08, 6.28AM PST.
Compose your blog entry
Greetings from Las Vegas - 1960s
Uploaded by nyctreeman - on 2 Nov 08, 6.28AM PST.
Compose your blog entry
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
vacation decals
vacation decals
Jason sent me this cool website on decalcomania..check it out
www.creativepro.com/article/heavy-metal-madness-decalcoma...
Uploaded by Water Tower Pisan on 26 Jun
Jason sent me this cool website on decalcomania..check it out
www.creativepro.com/article/heavy-metal-madness-decalcoma...
Uploaded by Water Tower Pisan on 26 Jun
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Keep on Drumming
Keep on Drumming
Restaurant in the Hotel President, Kansas City.
www.drumroomkc.com/menu.html
Restaurant in the Hotel President, Kansas City.
www.drumroomkc.com/menu.html
Friday, October 9, 2009
MY NAVY FRIEND, CHARLES, on the beach at Venice, California
MEMORIES OF A WILD HORSE AND SOME SPANISH MODELS...By Robert L. Huffstutter
Browsing through my photostream, seeing this photo of my friend, Chuck, reminded me of the times a few of us Navy guys spent in Ensenada in 1960 and early 1961. One of our favorite activities down south of the border was riding horses on the beach. After a night of celebrating at the Plaza, we would meander down toward the shore around noon on Saturdays. There was alway an enterprising young man or an elderly gentleman with a small herd of horses ready for riding by those bold enough to try their efforts at galloping through the surf. The rental was about a dollar per horse for a few hours. The horses were not the tamest and as fate would have it, I chanced to mount a strange -eyed white and speckled horse one Saturday that gave me the ride of my life. As we prepared for our casual ride a few miles south, watching out for rocks and boulders, drinking wine from leather bags, laughing, telling jokes, trying our Spanish, my mount must have tired of Yanque b.s and picked up pace. Not an equestrian type, I was a bit concerned and called a quick whoa, then pleaded for a pronto alto, but to no avail. The man or lad in charge picked up the gait and was getting a faceful of sand as he strove to come to my rescue. Hunkered down and certain it was the end, the handler figured out a move that I am sure he had been forced to make on previous jaunts; he drove his steed to full speed and once he was about a hundred yards in advance, he reversed and met us headlong. It looked like a horse to horse head-on collision, but his knowledge saved the day. His horse must have been the '' BOSS HORSE' because the action stopped abruptly. ''Sorry, senor, '' he apologized and offered me my dollars back. I refused and added another dollar to his hand, shook his hand and sat down on a boulder for an hour contemplating the outline of the sleeply village north of where the wild ride ended. My amigos had quite a laugh and commenced to give me lessons on where and what I must have done to spook my mount. I took the lessons with a grain of sand and vowed the next time I would ride a wild horse would be sometime far in the future. It was a serene and peaceful walk back to the Plaza where I joined my buddies at the bar, engaged in Spanish lessons with some delightful looking Spanish models on a photo shoot. The weekend ended with diverse and fond memories. We never did see the photographer in charge of the model shoot.
Browsing through my photostream, seeing this photo of my friend, Chuck, reminded me of the times a few of us Navy guys spent in Ensenada in 1960 and early 1961. One of our favorite activities down south of the border was riding horses on the beach. After a night of celebrating at the Plaza, we would meander down toward the shore around noon on Saturdays. There was alway an enterprising young man or an elderly gentleman with a small herd of horses ready for riding by those bold enough to try their efforts at galloping through the surf. The rental was about a dollar per horse for a few hours. The horses were not the tamest and as fate would have it, I chanced to mount a strange -eyed white and speckled horse one Saturday that gave me the ride of my life. As we prepared for our casual ride a few miles south, watching out for rocks and boulders, drinking wine from leather bags, laughing, telling jokes, trying our Spanish, my mount must have tired of Yanque b.s and picked up pace. Not an equestrian type, I was a bit concerned and called a quick whoa, then pleaded for a pronto alto, but to no avail. The man or lad in charge picked up the gait and was getting a faceful of sand as he strove to come to my rescue. Hunkered down and certain it was the end, the handler figured out a move that I am sure he had been forced to make on previous jaunts; he drove his steed to full speed and once he was about a hundred yards in advance, he reversed and met us headlong. It looked like a horse to horse head-on collision, but his knowledge saved the day. His horse must have been the '' BOSS HORSE' because the action stopped abruptly. ''Sorry, senor, '' he apologized and offered me my dollars back. I refused and added another dollar to his hand, shook his hand and sat down on a boulder for an hour contemplating the outline of the sleeply village north of where the wild ride ended. My amigos had quite a laugh and commenced to give me lessons on where and what I must have done to spook my mount. I took the lessons with a grain of sand and vowed the next time I would ride a wild horse would be sometime far in the future. It was a serene and peaceful walk back to the Plaza where I joined my buddies at the bar, engaged in Spanish lessons with some delightful looking Spanish models on a photo shoot. The weekend ended with diverse and fond memories. We never did see the photographer in charge of the model shoot.
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