Flying at the Sky Rovers field, Phelps N.Y.

Nothing like burning a little fuel at the r.c. field on a nice summer's day... this is a 62 inch
wing span .40 glow fuel engine airplane that's nice and stable...just a 'putt around' in the sky
model if you will.

"you'll shoot your eye out kid"

How  could any of us forget those lines from that great 80's movie a
Christmas Story?  What started out as a low budget, get-it-out quick flick
became a real icon in the film world and is seen non stop over the holidays.

Poor Ralphie wanted that red ryder bb gun so bad he could taste it...back in the
fifties and sixties we all wanted that bb gun.. and most of us had one... and guess
what? No one I know ever lost an eye to one... although I'm sure it happened
somewhere, unfortunate it as it may be.

My brothers and I hunted sparrows and pigeons with our bb guns...had contests
actually.....who could get the most....and most days the birds were the winners when
we couldn't hit the barn wall even with a blind fold on.

We went from bb guns to twenty two's... to shotguns and so forth.  Never had a cannon
or a hand grenade, although we did have a few fire crackers from time to time...
those things did smart when they went off in your hand!

My brother Ed and I set off a homemade fire cracker I had made from stuff I got thru
the U.S. mail.....put it in an old desk up the creek... leveled that sucker... good thing we
were both back fifty yards plus.

Can't imagine what the next generation will do for fun....electronics and computer boards
have taken over the young people....maybe that's a good thing....I just don't think it will
have the feel of pouring those bb's into the storage part of the bb gun, cockin' that
thing and letting it fly....

The younger people probably will never get to hear that saying..."you'll shoot your eye
out kid."   I kind of feel sorry for them actually.  I won't give mine up.. they'll have to
pry it from my old withered, skinny arms someday.

A Black Cat in October
(from the book Undertakings of an Undertaker)

      It was a terrific fall day in mid-October. The sky was brilliant blue, and white rolling clouds raced from west to east as the afternoon’s late day sun moved to make its exit over the crimson maple tree out front.  The afternoon’s calling hours had gone quite well, and a good number of people had shown up to pay their respects to the current occupant of the reposing room.  It was my usual  practice to be at the front door to open and close, greet people as they entered, asking for their wraps when appropriate, and to point out the register stand which would  accept their signature for the family.   And so the afternoon was gone. The family had left the funeral home; now it was time to pick up, run the vacuum, check the restroom, check the deceased, yes, check the deceased.  It was not unusual that during calling hours, visitors would place things in the casket or even on the deceased.  Those items could range from notes, to playing cards, to more bizarre items.  Once, years before, I had found a note, wide open, telling the deceased that he still owed the visitor some money, but not to worry about it!  That note was folded and neatly tucked into the man’s suit. The family wouldn't need to be aware of that one.   I learned several years before to expect almost anything at any time, and that was the rule in funeral service. 

      The brief two hour break between the afternoon and evening sets of calling hours really wasn’t lengthy enough for any time to rest.  A quick bite to eat, quicker shave and perhaps a clean shirt, and it was back at the front door, ready to greet the family as they returned for the evening calling hours.  The porch, step and sidewalk lights were all lit and generated a warm glow, leading from the street to the funeral home entrance. A brief wind gust blew autumn leaves across the walkway as the family entered and went into the parlor to await the evening’s visitors.  Evenings were usually quite busy at the funeral home. People were done with work, had had dinner and were accustomed to visit, view the deceased, and sign the register book. It was tradition, tradition that had gone on for decades in small towns and cities all over the country. 

    

    As I stood at the entrance chatting with an old friend, I looked out the front door and saw a black cat making its way up the sidewalk. His devilish eyes shined from the walkway lights as he swaggered his way up the sidewalk, up the four steps and to the front door. He paused. I opened the door to step out, but before I could, he stepped in!  Not stopping, the cat made a quick left, walked past the register stand and straight toward the casket and family about twelve yards ahead.  Those sitting in chairs stopped chatting, their eyes pulled to the feline, as he made his way into the front room. The guest never stopped, went to the casket, did a U-turn, walked back out the exact same path, exited the funeral home, and meandered down the walkway.     

     My friend Kenny asked, "Friend of yours?" 

     "Never saw the beast before," I said. 

     It was October, Halloween was just around the corner, and a black cat visited the local funeral parlor.  It kind of all fit together very appropriately, I thought.  We were only missing a thunder and lightening storm, but we'll save that for another time. And I had made one error with that October evening visitor: I failed to get him or her to sign the register book.

interview on Artist First radio network...

For my new readers around the country, and in Canada....here is a link to my interview with

Tony Kay on the Artist First radio network......he is the host of Authors First, which is part

of Artist radio network... he's a terrific interviewer, very warm and pleasant, it was great to

be on the air with him..

the link is         http://www.artistfirst2.com/Authors-First_2015-11-10_Stanley_Swan.mp3

A new resting place for Miranda

On a recent excavation project beneath a home in San Francisco, a small child's metal

casket was unearthed containing what appeared to be a girl, approx. age of three.

She was blond, well preserved and holding a red rose.  The casket was presumed to be

one that was missed when a large cemetery there was moved in 1933.  Not knowing who

she was, city officials named her Miranda, purchased a new grave site and head stone

for her, and she was again laid to rest.  She had been deceased probably for at least

140-150 years, as that is when her burial case was made.  It was known as a Fisk

burial case.  It was made of cast iron usually, had a plate glass window or windows

in the top, and was sealed tight. Because of it’s air tight capacity, decomposition over

the years was virtually arrested.  And if she was embalmed, and a good chance she was,

that would add also to the pristine condition of her remains.  A picture of her casket is below.

Interesting notes about the Fisk container:

 The Fisk metallic burial case was designed and patented by Almond D. Fisk under US Patent No. 5920 on November 14, 1848. In 1849, the cast iron coffin was publicly unveiled at the New York State Agricultural Society Fair in Syracuse, N.Y. and the American Institute Exhibition in New York City.

The cast iron coffins or burial cases were popular in the mid–1800s among wealthier families. While pine coffins in the 1850s would have cost around $2, a Fisk coffin could command a price upwards of $100. Nonetheless, the metallic coffins were highly desirable by more affluent individuals and families for their potential to deter grave robbers.

The case was custom-formed to the body many times, were quite ornate and had a glass window plate for viewing the face of the deceased, without the risk of exposure to odor or pathogens. The airtight cases were valued for their potential to preserve the remains of individuals who died far from home, until they could be shipped back for burial by the family. This type of burial in the 19th century indicated that the individual buried was someone of cultural and societal importance.

James Dean and his #130

I had so many requests on my blog to get this 'shorty' out... so here it is...
how many of you were around in 1955?  Do you remember it?

Actor James Dean… did he have a premonition, or did he just live in ‘high gear’

with dire consequences? 

No one can say for sure.  He had a rough start as a kid, but received some

great breaks early along the way that helped propel him to stardom.

Now this part is strange. Just seven months before his accident, Dean posed

laying in a casket in Fairmount, In., his hometown. The story says that the

funeral home where it happened was actually the same firm  that would have

his services in the days that followed his accident in California.  Weird. 

When Dean wasn’t acting, he was racing fast cars… he lived for it… and

ultimately died for it.  On Friday, Sept. 30, 1955, Dean and his mechanic,

Rolf Wuetherich, drove Dean’s new Porsche 550 Spyder to a weekend race

in Salinas, California. 

Now here’s another strange…at 3:30 pm, just 3 hours before the fatal crash,

they were stopped south of Bakersfield and given a speeding ticket. Little

did that officer know that day that he would probably be one of the last

ever to have interaction with James Dean.

Later in the day, on Route 466, a man named Donald Turnupseed (how’s that

for a handle?) turning at an intersection collided with Dean’s Porsche.  The

two vehicles hit almost head on, the 550 Spyder was demolished at impact.

Wuetherich the passenger was seriously injured, yet survived. Dean lived

but only for a few moments. He had received major facial and head trauma,

a broken neck and both arms were severely traumatized as well.  At his

funeral, his coffin was closed because of the horrific injuries he received.

The pictures are of Dean at the photo shoot, and his death certificate

issued a year later.

He was 24.  What would James Dean life have been if he had lived to

continue his career?  We were all robbed that day of Dean’s potential

future performances……..makes you wonder what the zenith of his

career could have been.  

Foot notes: The second driver Turnsupseed (and I’ve seen five different

spellings for this man’s name) only had minor injuries in

the mishap.  Wuetherich, the mechanic riding with Dean suffered a broken

leg but strangely enough WAS KILLED  in another car crash in 1981!

Finally: where is the car? Rumor has it that the car is behind a hidden wall

in a building in Whatcom County Washington… and the story says it

will be revealed maybe THIS YEAR once custody issues are solved..stay tuned!