MemoriesandMiscellany

Over the years of this blog I have highlighted a range of images related to beer and its advertising, including King Gambrinus, tiny angels, women sitting in moons, and motorists imbibing. Octoberfest 2018 provides an opportunity to review the depiction of the barmaid — she of the dirndl dress and the foaming steins of brew. You may call it a stereotype of the female, but the reality has brought joy to the hearts of many.

In 1912, for example, the U.S. Brewer’s Association held it 26th annual convention in Cleveland. Conventioneers were given a clothes brush for the men, shown left,and a pocket mirror for their wives, right. Both items featured an illustration in celluloid of a barmaid balancing on a barrel while carrying eight steins of foaming beer. These souvenirs were a gift to the brewmasters from the Cleveland Brewers Supply Co. a business that provided breweries with everything from barrel washers, barrel hoops, gauges, hop separators, and keg scrubbers to a range of chemicals, Irish moss and isinglass.

The image of a barmaid dancing on a beer barrel would have been familiar to the beer crowd. The Fred Sehring Brewery of Joliet, Illinois, commissioned from ceramics merchant Hugo Theumler of Pittsburgh a beer stein for 1900 that emphasized a calendar for the year, flanked by two figures. The elaborate label includes, as shown here, a woman whose twisted body indicates a flamboyant mood as she lifts high a foaming goblet while straddling a wooden keg.

Bock beer often used a winsome bar maid in its advertising, usually in the company of the traditional goat, a symbol for the darker brew. The dance theme is carried forward in a poster of an 1880s vintage that features a pretty waitress, with overflowing tankards in hand, dancing on a beer barrel with a very attentive goat . No brewery is mentioned.

The dance theme is repeated in an 1880s bock trade card shows a goat dancing with a girl, both of them brandishing beer glasses, while a second goat plays the fiddle. These goats conjure up the image of the satyr, the Roman mythical half man/half goat who frequently is seen in erotic juxtaposition with attractive, loosely clad or nude women.

The final bock card clearly is meant to be humorous as goat bowls over a black waiter who had been carrying a full tray of drinks. In his charge the animal has missed the barmaid who is carrying a full tray of steins, filled to the brim with foaming dark beer. The card exhibits the ability of the Baltimore lithographic company that created it to execute a cartoon in many vivid colors.

Even the Europeans fancy their barmaids on barrel. Below are labels for two varieties of Holsten Beer, a product of Hamburg, Germany. This brewery, acquired by the Carlsberg Group in 2004, was found in 1879. It currently owns seven breweries in Germany. Early in the 20th Century it made a foray into England by buying the Union Brewery on the south bank of River Thames. The outbreak of World War One and anti-German sentiment in Jolly Old caused it to fail.

St. Pauli Girl beer traditionally has been represented by a barmaid in dirndl. The brand derives its name from the fact that the original brewery, which was established in 1857 by Lüder Rutenberg, was located next to the former St. Paul's Friary in Bremen. Seen below are a vintage label together with a modern version. Today St. Pauli Girl is located within Beck’s Brewery in Bremen.

A French version of the barmaid gave her a tall hat. She appears on a label of Biere Francaise, apparently brewed in Nantes, a city I once found by mistake, having been routed off main roads by the Tour de France. This brew apparently took a Gold Medal at the Paris Exposition of 1900. It may have been the only beverage in the category since it apparently non-alcoholic.

This field trip to review barmaids of the ages ends with four photographic trade cards of a comely young woman who in series is pouring a beer, lifting a stein, sipping a sample, and raising “Prost” to the crowd. A saucy lass, she was a feature of the Falstaff Brewery, so named in 1903 after the Shakespearean character, Sir John Falstaff. Production of Falstaff Beer peaked in the mid 1960s and then steadily fell over ensuing years. The brand went out of production in 2005.

In ending this tribute to the barmaid, it seems only fitting to devote this post to Mitzi, my favorite barmaid. Holding forth at the Trail’s End Lodge on Vliet Street in Milwaukee, Mitzi never failed to dress in dirndl and kept the beers coming as my companions and I serenaded her from a rear booth at the venerable watering hole.

"Cheesecake" to describe a a sexy, attractive woman flaunting her appeal is nowadays is said to be a rather archaic term. Yet there it seems to be the most appropriate word for the ten signs and posters shown below. The juxtaposition of scantily clad women with large machinery puts one in mind of the pin-ups that often adorned bomber aircraft in World War II.

Take for example, the metal sign at right, ostensibly a vintage ad from the Baldwin Locomotive Works in Philadelphia. Reclining on the cab of Engine 73 is comely damsel in a lepoard skin bikini bathing suit asking coyly: “Want to Ride My Train?” Four generations ago she could have been flying bombing raids over Berlin. By the way, Baldwin Locomotive produced the last of its 70,000 plus engines in 1956 and went out of business in 1972.

Baldwin was preceded in demise by the Schenectady Locomotive Works in 1901. Before it went, however, in 1868 the factory produced the 4-4-0 No. 60, called the Jupiter, one of two steam engines to take part in the “Golden Spike Ceremony” to celebrate the completion of the first transcontinental railroad, connecting the Central Pacific and Union Pacific Railroads. Jupiter’s celebrity seems to have attracted a lady in red.

Union Pacific attracted its own busty blonde, one dressed in trainman garb, who is “Ready to Roll” on “Big Boy 4884.” This engine was manufactured by the American Locomotive Works in Schenectady from 1941 to 1946. Union Pacific is a freight hauling railway that currently operates some 8,500 locomotives in 23 states west of Chicago — but not Big Boy. It retired in 1956.

What is going on here? Why are pin-ups adorning long retired steam engines? Some catalogues feature these as reproductions of vintage railroading ads. Patently absurd. But are they fakes, as some believe? No, they are newly created images aimed at a market of men who have elaborate electric train arrays and want something to adorn their walls. Sometimes even a Santa Fe caboose will do if it has features a lass in a black lace undergarment.

Southern Pacific Railroad was a major railroad system that survived more than a century by incorporating many smaller lines. It featured a modern looking steam engine. Its “cab forward” design also was a great excuse to feature a chesty young woman in a green outfit with matching stockings who is striding over a mountain landscape. The locomotive is billed as “articulated.” That term also fits the pin-up.

Put yourself in the place of one of these choo choo enthusiasts. They are accustomed to their friends snickering about men who play with kids’ toys. What better way to flash the macho badge than to adorn your train room with a picture of an engine pulling “The California Zephyr” of the Denver & Rio Grande Western Line while a shapely cowgirl sits atop the train, apparently wearing only a neckerchief above the waist. “Ride ‘Em Cowboy.”

Of course if the missus objects to semi-clad cowgirls, more demure — and clothed — alternatives are available. Note this satin-covered brunette, apparently meant to represent the “Southern Belle” route of the Kansas City Southern Line, one of the smallest as well as third oldest Class 1 railroad operating in North America. Founded in 1887, the railroad in recent years had more than 6,000 employees.

Although these signs are far from antiques and hardly even “vintage,” I consider them works of contemporary art. As with the Pennsylvania Railroad sign here, lithographed on metal or paper, they feature vivid colors, striking designs and sufficient silliness to make them interesting. “Hot as coal burning down the lines,” says this one, clearly referring to the buxom beauty and just as clearly making no sense. A century from now it may hang in a museum as a sign of our times.

The next two images, one from the defunct New York Central System and another from the familiar Amtrak, both urge that we travel home for the Holidays by train. My wife and I once spent two days and a night on a train going to New Orleans at Christmas. She says, “Never again.” For me the signs represent something else. “What shall we get Dad for Christmas?” Easy answer — serve up some cheesecake for his train room.

In September 2016 I featured a post called “Beer on Wheels Through the Decades,” that featured a number of vehicles used over the years to haul beer barrels and cases. For reasons not readily explained, I have continued to be fascinated by the subject, continuing to collect relevant images. Shown here are a dozen examples from the U.S. and elsewhere that mark the versatility of transporting the suds, augmented with information about the companies that got the wheels rolling.

The truck shown here could never hit a bump in on a Cleveland street, so precarious are the empty crates the driver is carrying. In a city full of ethnic German “beer barons,” an Irishman named Stephen Creedon founded the Standard Brewing Company and gave the city a beer that with “time out” for National Prohibition sold for almost 60 years. Creedon called his beer “Erin Brew” and for the German population, “Brew Brau.”

One reason beer trucks are interesting is that they often were designed specifically for that purpose and stand out from other vehicles of the time. A trade card from the Adams Bros. company of Findlay, Ohio, shows a custom made truck made for the Anheuser-Busch brewery of St. Louis. As early as 1865 and until 1910 Adams Bros. was associated with the foundry business. From 1911 to 1916 they manufactured trucks and a few cars. The company later changed its name to the Adams Axle Company and produced axles for car manufacturers including Durant.

This truck was commissioned in the early 1900s by the Adolph Kress Brewing Company of Sparta, Wisconsin. After the end of National Prohibition, the vehicle luckily fell into the hands of the late Richard Guerrera, a successful trucking company owner, who founded the Golden Age of Trucking Museum in Bridgeport, Connecticut. He restored the Kress truck to its pristine glory, including the variety of barrel taps and other instruments that were provided.

Although virtually all beer trucks ran on gasoline, this one — said to be “up-to-date in all things” — is an electric wagon. With the current emphasis on electric vehicles, this truck might seem to be ahead of its time. The owner was J. Rapp & Sons, a San Francisco bottler and wholesaler who distributed Rainier Beer of Seattle, a brewery founded in 1884 whose beer was very popular throughout the Pacific Coast.

Nothing beats a beer truck dressed up for a parade. Even better are four beer trucks with American flags appended, even if the character displayed drinking beer looks rather seedy. This is Salt Lake City after all, where many residents are teetotalers. The Henry Wagener Brewery opened in 1864 and apparently closed in 1913 after the plant burned down. A run of almost 50 years in the heartland of the Mormon Church was no small accomplishment.

This trade card from the Adam Scheidt Brewing Company of Norristown, Pennsylvania, shows the raised forward seating for the driver found in other beer trucks. The roof keeps him and the barrels of Lotos Export (“finest pale beer)

out of the sun and rain. The Adam Scheidt Brewing Company was founded in the late 1870s and was incorporated in 1884. After Prohibition, the brewery was revived and did well, brewing Valley Forge Beer, Ram's Head Ale, and Prior Beer. The name was changed to the Valley Forge Brewing Company in 1963 and five years later sold to Philadelphia's largest brewer at the time, C. Schmidt & Sons.

In my day a vehicle looking like this one was term a “jalopy.” It operated through the streets blaring music and a Blatz beer commercial. In 1875, Blatz was the first Milwaukee brewery to have a bottling department to package beer and ship nationally. It incorporated as the Valentin Blatz Brewing Company in 1889, and by the 1900s was the city's third-largest brewer. The brewery was noted for its aggressive and unusual marketing tactics.

If Blatz could attract attention by mounting an advertising stein on a truck, Tiger Beer could go one better by featuring an entire beer bottle, as shown here on two vehicles. Tiger Beer, a lager, was first brewed in Singapore in 1932 as a result of a joint brewing venture between Heineken and a Singapore based conglomerate, now known as Asia Pacific Breweries. Tiger currently is brewed in at least different countries. When in that part of the world, it consistently was my beer of choice.

Through the years many brewers have favored the “art deco” streamlined look seen in this Labatt’s truck, clearly an elegant carrier for the suds. This beer owes its beginning to John Kinder Labatt in 1847 in Ontario Canada. Although Labatt’s today is the largest brewer in Canada, it now part of an international brewing conglomerate involving Belgium, Brazil, Canada and the U.S. firms, known as Anheuser-Busch InBev SA/NV and traded on the New York Stock exchange as BUD.

In the era of the boutique craft brewery, it seems natural that Nancy and Matt Barger in Knoxville, Tennessee, would come up with the idea for a mobile bartending service using antique trucks. This is farm truck that the Bargers have outfitted with a custom bar box. Three taps for kegs have been integrated into the design. A sign directs customers to the beer. Business has been so good that the couple now have two trucks in service as portable bars.

The beer truck shown here indicates that the Bargers are not the only ones with a mobile“beerstube.” It identifies as “Germany” and the background looks European but the other language used is English, making it difficult to place. Nonetheless, the mobile giant barrel with a huge tap makes an appropriate setting for the beer being dispensed. I am also intrigued by the world’s largest “church key” fastened to the side.

Finally, if a brewery must transport its suds through city streets, why not attract attention by fashioning the tank in the shape of a beer can. “Old Style” was the first brand created by the G. Heileman Brewing Company of La Crosse, Wisconsin. Founded by Gottlieb Heileman in 1858, the brewery survived National Prohibition by selling “near-beer” (less than 0.5% alcohol) and malt syrup. After Repeal it resumed full brewery operations until 1996 when it was acquired by Stroh’s.

There they are: A dozen trucks spanning most of the Twentieth Century. Their purposes differed. Some were vehicular billboards, advertising their brands as they plied the streets. Others were mobile barrooms, devoted to bringing the saloon to consumers rather than the consumer to a saloon. Still others were simply utilitarian motors for the job of carting barrels and bottles. All of them, however, help make the case for the beer truck as special in automotive history.

Along with noted British author and social critic, George Orwell, I have been fascinated by comic postcards — a dying art in the era of political correctness. In April 2013 on this blog I featured cards that employed beer or whiskey barrels as part of their humorous motif. Subsequently my efforts have been to collect images that depict inebriated gentlemen and light poles.

The postcard shown right epitomizes the genre. Two drunks are languishing under a street light, apparently at the edge of a body of water. Both are depicted as heavily intoxicated, one with a whiskey bottle sticking out of his back pocket, also a frequent image. One drunk is asking the other in liquor-slurred speech whether the glaring bulb is the sun or the moon.

On this next postcard the drunk, well dressed but with his clothes disheveled, has climbed the light pole and is contemplating the bulb. So impaired is he that he has mistaken the light as emanating from his bedroom, where his “missus” seemingly is waiting for him. In the context of these cards, she will have a rolling pin in her hand to whack him.

In this postcard a bowler-hatted gent, who does not appear to be drunk, admonishes the light pole to “lead kindly light.” The reference is to a favorite Protestant hymn, whose first verse seems entirely appropriate to the scene:

Lead kindly Light, amidst the grey and gloom

The night is long and I am far from home

Here in the dark, I do not ask to see

The path ahead, one step enough for me

Lead on, lead on, kindly Light.

My guess, however, is that the Prohibitionist crowd of the day would have considered the postcard to be sacrilegious.

Postcards did not hesitate to make an object of derision the rich and well-born who had too much to drink. Shown here is an illustration of a distinguished-looking gentleman in top hat, vest and coat who is holding on to a pole in an attempt to retrieve a cigar that in his alcoholic haze he has dropped. No words are necessary to convey the humor of this situation.

The next postcard animates the light poles as welcoming companions to a gentleman who appears to need them to keep upright. In a world turned topsy turvy all around him, he declares: “I am making new acquaintances.” Yet it is only 10 P.M. with many more hours of possible drinking ahead. He apparently will be moving from light post to light post — going somewhere.

Another drunkard has found his light pole, is proud of the location and apparently sticking with it. He brags: “Was at my post early today.” The clock on the wall behind him confirms that he has had an early evening of drinking. It registers 8:25 P.M. Not so long ago such postcards could be found at newsstands, drug stores and souvenir stores all across America. Today they are a vanishing breed.

The light pole and the drunk are not just an American icon. The image exists on comic cards in other countries as well. Shown here is an example from Estonia, typical of the drunk who must hold tight to the light pole to prevent falling on the pavement. No, he has not grown a tail. That is a bottle of whiskey poking from his backside on which he has hung his hat.

A second overseas postcard comes from Scotland. Here a bald drunk is pushing a fire alarm on a pole apparently thinking that he thereby can order up two drinks of scotch. Behind him a sign advertises “MacStifenims D.T. Blend Highland Whiskey.” Presumably it is his drink of choice. Note that in his alcoholic haze the Scotsman has stuck the tip of his umbrella clear through the crown of his hat.

The French have their own versions of the theme. Shown here is a French workman who seems to be marveling at the scene around him. A glow seems to be emanating from the moon, a street lamp and the man’s nose. The caption at the bottom in translation reads: “The streets are never so bright as by the moon and the nose of the drunk.”

With the postcard below, we receive not only the image of a highly inebriated man hanging on to a light pole but also his protestation that that “I’m Not Imbricated” and a semi-rhyming diatribe that ends with “But the drunker I stand here the longer I get.” The dog in the picture has it right — all this is very silly. But the genre demanded it.

At least equally silly is the 1909 postcard of a drunk leaning up against a lamp post, smoking a cigar and with keys dangling. A clipping from the want ad section of a newspaper provides the caption: “Help wanted. I am up against it.” Even sillier is the want ad above it: “Strong boy to drive horses that speak German. Address Horses.”

The final postcard shows a figure who is very familiar to us by now. He is a well-dressed man in suit and vest who is carrying a partially empty flask of whiskey and along the line has damaged his top hat. With a different message this might have been another comic version of the drunk and the light pole. But the message sets a different tone. It suggests to “U. Boozer” that common sense and will power should lead to abstinence: “Let it alone.” The card may well have originated from prohibitionary advocates as an antidote to the comic postcard portrayals of drunks.

Whatever cultural norms once made these postcards an appropriate message to absent relatives and friends have long since disappeared from American life. We no longer see inebriation as a matter of fun and laughter. The evils of alcoholism are all too prevalent in society. As artifacts of a not-so-distant past, however, they recreate a time when humor still could found in a drunk hanging on to a light pole.

Born and raised in Toledo, Ohio, from time to time I have featured its historic industries on this blog, including the Buckeye Brewery and Libby Glass, the latter a place I briefly worked. Recently I have become interested in the story of the Milburn Wagon Company, a manufacturer located in Toledo that grew from a small shop in Indiana to the largest wagon maker in the world. This American industrial success story was fueled, at least in part, by the colorful trade cards Milburn used to advertise its products.

An excellent example is the multicolor lithographed trade above that shows two spirited, high stepping horses horses pulling a Milburn wagon within a bucolic rural scene featuring mountains in the distance. Note that the driver is seated well back from the front of the wagon.

Contrast that seating with the Milburn card shown above. This vehicle looks much more like a Western buckboard, the seat being located at the extreme front. Although most company sales were east of the Mississippi, Milburn has been credited for its contributed on opening up the West for pioneers. One trade publication in 1888 commented that: “…They are shipping business wagons to almost every city east of the Rocky Mountains, and have a fine trade in the Mountains from Deadwood to Denver.”

Capitalizing on the Western image, Milburn provided its dealers with a wall sign showing a settler, with his wife and baby aboard, holding off at pistol point a group of three raiders intent on stealing his wagon and horses. The label on the sign tells the story: “The Demand for the Milburn Wagon.” The company also used this image, slightly altered, in its newspaper advertising.

By this time the largest manufacturer of wagons in America, with worldwide sales, Milburn Wagon had begun modestly, the endeavor of a British immigrant to the U.S. named George Milburn who tried farming and other pursuits before in 1867 investing in and later taking over an existing wagon works in Mishawaka, Indiana. As business thrived, Milburn asked the town fathers to help defray the cost of building a railroad siding to his plant. When they refused, he looked for a place to move.

Toledo, always on the lookout for new businesses, proposed a stock offering that raised $300,000 from locals and offered a discounted piece of land located adjacent to a railroad for the factory. Consequently in 1873 the Milburn Wagon Co. opened in Toledo. A trade card like the one above might have a line drawing of the factory on its flip side.

Before long Milburn Wagon Works were the largest wagon makers on the globe, with sales offices in nine American cities from Albany, New York, to San Antonio, Texas, and a customer base from Europe to Australia. The manufacturing process was completely mechanized. requiring workers only to operate machines. The average number of men employed at the factory ranged from 550 to 600. By the mid-1800s Milburn was producing about 600 wagons a week in its Toledo plant, the equivalent of one finished wagon almost every 10 minutes— pre-dating the Detroit auto assembly lines.

Moreover, the firm had pioneered in hollow axles that while still as strong as solid ones allowed them to term their wagons as “the lightest running in the world.” That claim was backed up by a trade card of bevy of frisky young women drawing one.

The company also had patented an improved type of wagon wheel that was lighter but strong. Although most Milburn illustrations showed two horses pulling their rigs, the company also made a one-horse wagon. Like others it is painted in a characteristic green with the Milburn name prominent on the side.

Another Milburn patent covered its braking system that allowed for easy parking of the wagon. It was operated by the right hand of the driver who activated it by pulling foward on the rear level and released it with the front lever. Well-built and simple in construction, these sturdy wagons could be purchased for as little a $150. Little wonder that so many heading West did so on a Milburn.

Featured is a trade card that states: “45 years, building nothing but wagons, hadn’t we ought to know how?” This was not entirely true; as the years went by. Milburn in Toledo began to build buggies and carriages. Nor did the company miss a step when the automotive age meant the end of horse-drawn vehicles. Between 1915 and 1923, the company made 4,000 electric cars as well as auto-bodies for other Midwest manufacturers. In 1923 the Milburn era ended when its works were purchased by General Motors for its Buick division.

An entire book could be written about the history of the Milburn Wagon Company, As a Toledo boy who arrived long after the firm’s demise, however, I want to remember the company as the source of innovative multi-hued advertising that continues to remind us of an America when things were a lot simpler.

Note: This is not the first time I have displayed my penchant for wagons. On October 12, 2013, on this blog I posted an article entitled, “Circle the Wagons” (Under Glass) that featured a group of ten glass paperweights with a variety of wagon images on them.

Reacting to the modernization begun during the Meiji Period in Japanese history, brothers Ichizaeon (left) and Toyo Morimura founded a company, later named Morimura Brothers with the idea of establishing overseas trading for Japanese products. In the 1890s the firm shifted from retail to wholesale operations and concentrated on pottery and porcelain ware. By 1901 the Morimuras were advertising as “The Company that makes Japan’s Finest China.” As early as 1878 the brothers had opened a business in New York City, selling among other things, pottery. These goods became known as “Nippon” and later “Noritake.”

Among other items the Nippon pottery featured Japanese-produced highly decorated European-style hard white porcelain jugs, holding about a quart of liquid. Although more expensive than ordinary American salt-glazed ceramics, the elaborate designs insured that these items would not be tossed away. Accordingly they were bought by American distillers and liquor wholesalers to gift their very best customers, likely saloons, hotels and restaurants.

Evidence of European influence can be noted on the several jugs that carry motifs redolent of Dutch pottery. Shown here with a Netherlands aspect are two scenes with windmills and below, a boy and a woman wearing a Dutch bonnet, walking a dog. Each one of these ceramics would have been decorated by hand in the Morimura’s factory.

The European touch also is evident in a jug featuring a monk smelling a flower, monks being a common subject for spirits jugs in countries like Germany, Austria and France. Country scenes, a staple design for porcelain containers manufactured by Continental potteries, also were imitated.

The Morimuras could authorize more exotic themes. The vessel at left with its delicate scroll work and lack of any illustration bespeaks an Arabic origin. Egypt clearly was the influence on the second jug, showing palm trees along the Nile River while the pyramids appear on the horizon. The jug below left with its vivid colors limns a picturesque scene has a distinct Asian flavor. The round door in the wall reminds me of similar entrances in China.

The only Japanese flavored Nippon ceramic I have found features horsemen whose mounts have the angular heads and bodies typical of Japanese equine depictions.

Which American whiskey producers used these jugs is largely unknown. When given away almost all would have carried a paper label identifying the source. It quickly would have been washed away to reveal the full luster of the ceramic. An exception is the jug and closure, shown below, that bears the name of E. M. Higgins and his “Old Velvet” brand of whiskey. Higgins was a successful Rochester, Minnesota, grocer and liquor dealer, who gradually became engaged in several other economic ventures.

In 1901 Higgins sold the business he had run so successfully for twenty years. The buyer was the Gucker family of Rochester, led by William J. Gucker, who may have been a bookkeeper for Higgins. Shown here, Gucker became the secretary, treasurer and general manager of what continued to be named the E. M. Higgins Company. The enterprise continued to be a highly profitable one, which brings us back to the Nippon jug.

The pottery mark on the base of the ceramic, according to experts, dates it after 1911, meaning that not Ezra Higgins but Gucker was responsible for commissioning the jug from the Morimura Brothers. In so doing, Gucker may have been appropriating the name “Old Velvet.” That brand had been registered with the U.S. Patent Office about 1891 by the J & G Butler Company of Columbus, Ohio. The trademark did not deter copycats. As many as seven other liquor houses across America also used the name, perhaps under license from the Butlers, but more likely not.

The U.S. market for whiskey containers disappeared with the advent of National Prohibition in 1920, meaning that most of the jugs shown here are 100 years old or approaching that age. As such, they are antiques and the prices they receive at auction reflect their relative rarity. They sell from $200 to $600 at auction.

Foreword: When alcohol prohibition was imposed in states and in the Nation distillers and whiskey dealers often were prepared. Some shipped their liquor abroad. Others sold it at steep discounts to private customers. Some, however, found themselves still owning large supplies and nowhere to go with them. A handful of those whiskey men (and at least one woman) were spurred to take illegal action, known generally as “bootlegging.” As will be seen, such efforts seldom were successful.

J. T. Doores of Bowling Green, Kentucky, as a youth was so captivated by a prohibitionist preacher that he took a formal pledge to foreswear alcohol. Within seven years Doores not only had recanted, he was running a whiskey wholesale business that brought him considerable wealth and political clout in Kentucky.

In 1916 Doores’ Warren County like other localities in Kentucky went “dry.” In a crack down on what local law enforcement called “bootlegging,” police attention was drawn to the former liquor dealer in December 1917. Doores was arrested and hauled into court for having carried from Louisville to Bowling Green, shown above, several gallon jugs and some pint flasks of whiskey, concealing them in four suitcases.

The authorities charged that the whiskey in his possession was to be sold. His arrest made headlines throughout the American Midwest. The Cincinnati Enquirer opined: “Doores probably is the most prominent man who yet has been arrested in Kentucky on a charge of peddling liquor into a dry burg.”

I have been unable to find the disposition of the charges against Doores. In those days individuals with considerably less political clout, even if found guilty, often were left off with a slap on the wrist and a small fine. We can assume that was the worst that might have befallen Doores.

When his father died in 1904 and left him in control of the family distillery in Tell City, Indiana, William Krogmanwas well prepared to succeed in the whiskey trade. As “dry” forces closed in on the production and sale of alcohol, however, Krogman’s markets slowly dried up along with profits. Finally, the advent of National Prohibition caused the distillery to shut down completely.

Krogman found the situation difficult to accept. Sealed by federal order, his warehouses were full of aging whiskey. The temptation proved to be too strong for William. With four others, including two former Tell City town marshals and an ex-sheriff of Perry County, Krogman hatched a plot to rob the his distillery warehouse. They carried it out in August 1921. In short order Krogman and his cohorts were identified by federal authorities and arrested.

Summoned into Federal Court in Indianapolis, Krogman and his four accomplices were charged with conspiracy. As the presumed ringleader, Krogman’s bail was set at $3,000 (equivalent to $65,000 today.) The others paid lesser amounts. I am unable to find the outcome of the arrests, but in many cases such offenses were treated leniently even by the U.S. courts and the perpetrators let off with fines. The rationale could reasonably have been that Krogman was only trying to purloin liquor that actually was his. William continued to own the Krogman properties during the “dry” years but died in 1832 and never saw the Repeal of the 18th Amendment.

Having inherited operation of a successful Anderson County, Kentucky, distillery, shown above, Mary Dowling was not about to let National Prohibition interfere with her liquor trade. Her illegal business worked until 1924 when revenue agents set a trap for her. She was operating both out of her home and from an office next to two distillery warehouses, supposedly sealed, in which large quantities of liquor were stored. Federal agents arrived with two “turncoat” bootleggers in their automobiles, men who had done business with Mary in the past. The agents watched as the bootleggers entered the house and bought out two sacks of whiskey, each containing a dozen bottles. They waited until the sacks were placed in one of the autos, then searched and seized them, as their stool -pigeons reputedly ‘fessed up. The “sting” had worked. The agents then entered the Dowling home with search warrants.

In the basement they found and seized 478 sacks, each holding 12 quarts of whiskey, exactly like the ones deposited in the bootlegger’s car. They confiscated the liquor and arrested members of the Dowling family, including three of Mary’s sons. As a court record later narrated, she contended that the whiskey had been there before Prohibition and was “to be for the use of family and guests, whom she entertained on a large scale.”

The Dowlings were prosecuted for a conspiracy to possess, transport, and sell intoxicating liquors in violation of the National Prohibition Act. There ensued three years of court cases both in Kentucky and Federal courts as Mary through her attorneys contended that the search warrant was flawed, criminal charges should be dropped, and the seized liquor returned. An initial trial was adjourned when she became sick. The indictment was renewed by the government in 1925 and this time the Mary and her sons were convicted. Then fate intervened. Upon an appeal of the conviction to the U.S. Sixth Court of Appeals, it was found that the stenographer who had taken the record of the earlier trial had died and no one could read his notes. That wasenough for the Circuit Court and they threw out the convictions.

Meanwhile Mary Dowling had hatched a new -- and more successful -- business plan. About 1926 she hired Joseph Beam, one of Kentucky’s premier distillers but now out of work, to dismantle her distillery, transport the pieces to Juarez, Mexico, reassemble it there, and resume making whiskey. Mexico had no prohibition so liquor production was completely legal. Her whiskey was sold to American tourists who were allowed to bring it over the border. In addition, a significant amount found its way directly onto the U.S. market, allegedly for “medicinal use.” No one seemed to know how her whiskey got here. But Mary did.

Note: Longer articles on each of these three individuals may be found on this blog: J. T. Doores, January 26, 2015; William Krogman, December 6, 2014, and Mary Dowling, January 22, 2014.

Foreword: Occasionally on this blog I take the opportunity to “wander down memory lane.” This post is one of those times. By actual count (for security clearance purposes) I took eighty trips abroad during my working career spanning fifty-four years. Only one — my first abroad — was an out and out boondoggle. It is chronicled here.

While still in the U.S. Air Force Reserve, in 1962 I went to Washington, D.C., as the chief of staff for a Wisconsin congressman named Clem Zablocki. There I became acquainted with the 9999th, an Air Force Reserve unit on Capitol Hill, composed of members of Congress and congressional staffers. The commanding general of the 9999th was was future Republican nominee for President, Senator Barry Goldwater. I was allowed to participate as the only enlisted man (turning off the lights for the slide briefings) and promised a captain’s rank. I also was allowed to join the group on a 1962 “study mission” to Mexico, Puerto Rico, St. Thomas, and Panama.

Our plane was a C-118, a Douglas Aircraft cargo plane with four propeller-driven engines, a kind of lumbering workhorse of the Air Force that had been around since before the Korean War. Shown here, it had been modified into a passenger plane called the “Liftmaster.” Between 1947 and 1959, Douglas built a total of 704 DC-6s, 167 of them military versions.

We had six members of Congress on board the C-118, five representatives and one senator. Among them, shown here from left, are Zablocki, second; Rep. William Scranton of Pennsylvania, later a presidential candidate, fourth; and Senator Peter Dominick of Arizona, fifth. A large group of male staff members rounded out the contingent.

While flying across the Caribbean to Mexico City, we encountered a fierce squall line. The C-118 was tossed around, lightening was striking all around us, and ice built up on the wings. There was absolute silence in the cabin and sweat trickled down my side as I prayed. After we had made it through the storm and landed safely in Mexico City, I ate with the co-pilot, who confessed to being scared, but noted that our pilot, called “Lobby,” shown here, kept cool but ducked his head at every lightening strike.

Mexico City proved a revelation. Here was a huge city bustling with energy on the scale of New York City. As a Midwest kid I had never imagined such a place existed “south of the border.” Our group was treated to a bullfight, my first, one in which the matador made a tactical error, was severely gored in the groin, and according to next day’s newspaper, remained hanging to life by a thread. I never saw another bullfight.

Every stop was an excuse for the group to go shopping. Zablocki often was leading the way with me tagging along. When he asked me to examine a piece of jewelry he had picked out, I was effusive about it. He took me aside, explained that one haggled for price outside the U.S. and that my response hereafter was to be: “Looks like rough work.” Have used that line many times since.

Our next stop was the Panama Canal Zone where our group was taken by boat half-way up the canal by the operating authority to the town of Gamboa. Along the way we saw American troop ships going home after being deployed during the recently-ended Cuban Crisis. I had in mind going the rest of the way by train to Colon, on the Pacific side. The train left Gamboa just as I got to the station and I was forced to hitchhike back. My luck was to be picked up and taken back to Panama City by Hula Sanchez, our lovely hostess on the boat. She refused my dinner invitation, however.

Our next stop was Puerto Rico where the military duties of the day included a fishing trip in the northern Caribbean. That is me, the handsome devil catching some rays while deep sea fishing off San Juan. Then there was a quick side trip to St. Thomas where our hosts were Gen. Donald Dawson, former aide to President Truman, and film star, Ilona Massey. She had been an idol of my youth and now she was right there to talk to.

Our final stop was Guantanamo Bay on the island of Cuba where Fidel Castro had tried to get Russian nukes only a short time before. Although we traveled mostly in civvies, on Gitmo, as the Marines call it, we were in uniform and my meager two stripes there for all to see. They emboldened the enlisted Marines to ask me who this high-powered delegation might be. Shown here is Tom Hughes, my airplane seatmate as we look from the base boundary line down into Cuba itself.

Upon return to the United States, I never received captain’s bars and ended my Air Force affiliation as an airman 2nd class several years later. Before I could be commissioned, President Kennedy’s Secretary of Defense, Robert McNamara, took aim at the 9999th and like units on the Hill sponsored by the Army and Navy, disbanding them all. My first boondoggle, in effect, turned out to be my last.

This is the fourth post I have devoted to breweries that issue trade cards that reference well known operas and plays but substitute lines that extoll the sponsoring beer. August Busch of the St. Louis Anheuser Busch Brewing Company appears to have initiated the advertising trend, to be followed by other beer-making organizations.

The Dick Brothers of Quincy, Illinois — Matthew, John and Jacob — looked down the Mississippi River about 140 miles and decided to emulate Busch and a brewery that was its major competition in the Midwest. Rather than opera, the Dick family tended toward recreating Shakespeare.

The first card shown here ostensibly shows Nathaniel, presumably the well-dressed and hatted gentleman in the foreground, downing a beer and intoning that Dick Bros. Quincy Beer is “a most singular and choice drink.” It presumably is from Act IV, Scene I, of the Bard’s“Love’s Labor Lost.” Unfortunately for the purposes of accuracy, Nathaniel, as a pedantic clergyman in the comedy, does not appear in Scene I. He does not show up until Scene II. That inaccuracy, however, did not harm a similar card recently selling at auction for $50.

Whoever was advising the brothers on Shakespeare may have been sampling the product too freely. The next card, also celebrating “Love’s Labor Lost” also is miss-identified. Designated as from Act IV, Scene I, it apparently is meant to show the King of Navarre, who with his companions has sworn off marriage, relaxing with a beer. He is having not just one, the caption tells us, but three Dick Bros. brews. In case we cannot read, one of his companions is holding up three fingers. Unfortunately, no comparable scene occurs anywhere in Act IV.

But whatever love the brewing brothers may have had for Shakespeare was not completely lost. Their next card, from Act V of “As You Like It,” is in sync with the playwright. It depicts two women, royal cousins, who have been banished from court by the Duke. Dressed as men they are escorted into the forest by Touchstone, the Duke’s jester. In the original, however, the jester was not holding a bottle of beer.

Nor does Shakespeare does indicate that Hamlet was having a beer with his friend Horatio as they planned to “out” the King as a murderer through the mechanism of a play, that is the gist of Act III, Scene II. Forgetting the plot the Prince of Denmark here is rhapsodizing that his “dear soul was mistress of her choice” in selecting Dick Bros. Quincy Beer.

The flip side of the card carries a line drawing of the brewery, whose operations once were larger than Anheuser-Busch. Founded by the brothers in 1857 in a small shack with limited output, by 1870 their facility had grown to 27 buildings covering nearly ten acres. Its brewing kettle was so large it was contained in a five story building. Prohibition and World War II brought hard times and the brewery declared bankruptcy in 1951 and the property was auctioned off.

That fate was far in the future, however, when Dick Bros. issued its final card shown here. It was from Act II of “Boccaccio,” an operetta in three acts by Franz von Suppe with German libretto, taken from “The Decameron” by Giovanni Boccaccio. First performed in 1879, it would have been well known to the German speaking clientele of Dick Bros. While seduction was a central idea, plying a woman with a glass of beer was unlikely.

Another brewery making use of the color lithographed cards with humorous captions was the Fulton Avenue Brewery of Evansville, Indiana, shown here. This brewery, located at the corner of Fulton Avenue and Division Street, operated for more than 100 years, with “time out” for National Prohibition. Over the years the company changed names and owners several times until 1997 when it was forced to file for bankruptcy and the main building razed the following year.

I can find only one trade card from the Fulton outfit. It spoofs a German operetta in three acts by Carl Millocker, in English called“The Black Hussar,” that had its first performance in Vienna in October 1884. The operetta played for the first time in the U.S. in 1885 at two New York City performances, one in German and the second in English. The setting is an army post at the time of Napoleon’s advance into Russia, 1812-1813. None of this is evident on the trade card. Instead we see two comely young women sipping a Fulton Avenue beer and intoning doggerel verse.

The last two cards are examples from Anheuser Busch that have not appeared in my previous posts. The first celebrates Tony Faust Beer, a brand named for a St. Louis restaurant owner who was a good friend of August Busch. Many Faust beer cards celebrate the central figure of Goethe’s story. Instead of hesitating to drink a potion from the Devil that will give him his youth again (but damn his soul), this Faust is trembling over a goblet of beer that might give him indigestion, but little else.

The final trade card here celebrates“Les Huguenots,” a grand opera by Giaome Meyerbeer that was five years in creation. Introduced about 1832 in Paris, the work was very popular and was produced a number of times in the U.S. The design is faithful to the story, showing the Count de Nevers, a Catholic, welcoming Raoul, a young Huguenot who has been sent by the King of France two reconcile the religious conflict. In the opera the Count has copious supplies of wine brought to the table and urges Raoul to drink. The card substitutes as a libation, Anheuser Beer.

Note: The three prior posts on this blog that feature these color lithographed beer cards appeared April 13, 2013; October 24, 2014; and January 1, 2018.

To my recollection this is the first time in nine years of this blog that I have posted an article on music. It is an act of necessity. For years I have been a fan of Jack Blanchard and Misty Morgan, a married couple who have been singing original songs together since 1967 and who I believe deserve considerably more recognition as American songwriters and musicians of note.

My first exposure to their music was driving to work in the 1970s listening to WMAL in Washington, D.C. and a program featuring disc jockeys Frank Harden and Jackson Weaver. Weaver was a fan of the couple and almost daily played their “Somewhere in Virginia in the Rain.” I was hooked and still am by that song:

I'm callin' from somewhere in Virginia in the rain,

I never thought I'd hear your voice again,

I heard the windshield wipers callin' out your name,

Somewhere in Virginia in the rain.

Its appeal is the effortless blending of male and female voices in a few simple lines and rhymes to tell the story of a money-short couple who have had an argument. The man is calling from a road trip to make up — and she is very understanding. One line told about his windshield patched with cellophane. That particularly spoke to me, having myself ridden 350 miles in a car like that.

By some chance circumstance, Jack and Misty were born in the same hospital in Buffalo, New York; Jack in 1942 and Misty in 1945. Both lived in Ohio as children. They met in 1963 in Florida, where Blanchard was working as a comedian and Morgan as a pianist. By 1967 they were married and singing together.

I am fascinated by the cover photo of what may have been their first album that identifies them as “Early Teenaged Rockers.” Their subsequent music might have been classified as “country” but never “rock.” Their novelty song, “Tennessee Bird Walk” made it to the top of the country charts and No. 23 on the pop charts. The song got them a Grammy nomination for duet of the year. They also did well with other novelty songs like “Legendary Chicken Fairy,” “Humphrey the Camel,” and “Yellow Bellied Sapsucker.”

Therein, to my mind, lies the difficulty in Jack and Misty being adequately being recognized for their work by the music world. My experience as a journalist is that if you can write humorous material, something most in the trade cannot, it it stereotypes you and shuts out serious reporting. Something similar, I believe, has befallen Blanchard and Morgan. Songs like “There’s More to Life,” “Bethlehem Steel,” “Miami Sidewalks,” are artfully crafted lyrics and marvelously sung. These are just a few of the contributions this couple has made to the American songbook without adequate appreciation.

The last time Jack and Misty made the charts was 1974 with they hit No. 23 with “One More Song.” During the 1980s and 1990s their careers slowed and they issued only two albums. The 21st century has seen a revival. As shown in the photo here they were inducted into the Buffalo Hall of Fame in 2010. They have established a fan base in Australia, performing there frequently and issuing three albums on that country’s Omni Record label. Now living in Florida, the couple has established their own record label, called “Velvet Saw.” On it they have released earlier material as well as new songs.

In 2007, frustrated by my inability to get their music on CDs, I went for answers to their website and quickly received a reply from Jack Blanchard. Purchasing several of their CDs directly, I received one called “Beginnings” that carried a personal message: “Dear Jack, Enjoy” and signed by each. It remains a particularly cherished recording and I play it often. They also sent me two business cards that I keep as souvenirs.

My hope is that the music world, especially Nashville, will wake up and put Jack Blanchard and Misty Morgan into the Country Music Hall of Fame. After all others known primarily for novelty songs like Tom T. Hall, Homer & Jethroe, and Grandpa Jones are there. There should be plenty of room for Jack and Misty.

Shown right is a figure of a woman, strangely clothed and awkwardly positioned. She is part of an advertisement for The Owl Liquor Co. of Eureka, Nevada, that appears on a pocket mirror, likely a giveaway item for the liquor house. This artifact recently sold at auction for a whopping $1,100 plus a buyer’s premium of $247.50. This sale spurred me to devote a post to liquor-related pocket mirrors, of which I have a small collection.

If it had not been for the efforts of a New York inventor named John Wesley Hyatt to find a substitute for elephant ivory in billiard balls, these items would not exist. As the result of his experiments he created a substance we call celluloid — the world’s first industrial plastic. Put into mass production in 1872, celluloid rapidly became popular for its ability to be shaped and to carry elaborate colored lithographic images. In particular it was suited as backing for small mirrors that could be stowed away in a pocket. Because celluloid took color well it proved a good venue for advertising.

Among those who recognized the marketing value of these pocket mirrors were J & A Freiberg whose Cincinnati liquor house enjoyed a 62-year life from just after the Civil War until the coming of National Prohibition. One of their many brands was “Puck Rye,” a mischievous character in Shakespeare’s play, “Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Puck is represented here on a pocket mirror by a small boy with a top hat and whiskey bottle.

Comely women often were depicted on pocket mirrors. George Alegretti, a grocer, liquor dealer and saloonkeeper in Stockton, California, provided the world with the archetype beauty of the time, replete with bouffant hairdo and bee-sting lips. Alegretti’s giveaway illustrates in the flowers how well celluloid took delicate colors.

The “Harvest King” brand presents a photographic image of a woman in advertising its brand of whiskey, said to make “A sick man well and a well man happy.” This brand originated with the Danciger Brothers of Kansas City who fashioned themselves as the Harvest King Distilling Company. In fact, they were “rectifiers,” blending whiskeys bought from authentic distilleries.

Pocket mirrors came in two shapes, both round and ovals, with typical size for the latter at 2 3/4 by 1 3/4 inches. An ad was on the back, a reflective surface on the front. As shown on this example for “Good Friends” whiskey, often the ovalsrepresented a whiskey barrel with one end devoted to the advertising. Although Samuel Goodfriend of Wellsburg, West Virginia, meant his to represent comity between Quaker and Native American, they could be passing a bottle.

It is not a coincidence that the pocket mirror for Bald Eagle Whiskey, would advertise the flagship brand of S. F. Petts & Co. The driving force behind the Boston liquor wholesalers, Sanford Petts, was himself a certifiable Yankee Doodle Dandy. Many of his forebears had served General Washington gallantly in the Revolutionary War. By using the national symbol to sell whiskey Petts was invoking his patriotic heritage.

The Buffalo Springs Distillery was typical of the many small town distilleries that once abounded in Kentucky. It originally operated from late fall until early spring, employing local farmers for the period between harvest and planting. As one of the few sources of non-farm employment, it dominated the local economy and was a powerful part of the commerce in Scott County. It produced several bourbon brands. After Prohibition it was substantially rebuilt and reopened.

John Casper, a well-known distiller in North Carolina was dislodged from the state by prohibition laws. He thereupon moved some of his operation to Arkansas, as the “proprietor” of the Uncle Sam Distilling Company in Fort Smith. An ad for this firm indicates he took Casper brands like Gold Band and Golden Rose Whiskey with him. His pocket mirror is unique for showing a primitive still.

The Orinoco brand of whiskey was created by an Irish immigrant named Edward Quinn in Alexandria, Virginia. It subsequently was taken by his son, also named Edward, over the border to Washington, D.C. where he established a saloon and liquor store on Pennsylvania Avenue. When as a young father he died about 1911, his widow sold the business to another local Irishman named D. J. O’Connell. O’Connell also got the rights to the Orinoco brand name and made the most of it.

James Maguire was thumbing his nose at the notorious “Whiskey Trust” when he refused to buckle under to the monopoly and issued his Montezuma Rye. Retail customers could buy Montezuma Rye in glass bottles, sized from quarts to flasks, or get their liquor in an attractive canteen sized metal bottle that carried a bronze plaque on each side. McGuire also featured giveaway items to customers, including pocket mirrors. Through the excellent color qualities of celluloid, the latter provided an effective merchandising tool.

The final item shown here is from the Owl Liquor Company, the same outfit that issued the first pocket mirror shown here that sold for a hefty bounty of almost $1,350. The picture on this mirror is of a sweet little girl holding a flower. Unlike its companion above, it shows no discoloration of the celluloid, a common flaw on these items and appears to be in mint condition. The price tag is unknown but likely in the $1,000 plus range. It reminds us that virtually all these artifacts date from before National Prohibition and are at least 100 years old or approaching it fast.

Authors being affectionate toward, and sometimes addicted to, strong drink is a tradition almost as old as literature itself. Writers and alcohol bear an identification that a number of distillers and brewers over the years have believed would sell their products. This post is devoted to examining the advertising approaches to accomplishing that goal.

Shakespeare has been a perennial favorite for peddling booze. An example is a Budweiser ad from the 1940s that has a picture and a seven paragraph blurb about the Bard’s life and character. Only in the last graph, does the ad get down to business, reminding us that Shakespeare and other “literary giants” met at taverns where their conversations were held “over foaming tankards of beer.”

Then we learn that “Budweiser sparkles with life,” presumably in a tankard.

A more contemporary look at the Bard is provided by the label from “Soul of Wit” beer, likely designating a Belgian whit beer. It derives from a line from Hamlet, Act 2: “Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, and tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.” Rather than use that line the label spoofs Hamlet’s soliloquy as “To drink or not to drink, there is no question.” Shakespeare light.

The Canada Dry distillery featured a portrait of Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great British encyclopedist, to sell its “Fine Arts Whiskey.” The connection was a portrait of Johnson by Sir Joshua Reynolds where the artist blended his colors to create a masterpiece. Similarly, the distillers of Fine Arts are extolled in the ad for blending straight whiskeys to create “a masterpiece of flavor.” The presentation ignores the fact that Johnson himself was a teetotaler.

A St. Louis brewery called “Old lnkwell” issued a line of beers whose labels featured a line of safely dead American and English authors, both men and women. Among them was a brew was called Midnight Draught, “a biting and bitter New England dark ale inspired by the troubled writer and poet Edgar Allen Poe.” The label fails to mention that, among his troubles, Poe struggled constantly against alcoholism and that his addiction cost him employment, relationships, reputation and ultimately led to his death.

Mark Twain, who wrote often and favorably on alcoholic spirits, was another favorite author of the distilling trade. [See my post of April 4, 1910 on Twain]. Shown here are two ads from an Old Crow whiskey series that feature the American humorist and novelist. Although at one time the whiskey had been the top selling bourbon in the United States, it underwent a swift decline after Repeal of National Prohibition because the whiskey developed a taste many drinkers found unpleasant. Parent company National Distillers may have conceived the Twain series as giving a patina of age and quality to Old Crow.

Another Old Crow ad, however, contained an almost comical error. It purports to show the Western writer, Bret Harte, discussing a manuscript with his friend good friend Mark Twain. In matter of fact, the two could not stand each other. In his Autobiography Twain wrote: “In the early days I liked Bret Harte and so did others, but by and by I got over it; so also did the others. He couldn’t keep a friend permanently. He was bad, distinctly bad; he had no feeling and he had no conscience.” The scene in the ad could never have happened.

When Heublein Cocktails got two authors together it matched friends, playwright Moss Hart and celebrity author/publisher Bennett Cerf. Although the text emphasized a “slight disagreement” (over how to make a martini), the photo showed the two men with dueling sabers. Reproved by his wife for the image, who pointed out that he didn't need the money, Cerf is said to have replied: “Everyone needs money. Besides, I like the publicity and I'm all dressed up in a dueling outfit in the ad.”

Cerf (1898-1971), who is remember by old timers for his participation on an early TV show called “What’s My Line,” also provided an endorsement for National Distillers’ featured brand of scotch. “When I drink Scotch, I ask for today’s Old Angus. It’s an excellent whiskey.” For a man known for his wit, this endorsement seems by Cerf seems rather uninspired .

Another Old Angus ad featured Ogden Nash (1902-1971), an American poet well known for his light verses, of which he wrote more than 500. Considered America’s premier author of humorous poetry, Nash made guest appearances on radio and early TV and spoke on college campuses. His take on alcohol was summarized in the verse: “Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker.” In contrast, National Distillers has Nash intoning the utterly prosaic: “Folks to whom we serve Old Angus — thank us.”

Lucius Beebe (1902-1966) was the author of some 35 books, many of which involved high society, railroads and the Old West, and a journalist who once ran the Territorial Enterprisenewspaper in Virginia City, Nevada. The newspaper was relaunched in 1952, and by 1954 had achieved the highest circulation in the West for a weekly newspaper. Once again the Old Angus ad saddles this colorful writer with a line he would never have written himself.

No one who knows anything about Earnest Hemingway would peg him as a beer drinker. The hard stuff — whiskey, rum, etc. — were his libations of choice. Ballentine Ale must have paid him a princely sum to endorse its brew. What is more, the brewer added a long screed that purports to be by the author’s own hand putting “a glass of Ballantine Ale into words.” Unfortunately the text “ad-speak” fails to reflect Hemingways distinctive writing style.

The final ad is from Smirnoff Vodka showing Truman Capote looking pensive while in his right hand he holds a drink that mixed virtually tasteless alcohol with orange juice, popularly known as a “screwdriver.” Some believe the mixed drink was invented by interned American fliers during World War II. Capote’s presence in the ad is an ironic reminder that he, like Poe and Hemingway, struggled with alcoholism during much of his life.

Today few if any authors are celebrated as were those cited above. Literary fame means little to most Americans in the 21st Century. Liquor and beer ads today feature movie stars, sports heroes and other celebrities, and almost never writers. Thus we are spared seeing the Nation’s “literary lights” brought to banality by the ministrations of admen.

Not long ago I brought up the subject of the Hoosier Hot Shots to a group of six friends, all of them 70 plus years old. None of them could recall the singing group of Indiana natives that captured huge audiences of listeners to their radio programs beginning in the mid-1930s and extending into the 1970s. That is a shame, given the impact the quartet had on millions of Americans, especially during difficult times.

Shown above, the Hoosier Hot Shots, while able to play multiple instruments, generally stayed with clarinet (Gabe Ward), string base (originally Frank Kettering), guitar (Ken Trietsch) and slide whistle (Ken’s brother, Paul, known as “Hezzie). Hezzie also played a homemade instrument made from a washboard with various noisemakers attached. All of them accomplished musicians, the Hot Shots’ repertoire focussed on swing and jazz standards as well as their own compositions of a comic variety.

Those humorous songs always have been among my Hot Shots favorites. Among them is “I Like Bananas, Because They Have No Bones.” It begins with customer complaining that a fruit vendor has not been displaying his favorite fruit.

The lyrics continue:

I don't like your peaches,

They are full of stones,

But I like bananas,

Because they have no bones.

Bo-de-o-don't give me tomatoes,

Cant' stand ice cream cones,

But I like bananas,

Because they have no bones.

Another “nonsense” song written by the Hot Shots that has had some interest down the years — even to be included in a Boy Scout handbook for singing around the campfire — is “To the Indies to the Andes in his Undies.” Here are some sample stanzas.

From the Indies to the Andes in his undies,

And he never took a shave except on Mondays.

He didn't eat a thing but chocolate sundaes,

'Twas a very, very daring thing to do.

Well, sir, he carried for a charm a kippered herring,

To protect him when the tropic sun was glaring.

Whoever met him thought he needed airing,

'Twas a very, very daring thing to do.

…….

Otto Zilch - he's the idol of the nation.

He’ll be called to the Senate for investigation.

…….

And he carried for a spare a pair of panties,

But they didn't fit him well they were his auntie’s,

From the Indies to the Andes in his undies,

'Twas a very, very silly thing to do,

Curious about the name “Otto Zilch,” I did some research on the last name and found that “zilch,” meaning “a nullity” or “nothing,” likely dates from a 1931 magazine article with which one of the Hot Shots may have been familiar. Zilch is an actual family name of German-Slavic origins, however, and an “Otto Zilch” lies buried in the Fletcher Cemetery in Starke County, Indiana. His tombstone is shown here. The Hot Shots could not have had him in mind since this Otto died in infancy in 1901.

During their career the Hoosier Hot Shots recorded hundreds of records and appeared in more than twenty motion pictures with stars like Gene Autry, Dale Evans and the Three Stooges. During the mid to late 1940s they did series of musical “shorts” for Columbia Pictures. Late in that same decade (1949-1950), the Hot Shots had their own half hour program on the Mutual Broadcasting System. Since my family as yet did not have a TV, I hunkered down eagerly by the radio every Saturday waiting for Ken to intone: “Are you ready, Hezzie?” Then the boys would tear off into their opening number, such as “When There are Tears in the Eyes of the Potato.”

Today the Hoosier Hot Shots music may sound dated or even “corny” to some but the secret of their four-plus decade run, I believe, is rooted in the their times. They began performing during the hardest economic era in the Nation’s history when millions of American were out of work and hurting. The Great Depression was not just financial but psychological. With their upbeat, free swinging musicality, spontaneous arrangements, and frequent close harmony they helped lightened the burdens of everyday life. It was hard to think of the Hoosier Hot Shots without smiling.

World War II brought its own tensions and sorrows. Now at the peak of their popularity the Hot Shots toured with the USO to entertain the troops in North Africa and Italy. Newsreels spots of their performances often were part of the weekly trek to the cinema palace. Their records regularly made the Billboard country charts and they were regulars on the National Barn Dance from WLS-AM in Chicago, broadcasts that could be heard nationwide.

But time flies and fame is fleeting. Unfortunately few are alive today who heard and appreciate the Hoosier Hot Shots. But if you have an Amazon Echo or a similar device in your home, ask it to play a number by the group. I did recently and four wonderful songs rolled off before I was forced to other pursuits. Oh yes, and Hoosier Hotshot CDs are readily available from Amazon and other sites.

The much of my working life involved traveling abroad — by actual account 80 trips overseas and work in 65 countries in every part of the globe. At least for my early travels, I was keen on bringing back artifacts that reflected something of the culture and art of the countries. As the house filled up, however, the collecting desire diminished. Here is a selection from my holdings, several featured because of a story behind their acquisition.

Memorable as my first piece, the Indonesian statue of the elephant god, Ganesha, is an outstanding piece of Balinese wood sculpture. Meticulous carved completely by hand on a dark hardwood, it reflects a craftsmanship virtually lost during ensuing years. In 1969 I had wandered down the beach from my Denpasar hotel when approached by a young man in ragged clothing. He offered me this marvelous statue in exchange for my shirt — a shock. Because I had packed lightly for the side trip to Bali and had no spare, I gave him as much money as I had in my pocket.

In 1970, now employed by the House Committee on Foreign Affairs, I made a solo study mission to Asia to review U.S. military training programs. While in South Korea I was attracted to this pitcher and chalice. To me their graceful lines bespoke the artistic genius of the people. Told that the pair had been handcrafted from copper shell casings left from the Korean War, the Biblical prophet Isaiah’s dictum about “beating swords into plowshares” came to mind and I bought them.

During the Indochina War, I made three trips to the countries embroiled in the conflict. A souvenir sought by many, military and civilian, who came to Vietnam was a large ceramic pachyderm known to the illuminati as a “buf-e” — “big ugly f…… elephant.” I resisted their attractions until 1974 when a Saigon “buf-e flogger” (merchant) displayed a new design fashioned after the three headed elephant symbol of Laos. I bought two that since have graced our dining room.

In 1974 as a way of assessing how well the Agency for International Development (USAID) was implementing important changes the Congress had made in assistance policies, I was part of a investigative team that visited Central and South America. At that time concentrating on wood carvings, a head of Don Quixote, well conceived and executed, caught my eye in a shop in Colombia. It too has a permanent place in our dining room.

The next artifact, a Cambodian silver box, carries a tragic story with it. In 1975 just a matter of days before the Communist Khmer Rouge stormed into the capitol of Phnom Penh, Sisowath Sirik Matak, a royal prince and assistant prime minister, gave it to me when solo I went to meet with him about the crisis. He was realistically pessimistic about the future but refused to leave Cambodia ahead of the enemy, writing the U.S. Ambassador: “But mark it well that, if I shall die here on the spot and in my country that I love, it is too bad because we are all born and must die one day. I have only committed the mistake of believing in you, the Americans.” Just days later he was shot with other officials in front of the National Postal Building. I never look at the box without thinking of his bravery.

That example might be contrasted with the fate of Nguyen Van Thieu, the last president of South Vietnam. I was attached to a 1975 delegation of House and Senate members asked by the White House to go to Indochina in an attempt to spark an emergency appropriation for the war effort. While in Saigon the delegation met with Thieu in the Presidential Palace where he presented each of us with the lacquered, inlaid vase shown here. When new funding failed and Communist forces were at the gates of Saigon, Thieu was whisked away to Taiwan by the CIA and later moved to Massachusetts. He died of natural causes in Boston in 2001.

Later in 1975 I led a Congressional staff mission to Africa reviewing USAID and Peace Corp programs. One high point was our visit to Ghana where we met with the U.S. Ambassador, Shirley Temple, the former child film star and a charming, bright personality. She was very forthright with us on problems of the Peace Corp in Ghana. While in Accra my eye caught an “Ashante stool,” a seat carved from a single piece of wood upon which Ghanian gentry are said to sit. For the past 43 years this stool has graced our foyer where it has proved handy for pulling on boots or, more commonly, depositing the days’ mail.

The final artifact is a blue and white pen holder from China. I bought it in Beijing as part of the first delegation of House and Senate staff members invited to the People’s Republic. We arrived just in time to be part of the deadliest earthquake of the 20th Century at Tangshan on July 26, 1976, one that killed anywhere from 240,000 to half a million Chinese. As a result of damage in Beijing 100 miles away, our itinerary was drastically altered and we saw parts of China no American officials had yet visited. As I look at the pen holder the memories return of that tremendous shaking.

Eight items, eight memories of travels taken. Each piece has earned a place in our home where they make a presence and bring the past into the present.

Note: I have provided a more complete description of the Great Tangshan Earthquake and its effects recorded on this blog, March 24, 2017.

The invention of celluloid in 1872, the first commercial plastic, opened up new avenues for advertising. One was the pocket mirror, a small device with a shiny metal surface on one side and a multicolored ad on the back. The American brewing industry was quick to see the advantages of giving these to customers as a means of keeping their brands in mind. The vast majority of these were issued pre-National Prohibition and thus have entered — or soon will — the definition of “antiques.”

An example of the artistry pocket mirrors display is the Native American in a feathered headdress that graces an artifact advertising Ryan’s Pure Beers. This brewery was founded in 1865 at the end of the Civil War. In 1887 Thomas Ryan, the former mayor of Syracuse, New York, became the sole owner of the brewery and changed its name to his own, operating it until 1900 when he sold out to local brewer Charles Hoffmann. Hoffman kept the Ryan name on the facility until closed down by Prohibition.

Equally impressive art work adorned a mirror issued by the Olt Brewing Company of Dayton, Ohio. It is an angel surrounded by hops and wheat holding aloft a wand in one hand and a stein of beer in the other. John Olt and his four sons, Charles, Frederick, Edward and Oscar, incorporated the Olt Brewing company in 1907. By 1912 Olt Brewing employed seventy people and annually produced about 35,000 barrels of beer and ale. Originally incorporated for $50,000 in 1907, the value had increased to over $180,000 before Prohibition closed it.

The Falstaff Brewing Corporation was a major American brewery located in St. Louis, Missouri. With roots in the 1838 Lemp Brewery, the company was renamed after the Shakespearan character Sir John Falstaff in 1903. The figure of the fat knight came to dominate the advertising for the brewery. The brewing company closed in 1921, and sold its Falstaff brand to a firm that survived Prohibition by selling near beer and hams under the Falstaff name.

In the fall of 1897, J. Henry Zitt of Chicago traveled to Lexington to investigate the possibility of establishing a brewery. He liked what he saw in economic prosperity and population growth and by 1898 had erected a splendid new brewery. The cost of the brewery was $150,000 (equiv. today to $3.3 million.) In excess of one million bricks were used in its construction. The Lexington Brewing Company annual capacity was 40,000 barrels or roughly 600,000 cases. Given the identification of Lexington with horse racing, the image on the mirror seems highly appropriate.

Occasionally, a brewer would provide a mirror that was a “tie-in” to a larger ad campaign, as demonstrated by this Utica Club brew from the West End Brewing Company in the New York city. Utica Club's most famous campaign icons were a pair of character beer steins "Schultz and Dooley.”

The mirror depicts only Schultz, a German, with a mustache and Prussian spiked helmet. Beer steins with these two characters regularly sell for more than $1,000 at auction.

It was common for brewers to display a bottle of their flagship brand on the mirror back, as shown in the next four examples. The Adam Scheidt Brewing Company originated in a Norristown, Pennsylvania, facility about 1866. After a series of ownerships. Scheidt would go on to become one of the largest brewers in the region, producing 60,000 barrels of beer a year, and had a branch location in Baltimore. Its flagship, appropriately, was the Valley Forge Special.

While Scheidt’s beer boasted of “unsurpassed quality,” the Mathie Brewing Company touted its flagship “Red Ribbon” brew as: “The beer that costs no more but tastes like more.” Founded in 1903, this organization was located on East Main Street in Los Angeles said to be a “mammoth establishment.” The beer sold throughout California and adjoining states until the brewery was shut down by Prohibition in 1920. After Repeal it re-opened briefly before closing for good.

George Muehlebach immigrated to Kansas City, Missouri, in 1859. A decade later he bought an existing brewery, razed it and and replaced it with a "Beer Castle" built in Romanesque style with a mansard roof tower. Muehlebach’s beer proved very popular and the company survived during Prohibition by selling non-alcoholic beverages. During World War II, the brewery more than doubled production from 66,000 barrels a year to 161,000, before eventually being sold to Schlitz.

Although King’s Pure Malt was sold as a tonic for “to assist the stomach to retain and digest food” and “enrich the blood and strengthen the system,” it was, in fact, a variety of beer, containing six percent alcohol. Founded in 1908 in Boston, King added hydrophosphates of iron and lime to the brew to lend it a medicinal character. It too may have fallen victim to Prohibition, closing about 1918.

The final pocket mirror here is from a drinking establishment not a brewery. It is included here not just because of its interesting picture of St. Paul’s Budweiser Tavern, indicating a saloon tied to the St. Louis brewery. This item sold at auction in December 2018 for $127.27, signaling the value that some pocket mirrors have accrued over time. Every indication is that as th years pass prices will continue to advance, especially for those issued pre-Prohibition and still in good condition. For example, the mirror with the Indian image that opens this post was valued at $550 in a 2002 catalogue.

In keeping with the name of this blog in past posts I have featured art works that involve images of bottles by well-known artists, including Braque, Vlaminck, Tom Wesselman, and Andy Warhol. See the references below in “Note.” In this post I am recognizing an artist whose reputation in large part is based on his representations of bottles and other glass, ceramic and metal vessels gathered in his studio. His name is Giorgio Morandi, shown here with some of the items. Look carefully since you will see them again in some of the paintings to follow.

Morandi was born in Bologna, Italy, on July 20, 1890, the son of Andrea and Maria (Maccaferri) Morandi. The eldest of five children, Giorgio exhibited an artistic talent from an early age and in 1907 was sent to Bologna’s Academy of Find Arts where he excelled in his studies. Tragedy was to strike twice during his youth. In 1903 his brother Guiseppe died and in 1909 his father as well, leaving a family in which the youngest child was only three. At 19 years old Giorgio became the head of the family.

Despite these setbacks Morandi pressed ahead with his art, obtaining a position as instructor of drawing for elementary schools in Bologna, a city in which he would spend his entire life. With 20th Century improvements in communication he early was exposed to and influenced by the art of Cezanne, Derain, Douanier Rousseau, and later Picasso.

From Cezanne in particular Morandi understood the drama that everyday objects — vases, bottles, cup, bowls, fruit — could bring to a painting. An early effort shown above bears distinct relationship to the French post-Impressionist master. This effort appears classical and stiff, however, when compared to Morandi’s later efforts. He began increasingly to focus on the subtle changes of color, of atmosphere and arrangement of objects.

In Italian this kind of art is called “natura morta” or still life. Morandi proved to be a master of the genre, gathering items into his studio that would be painted over and over again. Note, for example, the tin cans in the photo of the artist. They would appear repeatedly in his art in tandem with vases, cups and other shapes.

As shown here, glass bottles were also objects of Morandi’s attention. The painting below appears to have two tall wine bottles in the background, as well as a milk glass bottle that might have held a liqueur like absinthe. Note too the carafe at the left. The wine it contains can clearly be seen through the glass.

Morandi also was enamored of the shapes of ceramic objects, particularly the bottle or jug shape. Shown here is a grouping of several such objects, two of them very similar in shape, usually termed by bottle collectors as “lady’s leg.”

The artist has emphasized them by backing each with an unidentifiable dark object. Note his faint signature at the bottom of the work.

As he continued painting for more than a half century, Morandi continually refined and simplified his approach to his still life paintings. Shown here is a artwork from the 1950s in which he has reduced his objects to five with the only curves are seen on a bottle and cup largely covered by three boxlike objects of varying colors. Simple, but to my eye at least, one of the most sophisticated and elegant of his “natura morta.”

A prolific worker, Morandi completed an estimated 1,350 paintings during his lifetime. Providing that he was not just “a one trick pony” with his still life output he also was a superb landscape artist, as demonstrated by the picture below. Even then, however, the buildings shown are reminiscent of the boxes above.

As a lifelong resident of Bologna, Morandi was a well recognized figure in his home town. He never married, living on Via Fordazza all his life with his three sisters. He died on June 18, 1964 and is buried in a family tomb at Bologna’s Certosa Cemetery. His reputation in the art world has continued to be strong, with major exhibitions this century at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Brussels Center for Fine Arts. His work is on continuous display at the Giorgio Morandi Museum in Bologna.

Note: Other posts on this blog that have featured bottles in art are the following: Andy Warhol, January 28, 2011; George Braque, July 20, 2013; Tom Wesselman, December 7, 2013, and Maurice de Vlaminck, January 18, 2014.

On February 26, 1895, an American glassworks employee named Michael J. “Mike” Owens, shown right, was granted a patent on his machine for blowing glass and 2,000 years of making bottles went crashing into shards. Early next year we will celebrate the 125th anniversary of that defining moment in glass manufacturing.

Glassblowing as a technique is believed to have been invented by Syrian craftsmen in the first century B.C. somewhere along the Syro-Palestinian coast.

The rise of the Roman Empire served to spread the technology to other areas and blown glass became common for household and other uses.

Over two centuries, techniques for glassblowing were tweaked but did not change significantly. The worker attached molten glass on the end of a blowpipe and with his breath pumped air into the blob until it reached a desired shape. After the glass had cooled it was broken away from the pipe, rough edges smooth and, voila!, a bottle.

Growing up in West Virginia, Mike Owens knew a lot about blowing glass. Born on January 1, 1859 in West Virginia, he was the son of an Irish immigrant coal miner. Sent early to work for the family by the age of fifteen he had become a glassblower in a Wheeling, W.V., factory. Through intelligence and hard work he advanced to a master glass worker, leaving his native state to help organize a glass company at Martins Ferry, Ohio.

Owens’ reputation reached north to Toledo, Ohio, where rich and well-born Edward Drummond Libby, left, had taken control of a glass factory and in 1888 offered him a better paying job. His talent evident, within three months Owens was managing the glassworks department. Several years later he approached the owner to say that he had idea for an automatic bottle machine and asked for money, time, and assistance to bring it to reality.

Many industrialists might have scoffed and told Owens to get back to work. Libby, for whom my aunt, Nell Sullivan, was a secretary, was an enlightened entrepreneur. (Around my Toledo home we always referred to him reverentially as MR. Libby.) He gave full backing to Owens and on February 26, 1905, the inventor was awarded Patent No. 534,840 for a glassblowing machine, the drawing shown here. In the paperwork accompanying his application, Owens stated: “My invention relate to an apparatus for blowing glass and has for its object to perform mechanically, what has heretofore been done manually.”

With that announcement, two centuries of making bottles by human breath came to an end, except for artisanal purposes. By automating the manufacture of glass containers Owens helped eliminate child labor in glassworks — a practice of which he was well aware. Two diseases were eliminated that plagued the workers, an inflammation of the aerodigestive tract and clouding of eye lenses, both resulting from exposure to hot gases.

On the economic front, the cost of glass bottles was reduced by 80%, leading many canners, brewers and distillers, to move rapidly to machine-made containers. At the same time, however, it left many glassblowers and their helpers unemployed since the mechanized process needed many fewer employees.

Within three years of the invention, the early Owens machine produced an estimated 105 million bottles. As he gained experience with the process, the Irishman continued to improve on his invention, ultimately producing the “Owens

Automatic Bottle Machine.” It is shown here, one of the rare views of the inventor with his brainchild. This machine increased production numbers by 1915 to over one and one half BILLION bottles manufactured annually.

Owens was fortunate that Edward Drummond Libby was a man of integrity and high character. A lesser man might have tried to marginalize the unlettered inventor and “stolen” his invention. Libby, on the other hand, continued to encourage Owens to continue inventing, financed his efforts and advanced his name to the forefront of American industrialists. Note Owens Bottle Machine Co. (now Owens-Illinois), Libbey-Owens Sheet Glass Co. (Libby-Owens-Ford), and Owens-Corning Fiberglass.

In 1915 the Franklin Institute of Pennsylvania awarded its coveted Elliott Cresson Metal to Owens. Established by philanthropist Cresson in 1848, the medal was awarded annually “for discovery or original research adding to the sum of human knowledge, irrespective of commercial value.” Because of its “novelty and utility” the automatic bottle machine earned Owens the honor. Seen here front and reverse is the Cresson Medal.

As additional evidence of the importance of Owens's machine to the industry, within 20 years nearly all bottles manufactured in the United States were produced automatically. Standardization of bottle sizes and quality led to high-speed filling capabilities by those who used the bottles. As a result, the bottle machine had a huge impact on food, soft drink, pharmaceutical product, and alcoholic beverage producers. Shown below are glass paperweights issued by the Owens Bottle Machine Co., depicting early glass container mechanisms.

In the summer of 1956, I worked as an intern at Owens-Illinois in Toledo, writing items for plant newspapers. As a result I was allowed on the factory floor to see the contemporary version of the Owens machine in action. It was an unforgettable experience. The heat and glare of the molten glass, the long mechanical arms reaching into the inferno and scooping up an orange glob, straightening out while blowing air into the glass, dislodging it as it cooled, and ducking back for more — totally spectacular.

Mike Owens died in Toledo on December 23, 1923, at the age of 64, having revolutionized an industry. His passing came unexpectedly. He was attending a meeting of Owens Bottle Company directors when he got up, walked a few steps, sat down in a chair, complained of feeling ill and died within 20 minutes. He was buried in Toledo’s Catholic Calvary Cemetery, his gravesite shown here.

In a memorial booklet to Owens, Libby had this tribute: "Self-educated as he was, a student in the process of inventions with an unusual logical ability, endowed with a keen sense of far-sightedness and vision, Mr. Owens is to be classed as one of the greatest inventors this country has ever known.” Libby commissioned a pressed glass bust, shown below, that was given to a limited number of Owen’s relatives, colleagues and friends.

Because of my two blogs that deal with whiskey, from time to time I am called upon by start-up distilleries for images and sometimes for thoughts. Two years ago the Delaware Valley Fields Foundation asked me to come to a convention of boutique distillers, held at the Philadelphia “Phillies” ballpark. I was part of a panel discussing the history of rye whiskey-making in Pennsylvania. It was a fascinating experience, allowing me to talk to a number of young people about their business plans and the first of several encounters with distilling start-ups.

Opening a distillery and expecting to make a living at it is a tricky business. Unlike boutique breweries where the beer can be drunk almost as soon as it is produced, real bourbon and rye must be aged at least four years by law and a proprietor easily could go broke waiting. There are interim strategies, e,g. making and selling “moonshine” —clear whiskey— or flavoring as gin the clear liquid that comes out of the tubes. But competition is heavy in both areas. I left the convention worried about the futures of those starry-eye young people.

As in the case of Sagamore Spirits Distillery of Baltimore, Maryland, it is best to have a millionaire owner such as Kevin Plank, shown here. He is the CEO of Under Armour Corp., high flying manufacturer of sports and casual attire, including footwear. Sagamore’s public relations people were in touch with me for ideas on a gallery devoted to Maryland’s rich whiskey past. For several years the distillery has been up and running at Baltimore’s Port Covington, where the cruise ships anchor. Shown below, It is the first part of a envisioned $5.5 billion development there to include a new headquarters for the Under Armour, residences, stores and recreational amenities. The distillery currently is open for tours and for tastings.

Until recently, however, the whiskey bearing the Sagamore labels was NOT made on premises, but in Indiana at a conglomerate-owned distillery that makes whiskey for a host of start-ups. Meanwhile Sagamore’s product was aging to the desired four years. Plank’s distillers are not trying for top shelf status, competing with quality national brands of longstanding. Theirs is not “sippin’ whiskey.” Instead they emphasize using their ryes in mixed drinks and cocktails. It is priced accordingly, with a fifth generally available in the $35 to $50 range. While probably losing money for Mr. Plank initially, Sagamore has a good longterm strategy for profitability.

The Jos. A. Magnus Company of Washington, D.C., is on a more worrisome track. Having seen a post of mine about Joseph Magnus of Cincinnati (shown here) on my Pre-Pro Whiskey Men website, his great-grandson, Jimmy Turner, a former sports agent, was in touch with me several years ago about his vision of reviving the Magnus brand name on whiskey.

Although I was cautionary, Mr. Turner has been successful in finding sufficient investment to install a distillery in a vacant warehouse in Northeast Washington, hired a young, confident looking distiller named Brian Treacy to run it, and has placed his Joseph Magnus Straight Bourbon Whiskey in liquor stores including Northern Virginia where I live.

This distillery also is making gin and, I assume, some moonshine. But like Sagamore Spirits, while the Magnus D.C. distillation is aging the required four years to be marketed as bourbon, it has contracted with the Indiana outfit for product. Unlike the Baltimore oufit, Magnus has priced its whiskey as a top shelf bourbon, selling for as much as $90 a bottle. Even after its own distillation has sufficient age, breaking into the Woodford, Wild Turkey, Pappy Van Winkle circle will be extremely difficult without the national advertising those brands can afford. I hope the best for the Magnus Distillery but with trepidation.

My final distillery has neither a rich underwriter like Sagamore nor a distinguished pre-Prohibition pedigree like Magnus. It is the Flying Buck Distillery of Augusta, West Virginia. It is the brainchild of Jim Gearing, a retired federal employee and wine maker, and his partner, Jimbo, an organic farmer and barbecue griller who lives off Route 50 east of Romney, WV. Compare their distillery building here with Sagamore’s above.

I recently attended a tasting of Flying Buck liquors, presided over by Gearing, who clearly is a master of taste when it comes to alcoholic beverages. As can be seen from the bottles here, the partners are experimenting with various flavors of moonshine, including fruit-flavored “Apple Pie,” barreled “Naughty Oak,” and plain “Spirit Whiskey.” The taste of each was unexceptional to me (others invited to the tasting seemed more enthusiastic). The problem is the intense competition: Every boutique distillery in America seems to be making moonshine and trying to market it.

The one Flying Buck product that tickled my taste was its “Raspberry Starshine,” a cordial that, as the label here shows, combines red raspberries with herbs and spices. There may be real prospects for it. Although Brown-Foreman, a major liquor company, has sold the French raspberry liqueur “Chambord” in the U.S., Gearing believes it is no longer available. As a result the marketplace may be wide open for Raspberry Starshine. Right now Flying Buck is attempting to get the aperitif placed in the state liquor stores of Virginia. P.S. I bought a bottle.

If these stories have a common theme, it is that unless one has a “deep pockets” owner like Kevin Plank, the future prospects for the great majority of boutique distilleries is problematic. The positive side is the prospect of their bringing new and desirable spiritous products to the marketplace, just as the craft breweries have broadened the taste of Americans in the matter of beer.

Not so very long ago it was the custom for people to send greeting cards — usually postcards — to family and friends on Independence Day. These had a variety of themes, from highly patriotic, often involving the image of Uncle Sam, to political themes, and humor. Many of them came from the workshop of Fred C. Lounsbury (1857-1917) and his Crescent Embossing Company of Plainfield, New Jersey. Shown here are a sampling of ten Lounsbury July 4 postcards.

Although Lounsbury’s name appears on many of the cards issued from Crescent Embossing, he was not an artist but an entrepreneur and advertising specialist who directed the output of his firm that produced calendars, labels, advertising items and, beginning by 1907, topical postcards. Several of my favorites have unintended humorous aspects. Note the one at right. Uncle Sam, draped in a flag, seems likely to have his pants singed or worse from the firecrackers exploding at his right leg.

I also find humor in the card of Uncle Sam gazing from a window at a group of boys firing off a cannon. Sam undoubted is proud of the youths, terming them “free and independent.” He seems unaware that the cannon is not aimed in the air but level with the ground. What are they aiming at? Maybe the Trump White House.

Several Lounsbury cards for the Fourth contain memorials to famous Revolutionary War battles. Uncle Sam is absent here in favor of cameos of George Washington and General John Sullivan (no relation) celebrating the victory at Trenton over the British redcoats and the Hessian mercenaries in December, 1775, Washington’s first major victory.

Another in the battle series hailed the victory at Yorktown in October 1781, the last battle of the war for independence. Lord Cornwallis, the defeated general is depicted, looking foppish in his heavily braided uniform. No mention is made of the French marines and French fleet that made the victory possible.

The card at right celebrates a later conflict, the Spanish-American War. Here Uncle Sam is showing off Independence Day fireworks, surrounded by five children. Four of them represents one of the territories wrested from Spanish rule: Philippines, Cuba, Guam and Puerto Rico; the fifth, Hawaii. All but Cuba would become possessions of the U.S. The Philippines would eventually be given its independence.

The Lounsbury cards could also carry a political message. The proprietor seems to have been a fan of President Theodore Roosevelt, showing him in his “Rough Rider” outfit from the Spanish-American War. Driving a stars and stripes race car, Teddy assures a terrified Uncle Sam that: “Don’t be afraid Uncle - We’ll get there all right.” No idea is given, however, of the destination.

Another political card is also subject to interpretation. It shows a fat bellied, cigar smoking Uncle Sam looking more like a genial robber baron than a symbol of American democracy. He is contemplating two top-hatted, cigar smoking animals, identified as “Billy Possum” and “Jimmy Possum.” They are presented as “The Nation’s Choice.” The allusion is to the Presidential election of 1908 that pitted Republican William Howard Taft (“Billy”) against Democrat William Jennings Bryan (“Jimmie”). The card seems to equate the two, although their views differed sharply. Taft won with 51% of the vote.

The final set of Fourth of July cards are meant to be humorous. The artist on all of them may be Charles Bunnell (1897-1968), an American painter and printmaker known for his ability to adapt to all popular styles from abstracts to realism and in this case, apparently cartooning. Bunnell, who must have been in his teens when these were drawn, has fashioned all these cards in a manner reminiscent of the Hearst papers cartoon, “The Yellow Kid,” drawn by Richard Outcault [See my post on Outcault June 13, 2009.] The first has an odd-looking George Washington lighting a fire cracker under a British general.

The next British general to be caught unawares by Washington was General Howe, the commander of His Majesty’s troops in the American colonies during much of the Revolutionary War. The artist has him snoozing as all around him are explosive materials that are lighted and will soon blow him away.

A rather different looking George Washington, standing on the crown of King George III, is purportedly reading from the Constitution [read “Declaration” ] of Independence to a highly distressed monarch who is strapped to a giant rocket. A small boy with a lighted taper is remarking to Washington, “Say when boss!” Note particularly the small hatchet in Washington’s belt, a reference to the cherry tree fable.

Although sending postcards at the holiday has gone out of style, the importance of the holiday is undiminished as a reminder of the many blessings of liberty we enjoy in the United States. Fred Lounsbury understood that more than a hundred years ago and, as one writer has put it “...He truly excelled when it came to the Fourth of July.”

Note: Factual material about Fred Lounsbury and some images were taken from an article entitled “Lounsbury’s 4th of July Postcard Sets” by Fred Nuhn that appeared in the Antique Shoppe newspaper, dated July 2005.

He liked to be called Richard Holbrooke, but I never called him anything but “Dick.” We had adjoining offices on the Fifth Floor of the State Department from 1978 to 1981, both of us as Executive Level 4 federal officials, he as Assistant Secretary of State for East Asia and the Pacific and I as Assistant Administrator of USAID for East and South Asia and the Pacific.

Those days were brought back to me forcefully by a new book from author George Packard entitled “Our Man, Richard Holbrooke and the End of the American Century.” Having read the book over the past several days I am emboldened to put down my own memories of this accomplished American diplomat.

We first met during the early 1970s when I was a staff consultant for the U.S. House of Representatives Committee on Foreign Affairs in Asia on assignment to review the operations of the Peace Corps. Holbrooke at that time was the Peace Corps director in Morocco but sent to Asia on Corps business from time to time. We encountered each other in a waiting room of the Djakarta, Indonesia, airport and began to chat. All flights had been grounded in anticipation of the air arrival of President Suharto and our conversation stretched into four hours during which we found ourselves in general agreement on Peace Corps, the Vietnam War and other topics.

Fast forward five years and the election of President Jimmy Carter. Holbrooke had been named Asia and Pacific secretary, the youngest ever to hold that position, and I had been nominated for USAID’s Asia Bureau. The only question was my future office, with the most desirable one overlooking the Lincoln Memorial. Although I had not seen him since Indonesia, Holbrooke intervened, declaring that my office should be adjacent to his to facilitate close communication. That turned he decision and I was assigned the prime location.

Not long after, Dick called me on the day of his swearing into office to ask a favor. After the ceremony, he asked, could I take his two sons, David and Anthony, to lunch in the State Department cafeteria and bring them back to the celebration he was planning in his office. Recognizing that he only recently had undergone a divorce and no mother would be present, I readily agreed. At lunch I found Holbrooke’s sons withdrawn, almost sullen. Subsequently, David has revealed that his father was in the habit of dropping off the boys — uninvited and unannounced —at the homes of friends just to be free of them for the day. Then I understood their unease with me.

During the four years we served together in the Carter Administration, Dick and I never had a disagreement. On one or two occasions he had an project he wanted to pursue with USAID funds in an Asian country. After reviewing his proposals I found them to be good ideas, allocated the funds, and they turned out to be a productive use of funds.

Most of all, however, I remember Holbrooke’s unwavering support for my central effort at USAID. Famine 1975! America’s Decision: Who Will Survive? was a 1967 best selling book by brothers William and Paul Paddock. Population had outrun the feeding capacity of the world, they claimed. As the world’s leading food producer, the Paddock’s urged, the U.S. should practice a “triage” system leaving behind, apparently to starve, countries like India and Egypt.

Their predictions ignored developments in agricultural science that were making great strides in developing new strains of wheat and rice in association with chemical fertilizers, pesticides, controlled water-supply, and new methods of cultivation. As these agricultural methods advanced in the 1970s, they became known as “The Green Revolution.” Because the threat of famine was still a concern in 1977, along with officials of the World Bank and other developed countries, I concentrated as much assistance money as possible, ultimately reaching close to $1 billion a year, to spreading the Green Revolution to the smallest farmers throughout Asia.

In this effort, I had Dick Holbrooke’s unrestrained support. In our meeting he expressed his deep concern about the possibility of people starving from a world-wide shortage of food. In the end, the concerted international effort was successful. The famine predicted by the Paddocks was averted through the instrument of the Green Revolution and its adoption. Packard refers to Holbrooke as a “humanitarian” and I found him so.

The author, however, does not hesitate to detail Dick’s unbridled ambition, his betrayal of friends, his power struggles, and his sexual liaisons. Much of this history was revealing to me, having only my four year experience to guide my opinions. Although Holbrooke favored the war in Iraq, a mistake he later acknowledged, he will be best known for negotiating the Dayton Accords that brought a measure of peace and stability to the Balkans. Some thought he should have won the Nobel Peace Prize.

When he died in 2010 at the age of 69, Holbrooke was a special envoy to Afganistan and Pakistan, attempting to bring that long running regional conflict to an end. It is reported that as Dick was readied for unsuccessful surgery for a severely torn aorta, he said to the doctor, “You’ve got to end this war in Afghanistan.” To the title of humanitarian, I would add another, Dick Holbrooke was a peacemaker. Through all the chaff thrown up around his name, much of it of his own doing, he deserves to be remembered that way.

Celebrating the Treasured Barmaid!

Railroader Signs: Choo Choos and Cheesecake

Yes, More Beer Trucks

Regarding the Drunk and the Light Pole

The Advertising Art of Milburn Wagons

The Origins and Use of Nippon Whiskey Jugs

Whiskey Men and Bootlegging

Going South with the 9999th U. S. Air Force

Spoofing the Classics Brewery Style

This Fan’s Tribute to Jack and Misty

The Thousand Dollar Pocket Mirror and More

When Authors Sold Booze

Remembering the Hoosier Hot Shots

Artifacts from a Traveling Life

Looking into Beer Pocket Mirrors

Giorgio Morandi and Simplicity of Form

Mike Owens and His Revolutionary Bottle Machine

The Future of Boutique Distilleries

Greetings on the Fourth of July

Remembering Richard “Dick” Holbrooke