Adieu to History
Nothing lasts forever, not even the earth. Our planet is shaped by elemental forces: wind, water, fire. Islands emerge, mountains erode, rivers change course. So why should we expect the every day realities of our lives to remain the same? Some of us welcome change; others don't handle it very well (my mother's in this latter category!). I am usually pragmatic about changes in our society, perhaps because as a historian, I'm all too aware of how ephemeral our institutions and traditions can be. Still, quite a few things have happened lately that I've taken notice of.
The first is the recent death earlier this month of the last U.S. survivor of the Titanic, Lillian Asplund. She was the last survivor who could clearly remember what happened that fateful night in April of 1912. This is in contrast to last month's celebration/remembrance of the San Francisco Earthquake (for a great first-person account of the 100th anniversary, by a deaf non-1906 survivor, see here). Granted, the earthquake affected a large area and consequently there are/were more survivors, but it's still a marker of human memory when all living survivors of a historical event have passed. That's not to say that the Titanic is now a remote historical footnote: in recent years we've had tons of movies, commemorations, books, and the like about the ship. In fact, the day the article came out, I was watching a TV show on A&E or PBS or something similar about some DNA researchers trying to determine the identity of Titanic victims buried in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Kind of a spooky coincidence... The program, by the by, detailed the attempt to determine the identity of three victims, but ultimately succeeded with only one: the famed "Unknown Child," which turned out to be a one-year-old Finnish baby.
Anyway, as I was saying, it isn't a remote memory, not by far: anyone who lives in the U.S. or taken a U.S. History survey knows just how "recent" the Civil War is in our collective memories. There are re-enactments all the time all over the Southeast and in the Mid-Atlantic region, there are historical groups (this link is actually a good one; it's disgusting how developers are choosing greed over history) and commemorative groups, and people all over the South with Confederate flags on their cars and pickups. Yet all the soldiers have been dead for quite some time, and there is no one now living who can actually remember the years 1861-65. Yet it's recent enough that while it isn't living memory, it's certainly living history. For example, I knew my uncle while he was alive, and he told me when I was a little boy about listening to *his* grandfather's friend recount tales of being a drummer boy in the Civil War. So while neither my uncle nor I were alive in the mid-19th century, the Civil War wasn't some abstract event for us.
While I don't see people re-enacting the sinking of the Titanic anytime soon, there are enthusiasts, writers, and all sorts of groups out there that collect artifacts, write books and articles, conduct DNA searches (as I detailed above!), and hold meetings, build models, and publish newsletters that exhaustively detail and analyze every possible fact that can be found about the sinking of a superliner more than 90 years ago.
Some soon-to-be aspects of history aren't as widely known. Some center around local institutions, in the case of another upcoming departure from this earth. In this case, it's Cody's Books in Berkeley; the flagship store on Telegraph Avenue just south of Cal (UC Berkeley for you non-locals) is due to close its doors forever two months from now. This saddens me, because I'm a bibliophile, and I've always enjoyed independent bookstores, whether they sell recent and current works or they barter in used books. Telegraph has long been a haunt of mine when I was in Berkeley for that very reason: within a couple of blocks, you had Cody's, Moe's and Shakespeare & Co. I could (and have) spent an entire afternoon just wandering in and out of these three bookstores, and others as well. Independent bookstores are a dying breed in a lot of places. So what's so important about Cody's?
Well, to put it into perspective, Cody's is to Berkeley what Powell's is to Portland, Oregon, and Dutton's is to Brentwood, here in Los Angeles. Although it's primarily a used bookstore, The Strand in NYC is a similarly hallowed institution. While anyone can go to Borders (and yes, I do go there) or Barnes & Noble, it's just not the same. You have people in Borders and its ilk who simply work there because it's a paycheck. It's not the same at places like Cody's, where the owners, the clerks, and the staff actually read the books, can help you locate titles or find similar works, and don't neccessarily have to rely on a computer to do so. Sure, you don't get cut-rate prices, but then again, it isn't always about price. Sometimes it's about pride in the business, knowledge in its products, and a unique identity that you can't find elsewhere. I doubt I'll be able to make it up to Berkeley before July, and I'm not sure I'd want to-- wakes are fine, but not when you enter a bookstore only to see the best materials already taken, and remnants strewn all over. I'll mourn Cody's, and continue to do my best to patronize independent stores of all kinds (not just books!) when possible. I can get the cookie-cutter experience anytime, anyplace-- it's the local restaurants, shops, and bookstores that define a city or town.
Finally, the iconic Phillips 76 ball (yes, *that* orange ball with the blue 76 in the center!) is going the way of the dinosaurs (which now constitute the source for petroleum, which is soon also going the way of the dinosaurs). ConocoPhillips, 76's parent company, is replacing the familiar orange globe with flat signs of the type you find at gas stations everywhere in America. While I am not loyal to any one brand (I've always been loyal to price more than brand, especially now that companies are being concentrated more and more into conglomerates composed of many companies), I frequented 76 in my early days of driving, simply because my parents also patronized 76 (it's kind of like how if your parents use Colgate or Crest when you're growing up, you're more likely to use it when you're an adult as well). It didn't hurt that the 76 in the town I grew up in in rural Northern California was one of the very few left that actually provided full service, where an employee would come over and fill up your tank, check the air and water, and wash your windows (of course, this meant a higher price paid overall, which had dissuaded me from going to full service all the time). While they didn't wear sparkly bright uniforms with caps and bowties, it was still nice to have the kind of service that disappeared 40 years ago.
I also enjoyed seeing the familiar ball during the day, standing out among the flat signs for all the other gas stations. This was especially true at night, when it would glow up, a bright orange beacon in the night sky. Those little antenna balls were great too-- now that I think about it, I should stop by the 76 down on the corner and see if they have one or know where I can get one. Not all the balls are down yet; if you care at all about keeping this particular icon of advertising history alive, check out this website, Save the 76 Ball, where you can also sign a petition. While I'm not a fan of petitions (they aren't always all that effective), I've signed it.
As time passes, we'll see more and more departures: WWI veterans are few and far between; soon it'll be our grandparents who survived the Depression and WWII, and then succeeding generations. As our society morphs more and more into an indistinguishable homogenized version of Anywhere, U.S.A., you'll see further sterilization of our culture and society, as more Cody's and more 76's die off, and become one blended bland version of modern life. Adieu to our past, and adieu to history.
The first is the recent death earlier this month of the last U.S. survivor of the Titanic, Lillian Asplund. She was the last survivor who could clearly remember what happened that fateful night in April of 1912. This is in contrast to last month's celebration/remembrance of the San Francisco Earthquake (for a great first-person account of the 100th anniversary, by a deaf non-1906 survivor, see here). Granted, the earthquake affected a large area and consequently there are/were more survivors, but it's still a marker of human memory when all living survivors of a historical event have passed. That's not to say that the Titanic is now a remote historical footnote: in recent years we've had tons of movies, commemorations, books, and the like about the ship. In fact, the day the article came out, I was watching a TV show on A&E or PBS or something similar about some DNA researchers trying to determine the identity of Titanic victims buried in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Kind of a spooky coincidence... The program, by the by, detailed the attempt to determine the identity of three victims, but ultimately succeeded with only one: the famed "Unknown Child," which turned out to be a one-year-old Finnish baby.
Anyway, as I was saying, it isn't a remote memory, not by far: anyone who lives in the U.S. or taken a U.S. History survey knows just how "recent" the Civil War is in our collective memories. There are re-enactments all the time all over the Southeast and in the Mid-Atlantic region, there are historical groups (this link is actually a good one; it's disgusting how developers are choosing greed over history) and commemorative groups, and people all over the South with Confederate flags on their cars and pickups. Yet all the soldiers have been dead for quite some time, and there is no one now living who can actually remember the years 1861-65. Yet it's recent enough that while it isn't living memory, it's certainly living history. For example, I knew my uncle while he was alive, and he told me when I was a little boy about listening to *his* grandfather's friend recount tales of being a drummer boy in the Civil War. So while neither my uncle nor I were alive in the mid-19th century, the Civil War wasn't some abstract event for us.
While I don't see people re-enacting the sinking of the Titanic anytime soon, there are enthusiasts, writers, and all sorts of groups out there that collect artifacts, write books and articles, conduct DNA searches (as I detailed above!), and hold meetings, build models, and publish newsletters that exhaustively detail and analyze every possible fact that can be found about the sinking of a superliner more than 90 years ago.
Some soon-to-be aspects of history aren't as widely known. Some center around local institutions, in the case of another upcoming departure from this earth. In this case, it's Cody's Books in Berkeley; the flagship store on Telegraph Avenue just south of Cal (UC Berkeley for you non-locals) is due to close its doors forever two months from now. This saddens me, because I'm a bibliophile, and I've always enjoyed independent bookstores, whether they sell recent and current works or they barter in used books. Telegraph has long been a haunt of mine when I was in Berkeley for that very reason: within a couple of blocks, you had Cody's, Moe's and Shakespeare & Co. I could (and have) spent an entire afternoon just wandering in and out of these three bookstores, and others as well. Independent bookstores are a dying breed in a lot of places. So what's so important about Cody's?
Well, to put it into perspective, Cody's is to Berkeley what Powell's is to Portland, Oregon, and Dutton's is to Brentwood, here in Los Angeles. Although it's primarily a used bookstore, The Strand in NYC is a similarly hallowed institution. While anyone can go to Borders (and yes, I do go there) or Barnes & Noble, it's just not the same. You have people in Borders and its ilk who simply work there because it's a paycheck. It's not the same at places like Cody's, where the owners, the clerks, and the staff actually read the books, can help you locate titles or find similar works, and don't neccessarily have to rely on a computer to do so. Sure, you don't get cut-rate prices, but then again, it isn't always about price. Sometimes it's about pride in the business, knowledge in its products, and a unique identity that you can't find elsewhere. I doubt I'll be able to make it up to Berkeley before July, and I'm not sure I'd want to-- wakes are fine, but not when you enter a bookstore only to see the best materials already taken, and remnants strewn all over. I'll mourn Cody's, and continue to do my best to patronize independent stores of all kinds (not just books!) when possible. I can get the cookie-cutter experience anytime, anyplace-- it's the local restaurants, shops, and bookstores that define a city or town.
Finally, the iconic Phillips 76 ball (yes, *that* orange ball with the blue 76 in the center!) is going the way of the dinosaurs (which now constitute the source for petroleum, which is soon also going the way of the dinosaurs). ConocoPhillips, 76's parent company, is replacing the familiar orange globe with flat signs of the type you find at gas stations everywhere in America. While I am not loyal to any one brand (I've always been loyal to price more than brand, especially now that companies are being concentrated more and more into conglomerates composed of many companies), I frequented 76 in my early days of driving, simply because my parents also patronized 76 (it's kind of like how if your parents use Colgate or Crest when you're growing up, you're more likely to use it when you're an adult as well). It didn't hurt that the 76 in the town I grew up in in rural Northern California was one of the very few left that actually provided full service, where an employee would come over and fill up your tank, check the air and water, and wash your windows (of course, this meant a higher price paid overall, which had dissuaded me from going to full service all the time). While they didn't wear sparkly bright uniforms with caps and bowties, it was still nice to have the kind of service that disappeared 40 years ago.
I also enjoyed seeing the familiar ball during the day, standing out among the flat signs for all the other gas stations. This was especially true at night, when it would glow up, a bright orange beacon in the night sky. Those little antenna balls were great too-- now that I think about it, I should stop by the 76 down on the corner and see if they have one or know where I can get one. Not all the balls are down yet; if you care at all about keeping this particular icon of advertising history alive, check out this website, Save the 76 Ball, where you can also sign a petition. While I'm not a fan of petitions (they aren't always all that effective), I've signed it.
As time passes, we'll see more and more departures: WWI veterans are few and far between; soon it'll be our grandparents who survived the Depression and WWII, and then succeeding generations. As our society morphs more and more into an indistinguishable homogenized version of Anywhere, U.S.A., you'll see further sterilization of our culture and society, as more Cody's and more 76's die off, and become one blended bland version of modern life. Adieu to our past, and adieu to history.
posted by Mr. Sandman | 6:43 PM
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