Watt Chips Bowl

Don’t know, but I may just have gotten myself into one more collecting hobby with a visit to the flea market last Saturday. It has been said that every day a new door opens, and that certainly was the case for me with the discovery of something called the Watt Pottery Company that operated between 1922 and 1965 in Crooksville, Ohio and was active in producing stoneware crocks and kitchen ovenware until a fire destroyed their plant.

Through the early 30s, Watt focused their manufacture on stoneware crocks, butter churns, storage jars, preserve jars and jugs, but in the mid-thirties switched from stoneware to modern oven ware. In the early years of producing oven ware their products were solid color kitchenware in patterns called Moon and Stars, Arcs, Loops, Diamond and Grooves. Today these pieces are popular among collectors. By 1949 the company was producing hand-painted ware and expediting their production at lower production costs. The designs were basic, in bright colors on an ivory-colored background, a look that exemplified country life and appealed to housewives. From 1949 to 1953 Watt produced their classic patterns: Rio Rose, Moonflower, Dogwood, White Daisy, and Cross-Hatch. A second set beginning in the early 1950s included: Starflower (1951), Apple (1952), Cherry (1952), Silhouette (1953), Rooster (1955), Dutch Tulip (1956), American Red Bud (1957), Morning Glory (1958), Autumn Foliage (1959), Double Apple (1959), and Tulip (1961). The perennial favorite among collectors has always been the Apple.

At Saturday’s flea market I came across a bowl that immediately appealed to my sense of ‘old’ kitchenware. At first, looking closely at the bowl didn’t push any buttons and checking the name on the bottom didn’t help either. I saw concentric rings with ‘oven ware U.S.A.’ in the outer, and ‘7 watt’ in the inner ring. No question the bowl was old, but other than that I couldn’t say. Then the man behind the table spoke up, saying it was Watt pottery. To the right of the bowl was a book about Watt pottery, so I looked through it getting an idea of what the name Watt means. The bowl for sale is one manufactured as part of a snack set, probably in the late 40s, these days selling (as a set) for about $400. The one I was looking at, with the word ‘chips’ painted on its side was marked $12.00. I didn’t need to ask because the man spoke up to say that the low price was because of a small crack. I suppose for the ‘real Watt collector’ this tiny defect would be enough turn him away. Can’t say I wouldn’t also prefer the bowl to be perfect, but it’s a small crack on a handsome old bowl, and I'm not a real collector. I brought it home.

Problem is, the more I look at it the more I think I’ve found something that will have me looking for companion pieces in the future. There are already enough old bowls and dishes in my kitchen cabinets—most of them Japanese— but it’s the kind of thing that catches my eye on junk shop shelves and flea market tables.

A Toy Whistle & Pure Honey

One of the $3.00 treasures found in last Saturday’s flea market is a small book that deserves its own spotlight. While stirring through the piles of bric-a-brac that turned up the plastic doll and the Westclox Big Ben mentioned yesterday, I uncovered an almost grubby book that even under its blanket of dust stood out with a pretty and stylish cover. Under most circumstances books for young readers, and especially those with water damage, are not the type likely to encourage my interest. But the cover on this one grabbed me.

It didn’t take long to realize that Starlings by Wilfred S Bronson, published by Harcourt, Brace & World in 1948 is a small gem bursting with the charm of its many pencil illustrations done by the author. Knowing almost nothing about starlings, and not especially drawn to the bird, page by page Bronson reeled me in, almost defying me to not turn the page. Halfway through the book I was captivated and couldn’t wait to find a quiet corner at home to read the book cover to cover. The book was clearly designed for children, to teach them about a bird not native to the Americas but now quite common here. The text is juvenile, but definitely not lacking in interest and a certain style. Easy to imagine that many young readers would gobble this kind of thing off the page…

‘When the singing time of other birds has ended, when many have flown away, starlings stay with us and still sing. All through the year, in good weather and bad, in town or country, a starling will sing. He sings for many minutes at a time, and many times a day. With a steady stream of soft gurgling sounds he mixes every now and then a single higher, clear, sweet note. But very often the starling tries to sing this note much louder than he can. Then he doesn’t quite scream. He doesn’t quite squeal. He “screals.” “Screaling” may sound cross to some of us, but really it is not. The starling just feels so gay he uses more breath to tell it than his throat can manage.’

The drawing above is meant to show the starlings right after their annual molting in August. Bronson describes the birds as looking in winter like ‘a patch of midnight sky sparkling with little stars.’

In this illustration the author explains the molting process, the sequence of dropped feathers and the manner of maintaining balance and the ability to fly as the feathers are replaced a few at a time.

Here we have drawings showing how the starling’s muscles work both at rest and in flight. Notice the difference in the feet when the bird sleeps and when it perches.

One of my favorite drawings in the book, this one shows a pair of elves mixing up a waterfall of starling music. Ingredients: several drops of pure honey, a toy whistle, a waterfall, and naturally a starling.

Telling Time in 1918

Turned loose at a flea market there’s good chance you’ll have to lasso me and drag me back to the car to go home. That’s mostly the case, but I did go to one in Daytona last year that had me running for the exit after a quick look around. The big feature there was funnel cake and interior decor for trailer homes. I have driven past a big flea market in nearby Port Orange on a couple of occasions, a Thursday through Sunday gathering with most of the action happening on Saturday and Sunday. Yesterday seemed like a good time to give it a whirl, so I got over there mid-morning hoping to stumble over an old fountain pen or two, maybe a lost and wandering first edition, a bowl, plate or something otherwise on my menu of favorites.

I wasn’t disappointed. No fountain pens, but a couple of good finds in other areas, and surprising low prices. After walking around and talking with a number of the sellers for a good while, I realized that several of them had low price tags on things simply because they didn’t know what they had. At one table I picked up what was to me clearly an ashtray, and the man said I could have it and the piece next to it for $4.00. I wasn’t interested in the flower dish, but the ashtray had my eye. He continued on, admitting that he didn’t know what either of them were. I wasn't going to offer a higher price, but did explain what each item was, an explanation easy for me since both were Japanese. The idea of a dish made for flower arrangement was a new concept, but maybe he took the hint and will add a couple of dollars to the price. My friend K in Tokyo would have walked across hot coals to get that particular dish for $2.00. Meanwhile, I got the beautiful and old ashtray for the same price.

At another booth was an odd plastic doll made in Hong Kong in the 1950s, a Charlie Brown type of character wearing short pants and boxing gloves. Dolls are not my thing, but this one was immediately recognizable as a rare example, one possessing a goofy and wonderful expression. Again, underpriced. I bought it and in walking away spotted on a second table an old silver Westclox Big Ben wind-up alarm clock. This is a hard to find item made between 1918-1935 of nickel plated metal and steel. Neither the man or woman selling the clock knew anything more than that it was a clock. “Does it work?” I asked. The man didn’t think so but was surprised when he wound the clock and heard ticking. I bought it for $6.00.

I left the flea market happy and drove straight to Dairy Queen (a rare treat) and had a delicious but probably unhealthy lunch of a chili cheese dog and a black & white milkshake. The Dairy Queen in my little beach town is always crowded with customers and it might be because they provide a large almost park-like area with tables and umbrellas. A 1950s and 60s radio station plays through speakers hidden in the trees. I ate lunch listening to Gene Vincent sing “Be-Bop-A-Lula.” Remember that one?

Down the road a ways is a farmer’s market called Perrine’s, a place that’s been on my radar for a long time. Still wiping the chili and cheese off my mouth I stopped to have a look. Foolish of me to have waited so long. They have most of what the supermarket offers produce-wise and at better prices. Fresh baked breads and cakes, their own sauces, dressings and seasonings, and this time of year a mountain of pumpkins. Got back to the car with a heavy bag to add to the flea market pile. My return to Perrine’s won’t be so far down the calendar.

With the beautiful autumn-like weather, all in all a great Saturday.

Walking Over Bridges

Something always brings me back to Charles Bukowski. It’s easy to get lost in a new book, to be caught in the pull of a new or unfamiliar writer, and for a few days lose sight of the familiar standards on the shelves around you, but in my case not too many days will pass before my eye returns to Bukowski. If we were not out of touch, I would thank for the third or fourth time the friend who introduced me to the writing of Charles Bukowski over twenty years ago.

Henry Charles Bukowski (1920-1994) was never one for failing to acknowledge the writers who were an influence in his life, either positive or negative. He was as easy with praise as he was with criticism both on the record and off. Among the writers that Bukowski admired were the Norwegian Knut Hamsun, Frenchman Louis-Ferdinand Celine and Americans John Fante and Sherwood Anderson.

Bukowski deeply admired Sherwood Anderson’s work. Writing about him in his journal-like book, The Captain is out to Lunch and the Sailors have Taken Over the Ship, he said, ‘I think Sherwood Anderson was one of the best at playing with words as if they were rocks, or bits of food to be eaten. He painted his words on paper. And they were so simple that you felt rushes of light, doors opening, walls glistening. You could see rugs and shoes and fingers. He had the words. Delightful. Yet, they were like bullets too. They could take you right out. Sherwood Anderson knew something, he had the instinct. Hemingway tried too hard.’ Talking about him near the end of his life Bukowski again praised Anderson, saying, “Sherwood Anderson knew something. He had the instinct.”

The poem below first appeared in Bukowski’s 1981 collection Dangling in the Tournefortia, and later in the posthumous collection, The Pleasures of the Damned, published in 2007.

ONE FOR SHERWOOD ANDERSON

sometimes I forget about him and his peculiar

innocence, almost idiotic, awkward and mawkish.

he liked walking over bridges and through cornfields.

tonight I think about him, the way the lines were,

one felt space between his lines, air

and he told it so the lines remained

carved there

something like van Gogh.

he took his time

looking about

sometimes running to save something.

then at other times giving it all away

he didn't understand Hemingway’s neon tattoo,

found Faulkner much too clever.

he was a midwestern hick

he took his time.

he was as far away from Fitzgerald as he was

from Paris.

he told stories and left the meaning open

and sometimes he told meaningless stories

because that was the way it was.

he told the same story again and again

and he never wrote a story that was unreadable.

and nobody ever talks about his life or

his death.

Anderson’s death was an unusual one. While eating the olive in his martini, he accidentally swallowed the toothpick on which the olive was speared. Death came as a result of peritonitis caused by a perforated colon.

Fast Food, Fast Women

From an old Japan journal…

Kugayama soggy wet from a heavy early morning rainfall, a half hour of fat raindrops bashing houses and buildings. Hoping the plants on the veranda might enjoy a natural watering, I nudged them toward the front. Probably by now so accustomed to tap water out of plastic bottles, the sweetness of rain has become to them an alien drink.

Sat at the kitchen table with coffee, an English muffin, and a slightly damp Japan Times. According to one article, awareness of culture and art among the Japanese has stayed the same over four years, but morals and values are falling rapidly. The first part is a surprise and the second seems a little like someone informing me that cows can be found at a dairy farm. I wonder about this reported steadiness of interest in art and culture. Aren’t all these things—culture, art, values and morality—linked in a way that one informs and supports the other?

A Japanese businessman was not pleased about his transfer to Singapore from Tokyo, so decided to leave the company. He soon found a new job in research at a university, part of his work including occasional travel to the US. Before his first trip on behalf of the university his boss there gave him an insurance policy to cover his roundtrip flight and his time in the US. Looking closely at the insurance policy at home that night, the man noticed something odd in regard to the beneficiary listed on the policy. Should anything happen to him, anything including injury and death, neither he nor his family would receive a cent—all benefits from his death or injury to be paid to the university, his employer.

Some nutty Japanese-English in the paper this time. Throughout the years of my stay in this country the ongoing life of twisted English among the Japanese has never changed. It’s unkillable, immune to correction and by now almost as much a part of Japanese culture as chopsticks. Interesting examples from the morning paper…

The cover of a restaurant menu: ‘Fast Food, Fast Women’

Sign in after hours store windows across Japan: ‘Close’

Brand of children’s clothing: ‘Lusty’

A new model of Toyota: ‘Fun! Car! Go!’

Cover of a photo album: ‘For enjoy natural color and your best scene own’

Another photo album: ‘Come join the Rapid Party’

Poster at the dry cleaners: ‘Let’s go to my bag’

A birthday card greeting: ‘I wish to fall in happy drops on your head’

Language school ad: ‘For your heartful life’

And their mission statement: ‘To fulfill heartful English lives so people can gentle mind and more very enjoy Japanese English. Also pets.’

In class yesterday…

For some Japanese university students classes seems little more than an interlude in a busy life of complete vacuity. One young lady arrived late to class, entering the room in mid-conversation on her rhinestone encrusted cell phone. Not far inside the door, I halted her in mid-stride, backing her out of the door and closing it in her face. I should have asked, “What were you thinking?” But of course, she wasn’t.

Mirror, Mirror…

The earliest mirrors were most likely pools of dark water, or water in a bowl or vessel of some sort. Around 2000 BC people in Anatolia, or present day Turkey began polishing obsidian for mirrors, and as the centuries passed, mirrors of polished copper or bronze turned up in Mesopotamia and Egypt. The silvered-glass examples that we are familiar with today were first made in 1835 by a German. But where did the idea of broken mirrors and bad luck spring from?

From way back, mirrors have been called a reflection of the soul, and able to reflect only the truth. From this perspective, seeing something in a mirror that should not be there is a bad omen. Many years ago in the southern US, families covered the mirrors in a house where the wake of a deceased person was being held. This was done out of a fear that the deceased’s soul would be trapped in a mirror left uncovered. More common today is the idea of a broken mirror bringing seven years of bad luck. Tracing the superstition back a couple of thousand years reveals that the belief arose out of a combination of religious and economic factors.

In the sixth century BC the Greeks practiced a kind of divination using bowls filled with water. Like the crystal ball used by gypsies, a face reflected in water was thought to reveal the future of the person reflected. As did happen from time to time, the bowl of water sometimes slipped and broke. The seer read this in one of two ways. Either the person looking into the bowl when it fell and broke had no future, meaning death was imminent, or the future held such abysmal promise that the gods were sparing the heartache of revealing it.

The Romans later adopted this idea of bad luck and mirrors, but added a twist of their own. In the Roman view a person’s health changed in cycles—in cycles of seven years. A mirror reflects the face, the outward health and always tells the truth. It followed that a broken mirror presaged seven years of ill health and misfortune.

The economic ingredient to the superstition didn’t come along until the fifteenth century, in Italy. Breakable sheet-glass mirrors with silver backing were a luxury being manufactured in Venice. Extremely costly, the mirrors had to be handled with the greatest of care and servants were warned that any movement or cleaning that resulted in breakage invited seven years of a fate worse than death. The warning was well-heeded and over time the bad luck belief intensified, influencing generations of Europeans. It was the mid-1600s before England and France began producing inexpensive mirrors, but by then the broken mirror superstition had become tradition.

Coffee & Samba

Someone tells me that a man over by the post office can repair a broken clock. Twice, other repairmen have said that the Seikosha station wall clock is too old and cranky to restore. Made sometime in the early 1950s by the company now called Seiko, it is one of many that once hung on train station walls all over Japan. In 1892, an industrious thirty-one year-old set up the Seikosha factory in Japan, choosing the name, Seiko meaning “success” or “exquisite” in Japanese. I found the wall clock hanging in the cobwebbed corner of a small shop overlooking Inokashira Park, its hands stopped at some ten-twenty-three of the past. After cleaning and a few small adjustments the old clock ticked and worked in a manner of sorts, but without much accuracy. Recently it has begun chiming on a schedule little to do with hours and minutes. I am taking it to the man over by the post office.

“Look here,” the man says, shining a small light inside the clock case. “That gear needs to be replaced, but with a clock this old the problem is finding a replacement…an expensive proposition. Around two-hundred, maybe.”

“That high? I can’t spend so much.”

“Leave the clock with me for a week or so, let me take it apart and play with it. Doubt I can do anything about the worn out gear, but I can get it running a little better.

“How much?”

“About $20, okay?”

Doutor Café is on the way home and with a glass of iced coffee I climb the stairs to the third floor, my usual spot for a stretch of time gazing idly out the windows, reading, writing a few lines in a notebook, or oftentimes discreetly observing others at nearby tables. Never sure what the mix is going to be on any given day, it may be quiet and peaceful one day, rowdy the next. Today the shades on all three windows are up and a flood of sunlight brightens the room. The sight of six middle-aged housewives spread over two tables in the far corner is nothing new, but for me a disappointment because it promises a tidal wave of loud simultaneous talk. I have seen these six before.

They have just returned from a trip somewhere, probably a two-night stay at a hot spring resort, or a reunion of sorts. Travel bags are stacked chest high in a corner. At the moment of my arrival voices are raised in fond remembrance of the ballroom dance teacher who hosted their getaway. In a voice toned by cigarettes and Suntory whiskey, one describes the drape of an arm, illustrating the movement with an outflung arm that threatens cups and saucers. Another moans about the difficulty of a chassé while two others try to remember the teacher’s rule about the Cuban hip motion.

Done with her explanation of arm gestures, the woman suddenly pulls another of the ladies to her feet, leading off in a rehash of the samba bounce. With little or no room between tables for two husky women to practice the samba, a college girl at the adjacent table cringes, clamping hands over her jittering coffee cup. And just as suddenly, both dancers execute a spot turn and return to their coffee.

The dance demonstration all done, another familiar face arrives and takes a table across from me. This is a college student with whom I’ve spoken on several occasions, a man whose Japanese is always a challenge. Everything is slang or vernacular mostly mumbled, a jargon that leaves me unsure of any details. He enjoys reading books in English and the last time he was in the coffee shop I gave him a couple of paperbacks. His name is Hideto and today he has a cold.

We talk across the space between tables, but after a little of that Hideto picks up and moves over to my table. A typically modern student, sloppily dressed, fond of punk rock fashion, he has an email address that begins with ‘fabricatedviolence@.’ He sits opposite me with a trail of snot dripping from one nostril. The sight makes me look away, look down, talk to my lap. Then finally he snatches up a napkin and blows his nose.

Almost dark when I leave Doutor and turn for home. Halfway, I stop in Little Mermaid and buy croissants for Sunday morning.