On Parade

 

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Last month I talked about the love lock bridges found around the world. The idea of a specific bridge or sculpture designated or created in a town reminded me of other creations I have seen throughout the years that make you immediately know your location. Now I could be talking about things such as the gigantic “bean” in downtown Chicago, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Statue of Liberty or worldly famous Ethel Tower or Pyramids. But let’s think a little more obscure.

What about super large cowboy boots, cows, pigs, rearing horses, and even Jayhawks? Instead of a single artistic wonder, let’s think in multiples, scattered throughout the town so visitors are taken on a sort of scavenger or treasure hunt. Once I started researching the ones I actually knew about, I found there are similar “art parade projects” everywhere from Anchorage, Alaska to Washington DC; even in Europe. While many were started as fundraisers for various city projects, some were created for the love of art or as a way to showcase a particular aspect of their city. There doesn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason behind why a city started their art project. 

My grandson in Cheyenne  

And so our tour begins in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Scattered throughout the town are twenty-five 8-foot tall, hand painted boots depicting aspects of the state’s history-- everything from gambling and outlaws to governors. The project began as a fund raiser for the Cheyenne Depot museum with businesses sponsoring a boot and local artists doing the decorating. “These Boots Are Made for Walking” display even has a downloadable brochure with a location map and information about how to call up an audio program telling about the boots.

Now if you’re going to wear cowboy boots, you might as well have a horse, right? Travel to Rochester, NY, where in 2001, collaboration between local public relations & advertising firm Dixon Schwabl and Genessee Brewery used the horse theme to engage the community and showcase the talents of local artists by organizing sponsorships of 150+ life-sized, fiberglass horse statues. Once the project was done, the horses were auctioned off and the money raised went to various local charities. But twenty-one years later, some of the horses are still seen around the area. Horses on Parade: Where are They Now? — emily malkowski is one website with more information about the remaining horses and their background stories.

According to some, the idea that started an apparent copycat frenzy in the US was COWS ON PARADE in downtown Chicago, begun in 1999 with over three hundred fiberglass bovines let loose across the city with every imaginable theme painted on their backsides. And that, according to business owner Peter Hanig, was because of a “cow parade” he had seen in Zurich, Switzerland while on family vacation. Though not on permanent display, the cows are rounded up every ten years or so and corralled again for tourists’ pleasure. https://www.chicagotribune.com/entertainment/museums/ct-ent-cows-on-parade-20-year-anniversary-ttd-0701-20190628-zjz2qwbfrncgnlvaioqdyqtkae-story.html. New York also does a Cows on Parade, the last one being in 2021, again the proceeds going to charities in the five boroughs, but the cows aren’t on permanent display.

Probably the most weird “on parade” I came across was the “superlambanana” creatures in Liverpool, England. The original Superlambanana is a large yellow statue in Liverpool created in 1998 which has become somewhat the icon of Liverpool. The mini Superlambananas were sponsored by local businesses and painted by area artists and displayed in 2008 before being auctioned off to raise money for various charities.

There appears to be three different viewpoints with regard to “Art on Parade” projects. Some, like the Cheyenne boots, are a permanent part of the city, promoting tourism. Others began as city promotions, like Rochester’s horses, but after being auctioned off are still part of the city landscape, though scattered and not always catalogued. And third, we have those like the cows and superlambanana that were created, displayed and enjoyed, then auctioned off and either never heard from again or only brought out every ten or more years.

Personally I like the permanent displays the best. After all, if you want people to visit because you have a unique attraction, that attraction needs to always be available. Such is the display of hot air balloons in Indianola, Iowa. Though not as many or as large as some, these art sculptures tell a story. Originally begun as a money raising project for the annual National Balloon Classic, the majority of them can be found in front of the National Balloon Museum, National Balloon Museum | Indianola, Iowa, a fun and interesting place to visit. Others, such as the Crouse Café balloon, can be found in front of the business.

Yet another “on parade” are the Jayhawks in Lawrence, KS, home of the University of Kansas Jayhawks. Jayhawks on Parade offers a fun scavenger hunt around Lawrence | Arts & Culture | kansan.com These sculptures began as an event a decade ago that was to last five months, but many of the original thirty Jayhawks can still be seen around Lawrence and the KU campus.  Some have flown away with KU supporters as far away as California.

Does your town have an “on parade” art exhibit that highlights something unique about its history or people? If it doesn’t but you think it should, what would you use as the base for the art – lighthouses, salmon, pigs? The possibilities are endless. I think I would choose books; perhaps ten foot tall books decorated to portray local authors or history. Maybe an open book designed like a park bench but with a cover displaying local items of interest. Whoops, that’s been done. With Bright Benches, London Shows Off Its Love Of Books : The Two-Way : NPR.

Still, wouldn’t it be fun to have benches scattered around town for people to sit on and reflect about what makes your town so special and how happy they are to be there?

All Best Wishes,

Barb

http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

https://bookswelove.net/baldwin-barbara/

 

 

 

 

Family History

 

https://bookswelove.net/martin-paula/

I first became interested in my family history when I was in my twenties and asked my grandfather and my grandmother’s brother to write down what they knew about their families. In those days, before computers and the internet, the only way to find out more was to visit Somerset House in London, which held all the birth, marriage and death records since 1837, or to visit local churches to look at original parish records and gravestones. With a young family and a full time job, that was impossible for me, so the family tree information was put in a file and almost forgotten.

Fast forward about thirty years, and a friend who was researching her family history told me about a couple of resources available on the internet. When I got home, I found my family tree file, searched for one of my great-grandfathers in the parish records which were online, and found him, along with several of his siblings. After that, I was hooked, and have spent many hours finding out more about my family, which has been a fascinating voyage of discovery. With some lines, I have been able to get back to the 17th century; with others, I have hit ‘brick walls’ in the early 19th century.

When I first started researching (in the late 1990s), online resources were fairly limited, but since then millions of genealogy records have been digitised. The information from my grandfather and great-uncle Joe proved to be an invaluable start, as it gave me the names of their siblings and parents, and also some details about their grandparents.

One of these always fascinated me – Uncle Joe’s grandfather i.e. my great-great-grandfather John, who was born in Liverpool in 1815 and became a mariner. This is the only photo (unfortunately damaged) I have of him, taken in the 1860's when he was in his fifties.

I obtained copies of his Mate’s and Master’s Certificates from a cousin which showed that he was first employed as a seaman in 1830 when he was fifteen. Uncle Joe said his grandfather John ‘sailed the world’ before joining the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company in 1838, which I was able to confirm. About six years later, John was promoted to captain of the paddle-steamer Ben-My-Chree and in the 1850s commanded other boats owned by the company, which transported cargo, mail, and passengers from Liverpool across the Irish Sea to Douglas in the Isle of Man.

Paddle Steamer Ben-my-Chree

I visited the Isle of Man about fifteen year ago and spent a rewarding day at the Heritage Centre in the town of Douglas, trawling through microfilms of the minutes of the Steam Packet Company and making notes of every entry that mentioned John. I also took dozens of photos of the inner harbour where the boats used to moor in John’s time, and visited the graveyard where three of his infant children were buried.

A few years ago, I discovered that the archives of Isle of Man newspapers had been digitised and indexed. £6 for 24-hour access – I stayed up very late that night! My reward was dozens of articles about John, many of them praising his excellent seamanship during stormy weather or with mechanical problems on his ships. I began to feel quite proud of my g-g-grandfather.

In 2019, having written several novels based in Ireland, I decided I need a change of direction. But in what direction should I go? One evening, after doing some more family research on Ancestry about John’s parents, I started to wonder about a family saga, covering three generations – John and his wife Betsy, their daughter Lizzie, and their granddaughter Beth. After a couple of false starts, I realised one novel covering all these would be far too long. It was as if John was telling me, ‘Write our story first.’ So I did, and gave my imagination free rein to bring John and his wife to life, along with other members of their families, in a story of secrets, jealousy, tragedy, and of course love and loyalty.

The result is my novel, ‘A Family’s Secrets’, the first of my ‘Follow Your Heart’ series, which will be published by BWL on February 1st. I hope you will enjoy it!

A Life Remembered...by Sheila Claydon

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When someone is ninety years old they have lived too much life for their story to be told in a few paragraphs, but often just a few years of that life are a story all on their own. That is the case with Imelda, a longtime neighbour and dear friend, who passed away peacefully in the early hours of this morning.

I saw her often and was frequently amazed by a new story about her life because, after many years of friendship, I thought I'd heard them all. But no, only last week she surprised me anew with a previously untold memory of how she and her husband drove across Africa with their son, then an 8 month old baby, more than 57 years ago. But this tribute to a truly redoubtable lady is not about that journey, it is about her childhood, about the time when she and two of her siblings were evacuated from Liverpool to Southern Ireland at the outbreak of WW2.

The youngest of 10, she was motherless but much loved and indulged by her widowed father and older siblings, and, until the war, roamed free in the streets of Liverpool, playing with friends or trailing her older brothers and sisters. In Ireland, however, she was left in the care of an elderly Victorian Aunt and Uncle who only allowed her and her brother to go for a sedate walk once a day. Fortunately, Barney, her uncle's Irish Water Spaniel, was allowed to go with them, and he made each walk a great deal more exciting.  First her brother had to wrap the leash around his hand and then Imelda had to hang onto his waist for grim death before they dared to open the door, and the story of their helter-skelter journey to the river where Barney dived in while they tried to avoid getting wet and thus into trouble, conjures a wonderful picture of two giggling, windblown children and a large and boisterous dog having the time of their lives.

There were other much darker things waiting for her though. She was sent to an Irish convent where every lesson was taught in Gaelic. As she only spoke English it was sometime before she mastered the language. Until then, she and the paddle (a paddle shaped board used for chastisement) saw a great deal of one another. In her words, school was horrendous, a terrible nightmare. Terrible it might have been, but before she left Ireland at the end of the war she won both a gold and a silver medal for Gaelic speaking, something that amazed the natives.

Better was each summer holiday when she and her brother were sent to another aunt and uncle who owned a farm. Although they went to help with the harvest and had to work hard, she loved it. Loved the outdoor life and the camaraderie, and loved especially the Irish dances that took place every night at the crossroads closest to whichever farm had brought in its harvest that day. All the farms worked together as a cooperative and Imelda had to help prepare food for 40 men every day, cooking in a big black caldron over an open fire. And twice a day she had to carry huge pails of tea for them, blowing a whistle as she went and then listening for an answering blast so she could locate them.

Only Fridays were different because then she and her brother had to harness up the donkey and cart and set off for the nearest town to deliver the butter her aunt had made that week. They were also tasked with bringing back sacks of flour and animal feed for many of the neighbours who lived along the route. Unfortunately, the donkey, who only had this one duty, hated it. He hated it so much that the outward journey was always a long slow plod. As soon as they turned for home, however, it was a different matter. Then, in her words, he went like the clappers and wouldn't stop, so they had to heave the various sacks out of the cart as they flew past farm gates and small holdings, hoping against hope that they had delivered the correct items to each customer.

The mother she couldn't remember was buried in her native Limerick and Imelda would visit her grave most weeks with a gift of wild flowers. The graveyard was next to what, in those days, was called The Asylum for the Insane. I don't know if it was a mental hospital or a prison, or maybe a bit of both, but whatever it was, soon some of the inmates noticed the little girl who visited the graveyard every week and began to call her. Feisty should have been her middle name because she quickly learned to scale the six foot wall using cracks in broken bricks for footholds, and sit atop it while the people below sang and danced for her. Then they would throw pennies over the wall and she would scramble down, collect them, and run across to the pub where she would buy jugs of ale. Using the local vernacular in what was now a thick Irish accent, she would ask for 'beer for the Eejits' and be served straight away. Then she would carefully deliver it back to her incarcerated friends.

What a difference from today's regulated, safety conscious and politically correct world. The only black cooking cauldron 21st Century children know is the one in the Harry Potter stories, and they play games on iPads and cell phones instead of cooking and delivering meals and tea to 40 sweating, hungry labourers.  Nor would they be set loose with a recalcitrant donkey unless they were wearing riding hats and boots and were accompanied by a responsible adult. Not that I'm saying we should go back to those days. Far from it. The language is kinder today, corporal punishment is forbidden in schools, and the exploitation of children is frowned upon...in the West at least. There are still many places across the world where children live a hard and a short life, but Imelda had an advantage. Whereas today children in poor countries are often short of food, if not starving, in neutral Southern Ireland during the war it was a time of plenty. Instead if wartime rationing there was an abundance of food, especially meat, cheese, milk, cream and butter, so despite her six years away from her Father and older siblings, Imelda grew up strong and healthy, fluent in two languages, independent and practical.

Those years stood her in good stead. At 90 she still loved her food, especially milk puddings, ate well and lived well, forever grateful for the benefits of modern life in a way that only those who have experienced something different can be.

In my book Remembering Rose there is a grandmother who is as old as Imelda. She is just as much a character and just as interesting. We must never forget that old people have a back story that is usually worth listening to. Today, as I collected some of Imelda's belongings for her son, and made sure her house was secure, I wasn't thinking about the old lady who had just died, bent and twisted with osteoporosis and arthritis. Instead I thought about the young girl she had been, carefree, sun-kissed, and full of life and laughter. Imelda I salute you for a long life well lived.