text:
Today my driver side brake light went so obviously changed bulb no big deal but still it didn't work (the taillight did).Tried a second bulb from the pack and same result. Took the bulb out and inspected the holder. Everything seemed fine however I swapped it for a different one from my dads focus. The problem still persists however the brake light functions correctly now yet the rear light never works anymore so the fault has switched from brake to tail light. Ive yet to check a fuse as I had to go to work but all the cabling and earths seem solid in the boot and under the light cover.
Any ideas?
Cheers jonny
Tail And Brake Light Help
Started by jonnym321, Sep 20 2013 08:16 PMbrakes tail lights
1 reply to this topic
Posted 20 September 2013 - 08:16 PM
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Posted 20 September 2013 - 10:00 PM
Hello and welcome,
As you have already said, a fuse is the next thing to check.
As you have already said, a fuse is the next thing to check.
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I bought this for my great grandsoon. He liked the overall look of the product. This zombie is supposed to walk around, but this particular one would not walk, it would just fall over. Needless to say, it is just still on a shelve with his other action figures.
What junk! My son (who loves these kinds of toys) was immediately frustrated. It is difficult to assembly. It actually takes the strength of an adult to press the pieces together. Once you get it so it stays together, it won't fly apart when shot. Not only was it a total waste of money, I felt embarrassed giving it as a gift. What a disappointment. The upside? It least I didn't buy the larger, more expensive one.
I bought four zombies for my grandsons at Christmas. Looked like a lot of fun(in the box). The breast plate and arms are almost impossible to place on the robot and them stay long enough to load gun and shoot, and when you do shoot the "nerf bullet" does good to clear the end of the gun. By chance you are able to lock the pieces in place, be ready to take a hammer to it in order to pop them off the robot. very disappointed .
Santa brought one of these for my son. I bought one for my nephew. After we attempted to put Santa's together I decided against giving anything like this as a gift. I'd rather short my nephew than give him something that does not work. The robot looks really cool but he does not stay together long enough to shoot. It is basically a balancing act of parts and any gust of wind (or you trying to set it down to actually shoot) causes it to fall apart, never mind the cheap gun provided to shoot it with. Don't waste your money. I wish I had not even opened my sons or Santa would be returning it too.....
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I've been doing genealogy for a long time and enjoy it very much.
I am thankful for this sight because I've found photos of graves of my family and my husband's family that I might not been able to see.
Thank you for everyone's hard work on this site.
Most of my information comes from obituaries I have collected throughout my research or find online.
I will transfer those who are not family, just ask. I like family to be with family when possible.
I started putting where I found obituaries, so people can search for the complete obituary and information.
To One in Sorrow
Let me come in
where you are weeping friend,
And let me take your hand.
I, who have known a sorrow
such as yours,
can understand.
Let me come in —
I would be very still beside you
in your grief;
I would not bid you
cease your weeping, friend,
Tears bring relief. Let me come in —
and hold your hand,
For I have known a sorrow
such as yours,
And understand.
—Grace Noll Crowell
There is hardly anything in the world
that some man cannot make a little worse
and sell a little cheaper,
and the people who consider price
only are this man's lawful prey.
—John Ruskin
Quote from Findagrave: "The goal is not to "own" every memorial of those to whom you are related. THE ULTIMATE GOAL SHOULD BE TO HAVE MEANINGFUL, ACCURATE MEMORIALS THAT HONOR THOSE WHO HAVE PASSED AWAY, REGARDLESS OF WHO CREATED THE MEMORIAL OR WHO MAINTAINS IT."
ABOUT READING ILLEGIBLE HEADSTONES- from MOCAVO Genealogy Newsletter
The two best friends you have for reading gravestones are water, and a reflective surface, such as a mirror. I routinely bring a couple of bottles of water in my bag when I visit a cemetery. often the simple act of putting some water on the stone makes some of the etched words easier to read. I've even brought out letters and numbers that were completely illegible.
A mirror or other highly reflective surface works well also. This tool is best used on a bright, sunny day. Use the mirror to reflect light across the face of the stone. The shadows it creates may illuminated the illegible inscription. I've also used photographer's reflectors to achieve the same effect. They are flexible and as they are not made of glass, there is no risk or dangerous breakage if you drop them. You can get them inexpensively through photo supply stores or Amazon
~ Those we love don't go away, They walk beside us every day, Unseen, unheard, but always near, Still loved, still missed and very dear
What We Keep In Memory Is Ours Forever
Sometimes I leave flowers for those I come across who have no flowers. This doesn't mean I am related - just means everyone should be remembered.
Thanks to all the volunteer photo takers for posting photos I have requested. I am very grateful for them taking their time in getting and posting. I sometimes don't thank them personally, but thank them for getting something I have asked for.
Don't view my emails everyday, to thank them faithfully. But I appreciate their dedication in getting them.
PLEASE NOTE: Sometime I edit my corrections, but when finished, when no change is sent in a message, it's usually a COMPUTER MALFUNCTION that sends NO CHANGE message to people wanting changes. SORRY. CAN'T HELP THIS COMPUTER'S MIND.
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Mark Butler
Martha Miller
My mom, Melinda is the daughter of Martha Miller (#120068898) Her entry is: #133567961
Added by
Mark Butler
on Mar 27, 2015 9:57 AM
RE: Roger Westfall
Not family, so I deleted my entry...
Added by
on Mar 25, 2015 4:56 PM
Stephen Cantrell
RE: Virginia Clark
You're welcome. Are you going to move Virginia's memorial to Hamilton Memory Gardens, in Marion Co., Alabama?
Added by
Stephen Cantrell
on Mar 25, 2015 5:56 AM
RE: Rachel Henry
Thanks for the updates and the mention. I sent a few more updates. Don't know why I missed them last time.
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on Mar 21, 2015 2:35 PM
Alton & Loudonia
RE: Ray Littleton Tyre
Sorry, I have no other information. The wife take photos of headstones as a hobby.
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Alton & Loudonia
on Mar 16, 2015 5:17 PM
Richard McLean
RE: Your name rattled my mind
Yes I live in I
Illinois, but only since 2008.
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Richard McLean
on Mar 14, 2015 1:30 PM
t r Cone
RE: Thomas Cone
My grandmother on my Dad's side was Mary Bess Stanley from Memphis,Tn. Her family I have followed back to England in the 1300's.
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t r Cone
on Mar 13, 2015 6:35 AM
Fredrick Russell Henry Sr
RE: Wm. Smalley
GINA, MY FATHER'S MOTHER WAS JENNIE EDITH SMALLEY HENRY, DAUGHTER OF EDWIN FORREST SMALLEY (BROTHER OF WILLIAM L.SMALLEY). YOU CAN FOLLOW THE Find A Grave LINKS TO MY FAMILY LINEAGE.
Added by
Fredrick Russell Henry Sr
on Mar 12, 2015 8:28 PM
t r Cone
RE: Thomas Cone
I am connected to Zachariah through DNA on Ancestry
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t r Cone
on Mar 12, 2015 9:30 AM
Fredrick Russell Henry Sr
RE: Wm. Smalley
GINA, Thanks for your comment concerning the Smalley family. I have tried to arrange my contribution entries in a manner that one can follow (by clicking on family links) the family members throughout. Most of the photos that I use are from my own camera or from family photo album of my parents. The photo of this William L Smalley is cropped from a group photo showing the four sons of James L. and Irene Waite Smalley. So if you want to see the four brothers, you can see it in James L. Smalley memorial or edwin Forrest Smalley memorial.
By all means, please feel free to add my info into your family tree. FRH P.S. we can use our email addresses to comment concerning non-pulic topics.
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Pretty much everyone at reasonable elo has Kassadin, and likely a selection of other OPs. He's even free this week.
I'm honestly indifferent to the revive issue. Everyone and their mother takes Flash in SR outside of a few niche picks. Revive is no different here. If it was removed that'd be fine too. While it is here, just take revive.
If they fix the respawn timers, I wouldn't mind seeing the removal of Revive.
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25 year old woman | Littleton, CO, USA | Seeking men 27-35 within 20 miles of Highlands Ranch, CO
Nothing is more exciting than meeting new people, hearing their stories, and being inspired.
Hey all! I am a Colorado native, Highlands Ranch born and raised. I am pretty easy-going and am up for anything! I love local sports, football, hockey, and lacrosse are some of my favorites. If I had the time and money I would go to every Bronco, Av, and Mammoth game I could! I am also a HUGE fan of English soccer! I love to travel! I hope to see the world one country at a time. I love outdoor activities when the weather is warm, and although I may stink, I am always up for a game of volleyball! I am definitely a girlie girl, but I am not afraid to get down and dirty. Despite having grown up in Colorado, I do not ski or snowboard but I would love to learn! I am very family-oriented. I am fortunate enough to have most of my family, immediate and extended, close by, so we are able to see each other often. I am looking for someone who is honest and will say what they're thinking. Someone who can make me laugh because I love to smile! And someone who can not only take my smart-ass comments, but will throw some right back at me! :) I can't wait to meet you!
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Modern Masters: Protégés
Presented by Sacramento Ballet at St. Francis High School
May 16 - May 19, 2013
This year's Modern Masters invites back to Sacramento some of the great talents who were given their start here and have now gone on to careers of choreography themselves. Featured returning dancer/choreographers are Amy Seiwert, Jared Nelson, and Ilana Goldman. Whether you have followed the company for many years, or are just discovering them, this will be an opportunity to see some of the most exciting trends in the world of ballet.
Performance is in the St. Francis High School Performing Arts Center.
5900 Elvas Ave.
Sacramento, CA 95819
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Phone: (916) 552-5800
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Naturally, it went viral in seconds. I had friends posting links, and thousands watched or downloaded swiftly so that they could see it before the State blocked it off the internet. Watching it through, the first feeling was of vindication simply in the act of watching, the sense that the thousands of people in India, outraged by attempts to control them, had personally thwarted State censorship.
It is a harrowing, deeply disturbing film that you need a strong stomach to watch. The image that emerges through the long interviews with the victim's grieving, bereft parents is of an ordinary, happy family destroyed beyond recovery by the savagery of what was done to their daughter. The raped woman's tutor, an articulate young man who tells us about her aspirations and dreams and the determined way in which she set about achieving them, is the absolute opposite of the stereotypical Indian male. The film also records the wife of one of the accused men in her village in Bihar, and the mother of two others, all leading lives of extreme deprivation. Apart from the jailed man and his lawyers, it has interviews with feminists, judges, policemen.
We are used to governments banning films and books and artists in India. The NDTV channel's black lines through sections of Shobhaa De's article were an eerie reminder of censorship during the Indira Gandhi Emergency years (1975-1977). But to see enlightened feminists demanding a ban on a film makes all of us writing and publishing in India wonder if surviving just got a little harder. For writers, publishers and artists it was difficult enough knowing how easily their work could be banned by the State, or bullied into extinction by fundamentalist groups. And now we have to deal with sections of the liberal intelligentsia turning fundamentalist as well.
Some of these feminists - an isolated minority now that people have seen the film - argued that the film is a patronizing, simplistic, white-Western attempt to condemn a country wholesale; that it does not address 'structural problems' (the Left's term for inequality and poverty); that it profiles all poor Indian men as potential rapists. All these are criticisms, and a sign of democratic health is the fact that these criticisms can be heard. It is doubly ironic then that these same activists support xenophobic State censorship against a film for which apparently every legal permission was granted before it was made. They sidetrack us away from the fundamental issue: why not let us decide what to watch? Why prevent us from forming our own opinions? Should Kipling, Naipaul, and Rushdie be banned because they often say things that many Indians dislike?
When I began writing my third novel, I did not know that one of its central concerns would turn out to be systemic violence against women in India. What I had in my book in one of its very early drafts was a girl on a beach who was an incidental character. In that draft, she stood by a stall selling shell necklaces and I could see her only from the back. Characters in fiction do not always arrive by design and deliberation. The writer is as much a stranger to them at first as the reader, and the process of writing is one of coming closer and closer to the characters, of unpeeling them layer by layer until you know them - and even then, not completely. As I tried to follow the girl's story, to work out what brought her to that particular beach on that day, it emerged that she was a young woman with a traumatic and violent past. Whatever I had to read and research to get her character and life clearer in my head made me feel physically sick or tearful at times, to the point that I was not able to write. I don't know why I reacted to my own narrative in this visceral and crippling way. It was not efficient. The book took me forever to finish.
At the final stage I began to worry about its reception. Not only the critical response to a novel, as every novelist worries about, but whether someone would find things in it to object to. Does it show India as a more generally dangerous place for women than it is? Does it end up showing the West as a refuge and thereby 'pander to the first world'? Will every character or incident be generalized into a type? And these questions in my head which will transmute into criticisms in other heads: are these now reason enough for someone wanting my book banned?
My publisher had the manuscript read by a lawyer and said I had no reason to worry. But in this new context -where women I usually agree with and admire support banning a film for reasons that mostly appear to originate in differences of opinion - I feel less certain. This is suddenly a country in which the joke this week no longer seems a joke: "It's Thursday and only five things have been banned so far." Films. Books. TV shows. The head of the censor board even wants the word 'Bombay' to be banned because it is the West's version of Mumbai.
I remember when Rushdie's Satanic Verses was banned. I lived in Calcutta then and vendors would sidle up and offer pirated copies on the sly alongside cheap lipsticks and fly swats. In the same way today, viral downloads of Leslee Udwin's film have defeated the structures of the State as well as the demands of misguided feminists. As a writer and publisher, net pirates depriving me of royalties and sales ought to be my natural enemy. Ironically, I live in a country where I am forced to see them as everyone's best friend.
(Published in The Telegraph, 9 March 2015. Read it here online)
Tuesday, 17 March 2015
When Pirates Become Saviours
Monday, 20 October 2014
You get the feeling from Murakami's latest novel, Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki, that while the rest of Japan was waiting with champagne on ice for his Nobel, he took a more sardonic view of the circus. "What a strange world we live in," says a character in the book. "Some people plug away at building railroad stations, while others make tons of money cooking up sophisticated-sounding words."
A recurrent opposition is set up in the book between those who live by making things and those who live by words or ideas. The word tsukuru, the narrative explains at some length, can mean to "create", but Tsukuru Tazaki is named after its more basic meaning, to "make or build". Following the conventional world view, Tsukuru thinks that as a mere builder of railway stations, he is much less interesting than two of his childhood friends who deal in words: one has become a car salesman, stereotypically an occupation defined by smooth talking. Another runs a corporate training company called Beyond that brainwashes middle management employees into following orders. A third is a pianist and the fourth, Kuro, is a potter who makes exquisite though flawed cups and bowls: "It doesn't bring in much money, but I'm really happy that other people need what I create"; Tsukuru understands this, since "I make things myself". Just as Kuro etches her name on the undersides of her pottery, Tsukuru writes his into the wet concrete of the stations he builds. They feel the deep sense of kinship that anyone who makes things with their hands will recognise.
There isn't necessarily an opposition of course: there have always been potters, sculptors, and carpenters who write, and writers who construct bridges or make planes. The author-note in The Small Wild Goose Pagoda describes Allan Sealy as an apprentice to a bricklayer and the book contains detailed passages on building gates and walls. Edmund de Waal is a renowned potter. Murakami, in a recent interview to the Guardian, describes writing itself as manual work: "I guess I am just engineering something. I like to write. I like to choose the right word. I like to write the right sentence. It's like gardening or something. You put the seed into the soil at the right time and in the right place."
In August this year, literally by accident, I discovered precisely how manual writing is. My dog was being attacked by a bigger dog and as I tried to drag my charge to safety I toppled, fell on hard concrete, then noticed that everyone around me was staring at my right arm. An hour later, I was on an orthopaedic's table cradling my deformed elbow. The doctor diverted me with small talk as he tried to set the dislocated joint in place. "What do you do?" he murmured, yanking my dangling forearm. "A potter," I screamed, almost throwing up with the pain. "I'm a potter." "Oh, I see, an artist," he said pulling savagely. I think I passed out at that point and they transferred me to the surgery.
At that crucial moment, when my work flashed before me as one's life is said to before death, why had I claimed I was a potter? The fiery pain was my moment of truth: suddenly I realised I regarded writing, which is my bread and butter, as a kind of sleight of hand. Writing? All my friends write. Anyone can write. You can do it with half a brain and one arm. But making pots out of clay -- things that other people need -- few can do that and those few are fully-armed. It was my instinct to stick to the pottery story because then, you see, the doctor would truly appreciate that my arms were vital in a way they weren't for accountants or writers. I am no ceramic artist, my clunky pieces are cherished by kind-hearted family and friends alone. Yet if I never wrote a book again I knew I would make pots; if I never made a pot again I had no idea what I would do.
Two days after the surgery, I found myself landed with a writing deadline. It would be difficult typing one-handed, but still, one hand meant five fingers, and the writing would distract me from the pain. I would manage. I opened the book into which I usually scribble notes or sometimes a draft before I start typing into my laptop. I picked up a pen.
Perhaps a thought entered my mind, perhaps it didn't. At any rate, by the time I got to pinning the thought to paper with my left hand, it had flown off, an unvanquished butterfly. After struggling to write left-handed for many frustrated minutes, I gave up and turned to the computer. I would just type the article straight in. I tapped one word, then another. Attempted a third. But by this time, my mind had swerved off the road, disgusted with the pace. Use a voice recorder, helpful friends suggested, but I could no more think aloud than write one-handed. When I complained in despair to my barber who was chopping away my hair because one hand isn't enough to tie a ponytail, she whipped out her mobile and said, "Let me show you a video, this man has no arms, no legs, and he manages everything so well!" A close friend was worse: "Wittgenstein's nephew played Ravel's Concerto for the Left Hand after his right arm was amputated." Luckily I'm not musical, I said, aiming a punch with my left fist.
I could manage quite a lot one-handed -- but not everything, and writing one-handed was one of those things.
"When we stroll, the pace of our feet naturally vacillates with our moods and the cadence of our inner speech; at the same time, we can actively change the pace of our thoughts by deliberately walking more briskly or by slowing down," says Ferris Jabr in a recent New Yorker essay on "Why Walking Helps Us Think". This connection between mind and body is felt keenly by even beginner potters who moan that "on some days, nothing works." It is only over weeks of work at the wheel that you realise those are the days when for some reason the switch that connects your brain with your fingers has short-circuited and you don't have the power to repair it. Try too hard and you sweat for nothing. Try too little and you get nowhere. Every potter waits for those days when there is a seamless, inexplicable flow of energy uniting body, mind, clay and wheel that results in pots Bernard Leach described as "life flowing for a few moments perfectly through the hands of the potter." This is the "life" that either flows or doesn't through pieces of writing as well. I was finding out writing was manual work after all: it's hard enough making words come alive when you are functioning normally, it was impossible one-handed.
Ultimately I did manage to meet my deadline, typing two-handed, clumsily using the flats of the fingernails of my immobilised hand. Once I figured that technique out, it was business as usual: the brain had needed only to be tricked into believing both hands were at work. But a spinning ball of clay on a wheel isn't fooled by mind games. Two months later, I still haven't been able to make a pot.
"Talent only functions when it is supported by a tough, unyielding physical and mental focus. All it takes is one screw in your brain to come loose and fall off or some connection in your body to break down, and your concentration vanishes, like dew at dawn," says a pianist who flits through Colourless Tsukuru. In the book's brilliant finale, Tsukuru sits alone at Tokyo station during rush hour, still and meditative, the distillation of solitude in "an overwhelming crush of humanity". In Murakami's world, the unassuming maker of things understands much that others don't.
Friday, 17 October 2014
The Cook's Story
'It was noted with envy and admiration that the breakfast in these households consisted of eggs, toast and jam instead of vegetable bhujia with paratha, and that even the women had begun to use spoons, though only little ones, to eat. Guests to tea were served cake and sandwiches instead of samosas and barfi. In the evening there was Scotch whisky and soda….instead of keora sharbat'—Sheila Dhar of her family's move from Old Delhi to Civil Lines
My name is Manju Arya. I think I am 64 years old. My mother died when I was one and then my father married again and went away. My grandmother, my father's aunt, brought me up in her house in a village near Kathmandu. She was not rich but she gave me laad-pyaar (affection), and did not make me go to school because I didn't want to go, and by the time I was older I was too shy to go. I played in the rice fields near the house all day and when the dhaan (paddy) came from the fields I took it to the chakki (flour mill) to get it threshed. That was my work. The rice was enough for us for the year. We ate rice for all our meals. When my grandmother died, those days ended and I had to live with my father and his second wife.
|Manju Arya (photograph by Anuradha Roy)
I eloped at sixteen. My husband was the valet to the Ambassador of India in Nepal. He travelled all over the world for his work, to Belgium, to America, to other places, and he says he loves Belgium most and after that, Ranikhet. My husband is from Garhwal and the marriage was frowned upon by my father and stepmother. They didn't speak to me again for many years. At first when I came here to Ranikhet with my husband—I think it was early in the '60s—I was quite scared of the jungles around this house and the people whose servant he was. But one day I was doing something and I heard Memsahib shout for me loudly. From the garden of the main house, she was waving towards me with hands glued up with wet flour. I ran up to help her. She had been trying to show the khansama (cook) how to make something out of a book and because he was slow, she got impatient and put her hands into the dough but it was so sticky she couldn't clean herself. Memsahib could get very agitated very quickly. I cleaned her hands and then kneaded the dough.
No, of course Memsahib didn't know how to cook and she never cooked. But she had a cookbook in a foreign language and after that day she called me more and more. She would sit on a stool and read from the cookbook to herself and then tell me in Hindi what it meant, what the processes were. In this way I learnt to make tarts, cutluss (cutlets), chicken rosht (roast) and puteen (pudding). Some things I learnt I didn't like to do: for example putting sharaab (alcohol) into puteen. I can make thin pancakes and also bread. I make soups out of khatta ghaas (wild sorrel) that grows all over the hills and in the monsoon I hunt for junglee tulsi (wild oregano) to put into food. Chicken I cook with rosemary—rosemary bushes work as short hedges around our house. In her salad sometimes I added the leaves of nasturtium, the orange climber-and-creeper which flowers even through cold December. We had no oven and no special pans so I made the tarts on a dekchi (cooking pan) lid and baked them on a chulha (wood stove). For breakfast, when it was in season, I would give Memsahib strawberry—there was a small patch in the flowerbeds in those days—and malai (cream) from the milk. Sometimes we bought cream from the Military Dairy. There were always more strawberries than she could eat, so we also tasted them. Now the patch is dead.
In our own home we eat daal bhaat (dal-rice) in the morning every day. Memsahib, all her life, gave us two kilos of chana daal to cook every month. In those days it was the cheapest daal. In winter we might have rotis made of madua (millet) which is very warming and bhatt ki daal (black soya broth), which is also warming. When it's cold, the children pluck big lemons from the tree and get maltas (oranges) from the market and then make the pulp into chutney with dahi and chilli and then they eat it all in the sun. It's too sour for me these days. When it snows my grandchildren run about playing in the cold and pick up lumps of clean snow to mix with gur and eat as ice cream.
If I ever brought leftovers home from Memsahib, nobody would eat them but my husband and me. My children think all that English food is tasteless. They don't like anything that is not chatpata (tangy). I've slowly started to like soups. I also like tuna, and omelettes with cheese, and coffee. My children don't like any of these things. My youngest grandchild begs his mother each time she goes to the market to get her just one aloo tikki (potato cutlet), on the sly. But her mother says she can't do that. There are too many children in the house and we can't afford aloo tikkis for all of them, except occasionally. I tell them I'll make you tikki at home, but they say it's not the same thing.
We've never eaten out in a restaurant to fill our stomachs—but if we are stuck in the bazaar long past mealtime then we might eat a samosa or a tikki. One day my granddaughter, who has a new job, took me to eat at Rajdeep Hotel in the bazaar. We shared a plate of chowmein. It was expensive, twelve rupees for that plate. But youngsters want these things, like noodles. They always want Maggi noodles in their tiffin. Look at the tea shops in Ranikhet now: they all cook Maggi noodles and sell it as a snack! The children want ice cream, they want cakes with cream. All these things are too expensive for us. But for their birthdays we buy a small cake and I make chhole (chick peas). For some special days we cook mutton or chicken curry. Earlier when we bought mutton the butcher would know from the small amount that it was for our own use and would always give us pieces of scrap and gristle although we were paying the full price. If we bought bread we would always find we had been given a stale loaf, sometimes with fungus. My daughters, who are very smart, began to tell the shopkeepers they were buying for Memsahib and then they got better quality. My daughters will never be servants like I have been all my life. They are all BA pass, they have different ideas.
I have lived in Bombay with Memsahib also. All along the wall in front of our house there were a line of stalls selling dosa and paav bhaji (bread and vegetables). Early each morning the stall owners would start chopping kilos of onions and coriander and peeling potatoes and then cooking. Then, at lunchtime all the office-goers would crowd the stalls. I had never eaten a dosa before. They had great big tavas (griddles) on which they would spread the batter really fast and bake them golden and crisp. I could smell their sambar (spicy lentil curry) from the balcony: it used to make my mouth water then and even now, I love eating sambar. My middle daughter has learned to make it. We pluck curry patta (leaf) that grow wild near Ranibagh, on the way up from Kathgodam, and dry it and store it. We can now buy sambar powder in the market if we want to. I always say, if you have money, you can buy anything in Ranikhet these days!
In those days, in Bombay, I would stand at the balcony and watch them stirring the sambar and turning out heaps of white idlis. Then after the lunch-time rush was over the vendors would clean up, and in late afternoon, go nearby to buy a piece of fish each for themselves. They'd cook it with a lot of masala and in the evening they would have their one meal of the day with great relish--fish curry and rice. The owners of the bungalows near these vendors would be very annoyed by the crowds and cooking smells, and would try to chase them away, but I could not stop watching them from the upstairs balcony everyday.
I have never returned to Nepal. I was not welcome in my father's house. I don't even know what happened to my stepmother, but I know my father is dead. One day a Memsahib from Nepal brought bhogta (grapefruit). I had never seen it since I left the country. When I cut it and saw the pink flesh inside and smelled it, my home came back to me--the fields in the village near Kathmandu. I have kept the seeds and planted some of them. They'll fruit one day.
( By Anuradha Roy, excerpted from the article "Some Pot Boilers", ed. Ira Pande, India Sixty, Delhi, Harper Collins, 2007)
Sunday, 28 September 2014
Hideaway in the Hills
Ranikhet's own traditions and its unique culturehave trumped the charmsof Durga Puja, says Anuradha Roy
(The Telegraph, Sunday 28 September 2014)
(The Telegraph, Sunday 28 September 2014)
Anuradha Roy
Look, there's Manoj.
Not Manoj, can't you see him, he's still at his shop. No, that's Nandu Dhobi. He's Lakshman this year.
Nandu? That three-foot midget as Lakshman? It's someone else.
Below the parapet was an arrangement of tables held together as a stage with ropes and prayers. It had a gleaming maroon backdrop. A hirsute man cradling a mace sat on a stool at a shop nearby, slurping tea. A thickening audience was exchanging raucous notes. Then the microphone crackled, the stage creaked, and Nandu Dhobi appeared in his crown, wig, and robes. His voice had acquired an unfamiliar gravitas. His audience of neighbours stilled themselves, inexplicably respectful. Those of us who had been sheltering over hot rum in the restaurant next to Munir Bux's hauled ourselves over to the parapet for a look.
In the nine days preceding Dussehra, the sun still sets on Ranikhet's hills at the usual time but silence is drummed out. Few stay home. Late in the evening the blackness is broken into clumps by beams from fluorescent torches as people spill out from houses scattered far apart and climb the slopes to converge on Mall Road for the next stage in Ravana's eventual destruction. Dusshera is no homecoming for Durga and her entourage here. Unlike most other towns and cities in India with five Bengalis and a collection box for chanda, Ranikhet has nothing Bengalis would recognise as Puja.
In his essay The Descendants, Arvind K. Mehrotra describes the manner in which the Bengali Diaspora made alien cities its own: "A long migration...brought increasing numbers of Bengalis... to Gangetic upcountry in the second half of the nineteenth century...even today if one goes [to Lukergunj near the station in Allahabad] one gets the feeling that one has come to a different part of the country. The shop signs are in Bengali and banner ads for Ranga-Java Deluxe Sindur hang outside."
My ancestors were part of this nineteenth-century migration and they went first to Agra and then to Jaipur, where they put down roots. Intrepid early settlers of their kind soon enough set up Durga Pujas in different towns. My mother remembers spending all day at the Jaipur Puja-bari through her childhood in the 1950s. There were similar probashi enclaves in towns like Lucknow and Allahabad and Kanpur. My brother and I grew up mostly outside Calcutta, and anywhere in India that we lived, October meant the familiar blend of adda and anjali, overeating, overdressing, and variety-show.
Snapshots of Kumaon till the 1970s bring alive an extraordinary cultural and spiritual efflorescence: from Allaudin Khan, Zohra Sehgal, Ravi Shankar and Bismillah Khan to Allen Ginsberg, Bob Dylan, Anandamayi Ma, and Timothy Leary, it is as if, at this time, the world came to Kumaon. Many who passed through or settled here were Bengali: Rabindranath retreated to Ramgarh after the death of his wife and returned to write parts of the Gitanjali; Vivekananda came to the Kasardevi temple in Almora when writing one of the essays published in From Colombo to Almora. Uday Shankar set up his dance academy at Almora, where he performed Ram Lila ballets (on open-air stages surrounded by deodar and chir). Monica Devi, wife of G. N. Chakravarti — the first vice-chancellor of Lucknow University — took sanyas as Yashoda Ma and, with Ronald Henry Nixon, a British fighter pilot turned Cambridge academic turned Vaishnav ascetic, set up a renowned ashram at Mirtola.
When I got to Ranikhet, this blaze of cultural and spiritual activity had died down, but I encountered people deeply influenced by a dogma-free spirituality I attributed to Mirtola. I would sit in Amit Sen's verandah and listen to stories of the ashram, which he and his wife Anjali, as well as writers like Bill Aitken, had been part of in their time. Now the ashram was almost deserted and most disciples had scattered, but it remained a live presence.
This is the thing about Ranikhet: you might buy your vegetables from Pandeyji in the morning and get your gas stove fixed by Raju in the afternoon, then meet them both at a wedding in the evening and swap friendly insults over a meal about their performances in the Ram Lila the week before. The fortresses of class and hierarchy are less forbidding here. Everyone is addressed with the familiar tum rather than the more formal and distant aap. Gifts are always reciprocated even when you can only afford to give a lauki or a bunch of bananas in return. An acquaintance lurks beyond every loop in the road and, bank manager or goatherd, he must holler out a "Namaste", then demand information about every aspect of your life: why were you at the doctor's that afternoon, is your water supply ok, why are you greying. Gossip is both fundamental right and social glue. This is a small hill town cut off from elsewhere, a world in itself.
The clarity in the air, not just from the mountains but from Mirtola, the ease with which they were absorbed into the daily lives of local people, their minute numbers, their homes scattered across ridges and valleys: perhaps all of this dissolved the need in Ranikhet's Bengali Diaspora for the familiar joys of Puja. Like an aging fax message, Durga Puja faded. It moved to the realm of happy but unlonged-for memories.
I haven't been in Calcutta during Durga Puja for 25 years. If it's October, it has to be Ranikhet.
Anuradha Roy is the author of An Atlas of Impossible Longing and The Folded Earth
Friday, 18 July 2014
The more things change the more they remain the same
Ando Mura, Yamato, Japan (about 1939)
Dear L,
How your family and your work getting on?
Nearly everyday we talk about you but it is too far Yamato and St Ives... Here plum blossom and nightingale came, harbinger of spring. I think you remember this best season of Japan.
This year I had five kilns but only five good works (not good, ordinary) and we wish to break up all the others (50) but if we break up all of them we must ask 100 yen each for the five works. Then who will buy? Can they buy? Well if they cannot buy how shall we live? Think! Only five pots out of 100 pots, two months hard work, 150 yen gone.
I will stop. You know well.
Plum blossom, nightingale and the rain of Yamato -- poor, but we enjoy so much. I feel the plum blossom and such kind of flower deeply coming into my mind year by year. Last year I did not feel as I enjoy this year.
I wish to speak to you in the quiet room but I cannot explain well. Bah! English!
Please write to us.
Kenkichi Tomimoto
Extracted from Bernard Leach, A Potter's Book, 1940.
Here, Leach reproduces a letter from a potter friend with whom he had worked for many years in Japan in the 1930s. By 'five kilns' Tomimoto is referring to five kiln loads full of pottery. He means to destroy the 50 pots he considers imperfect. In the present day asking 100 yen would mean roughly 770 USD.
Leach's book was for many years a reliable resource for potters and people interested in pottery. Leach wrote that the perfect pot was one which possessed "that right relationship of parts which gives vitality -- life flowing for a few moments perfectly through the hands of the potter."
Dear L,
How your family and your work getting on?
Nearly everyday we talk about you but it is too far Yamato and St Ives... Here plum blossom and nightingale came, harbinger of spring. I think you remember this best season of Japan.
This year I had five kilns but only five good works (not good, ordinary) and we wish to break up all the others (50) but if we break up all of them we must ask 100 yen each for the five works. Then who will buy? Can they buy? Well if they cannot buy how shall we live? Think! Only five pots out of 100 pots, two months hard work, 150 yen gone.
I will stop. You know well.
Plum blossom, nightingale and the rain of Yamato -- poor, but we enjoy so much. I feel the plum blossom and such kind of flower deeply coming into my mind year by year. Last year I did not feel as I enjoy this year.
I wish to speak to you in the quiet room but I cannot explain well. Bah! English!
Please write to us.
Kenkichi Tomimoto
|Handthrown bowl by Bernard Leach
Here, Leach reproduces a letter from a potter friend with whom he had worked for many years in Japan in the 1930s. By 'five kilns' Tomimoto is referring to five kiln loads full of pottery. He means to destroy the 50 pots he considers imperfect. In the present day asking 100 yen would mean roughly 770 USD.
Leach's book was for many years a reliable resource for potters and people interested in pottery. Leach wrote that the perfect pot was one which possessed "that right relationship of parts which gives vitality -- life flowing for a few moments perfectly through the hands of the potter."
Monday, 16 June 2014
Writing a Cylinder
Cylinders are to ceramics what the alphabet is to writing, and the first thing all potters have to learn is to throw a cylinder. This sounds much, much easier than it is.
I've been at potters' wheels in various places for years but am still a wobbly, faltering potter wonderstruck if I manage to pull something off. I began at university, in the Round Church at Cambridge. Below the Church, like a secret in the basement, was a little pottery, kiln included, for any student who wanted to come and throw a pot or two. There were no teachers, nobody to tell you a thing. At that time there was no Youtube either, to learn from a vast world of potters out there. You were given a key to enter the ancient grotto -- any time of night or day -- and then, mostly in solitude, you stared at the wheel that was spinning, and tried to figure it out. I have a pot I made then, and wonder how I made it at all.
My first real teacher, Bani de Roy, was a student of the illustrious Shoji Hamada, and she had a studio in Gulmohur Park in Delhi. She was an austere disciplinarian of the old school who believed in practise. And practise, practise, practise. For two months -- or however long it took to get it perfect -- she compelled her students to make nothing but cylinders. You were fired up by visions of gorgeously glazed teapots, bowls and urns; but if she glimpsed you trying out anything but a cylinder, that hot Delhi barsaati turned instantly Arctic.
What is a cylinder, speaking ceramically? It is the most basic shape, a straight-sided tumbler of sorts. Once made, you can billow it out into a bowl or close it up into an urn, or rim it for a lid, go with it wherever your imagination takes you and however far your control of the clay lets you go.
But first you have to get that cylinder right.
|Attempt at a bud vase; by Anuradha Roy
But first you have to get that cylinder right.
|Selsbo Keramik cylinder
A breeze.
You prepared your clay (that's another story), weighed out balls of 500 grams each and then you sweated blood and tears over the wheel. For days you couldn't centre the clay. Or you could not pull up the walls. If you did pull the walls up to your disbelieving satisfaction, you managed to warp the rim or poke a finger through it just as the damn thing was getting to a magical 5 inches. Or the walls were of uneven thickness. Or there was an airbubble trapped in the clay that popped out as an angry blister as the walls thinned. Or you made it right but cut it off the wheel badly. Or you had made the base too thin (or too thick). In each case, you had to plop your painstakingly-prepared clay into the slop bucket, and go back to the beginning.
At first if you managed to create an object that looked somewhat like a cylinder, you beamed, looked around for appreciation. Bani-di (that is what we called her) frowned and thought about it, then said: Throw it away and start again. She was about seventy then, white-hair in a small bun, tall and already creaky, with spectacles that the light bounced off. If it involved work, she smiled very little in the first few months and when she did, you went home walking on air.
After telling you to throw whatever it was away, she went back to reading her newspaper, or to the giant pot she was throwing effortlessly on another wheel even as you slumped and listened to the sound of your heart shattering.
After telling you to throw whatever it was away, she went back to reading her newspaper, or to the giant pot she was throwing effortlessly on another wheel even as you slumped and listened to the sound of your heart shattering.
And this of course, is why making pots and writing books feel so much alike. You throw it away and start again. And again.
Colonel Rajvijay Rai of the Kumaon Regiment, whom I met in Ranikhet because of my books, emails:
Your article, 'Writing a Cylinder', rekindled memories of my childhood. My brother and I, after school, would walk home through a settlement of potters and I would often watch with amazement the deftness with which the artisans would craft one earthen cup after another out of a seemingly unending loam of clay. The clay itself was sourced from a riverbed, or a pond, and was carted long distances in an improvised wheel barrow. What struck me then about this craft was the relative silence in which the potters worked. Rarely would one find a potter chatting with someone or a radio blaring nearby while he was on the wheel.
Now for some trivia gleaned from my rural upbringing. The potters belong to a caste called Konhaar and are distinct from the Kanhaar (the palanquin bearers). Both of these are supposedly lower castes but are not treated as untouchables. In fact, the Kanhaars along with the Nau or barber, play an important part in the so called upper caste marriages and funerals. The Konhaars would also be employed in laying the tiled roofs of rural houses.
Colonel Rajvijay Rai of the Kumaon Regiment, whom I met in Ranikhet because of my books, emails:
Your article, 'Writing a Cylinder', rekindled memories of my childhood. My brother and I, after school, would walk home through a settlement of potters and I would often watch with amazement the deftness with which the artisans would craft one earthen cup after another out of a seemingly unending loam of clay. The clay itself was sourced from a riverbed, or a pond, and was carted long distances in an improvised wheel barrow. What struck me then about this craft was the relative silence in which the potters worked. Rarely would one find a potter chatting with someone or a radio blaring nearby while he was on the wheel.
Now for some trivia gleaned from my rural upbringing. The potters belong to a caste called Konhaar and are distinct from the Kanhaar (the palanquin bearers). Both of these are supposedly lower castes but are not treated as untouchables. In fact, the Kanhaars along with the Nau or barber, play an important part in the so called upper caste marriages and funerals. The Konhaars would also be employed in laying the tiled roofs of rural houses.
Nizamabad, a small township about 30 km from my hometown Azamgarh, is known for 'black' pottery. The trick, I am told, lies in mixing goat dung with the clay and baking the pieces in a covered clay oven which lends a glossy black sheen.The pottery is thereafter finished with hand etched designs which are filled with a powder mixed with mercury. Please see the attached photo to get an idea of what I have described."
Wednesday, 7 May 2014
Mauritius Diary
|Photograph by Anuradha Roy
Is This Us?
A bus with 'La Perle de la Savanne' painted down its back and sides trundles down the road and we crawl in its wake. Behind us, many others as patient. There's no honking nor any attempts to overtake the bus. This wouldn't be so mystifying if about 63 per cent of the population in Mauritius were not Indian-origin. Where's their Indianness gone? Why isn't anyone shooting jets of scarlet spittle or peeing into roadside walls? I travel across the island, see no garbage heaps. And oh—nobody's groping women. I feel safe enough to take taxis alone across the country, safe enough to sail to another island on a motorboat where the only other passengers are the Creole boatman and his buddy. Jade, celadon, sapphire and turquoise melt and mingle in the sea under a sky as blue as a kingfisher's wing. We make our crossing. The water's clear enough to see fish flitting past corals. No hint of floating rubbish.
No Sweet Deal
Indian-origin people in Mauritius are descended from indentured labourers who migrated there after the abolition of slavery in 1835. Indentured labour was less savage than slavery. The migrants were not coerced or kidnapped, they chose to come. And although conditions were harsh and they often lost contact with relatives, they weren't imprisoned or denied their traditions. By the 1920s, about five lakh people from India had settled in Mauritius. Today, highways cut through sugarcane fields tranquil in silvery arcs from sprinklers. But take a look at any forest land and you realise what torment it was to hack fields out of that impregnable tropical jungle.
A Tale of Courage
As I was about to leave, Alain Gordon-Gentil, writer and cultural councillor, gifted me a DVD of his film about Indian indentured labourers. Many descendants long to return to their roots: "Setting foot on the land of one's ancestors is an intensely emotional experience." Goorooduth Chuttoo, who farms seven acres of land, describes how he visited his ancestral Bihar village some years ago, only to find starving relatives living in poverty. Their mud huts were like relics from the nineteenth-century labour camps in Mauritius. Only then did he appreciate his luck: "If my family hadn't come to Mauritius, perhaps I would have been a rickshawpuller in India." The celebrated Mauritian writer Nathacha Appanah, whose first novel is about the journey of indentured labourers, says, "I never felt it was a sad story...(I thought of) their courage—having the courage to cross the black water, take the boat."
Bollywood Travels
Indians were not the only migrants to Mauritius in the 19th century, people came from Madagascar, Mozambique, China and elsewhere. It is fascinating to see how fluently they switch languages here, from French to Creole to English, even Hindi. In my taxi, a lugubrious voice announces local deaths and funeral details; when I beg for something more cheerful, the channel changes to dhak-dhak music from Bollywood. Newspapers report the doings of Kareena and Deepika, banners proclaim a pious Sivaratri, and there are Hindu temples everywhere. As Nathacha drives me around the countryside, we pass a building with a simple wooden cross outside. The thatched roof has to be replaced often, she says, because cyclones blow it away. Under the roof is a peaceful little church that smells of hay. Outside, below an almond tree, is installed a colourful statue of Madonna and Child. From the church onward to Le Morne, a forbidding cliff sheltering caves and overhangs where runaway slaves used to hide. On February 1, 1835, a police party searched out the slaves in hiding to tell them they were finally free. Thinking this a ruse, the terrified slaves jumped to their death from the cliff.
|Photograph by Anuradha Roy
While It Lasts
The land sweeps far into the distance, ringed by spiky volcanic hills, uninterrupted by buildings. The sky looks bigger, the moon hangs low among a billion stars, double its normal size. All of this might change. Infotech tower blocks are coming up: the government wants Mauritius to turn into Singapore, someone says. The South Africans are building luxury villas and clubs for their exclusive use. Locals complain their beaches are overrun, their best produce exported. At the prime minister's house, angst doesn't intrude. The evening is cool, someone's strumming jazz, fretworked balustrades separate the verandah from a banyan-treed garden. A dreadlocked artist from Reunion shows me a diary filled with drawings. A French writer looks over our shoulders. The literary festival I'm here for is at the Swami Vivekananda Centre and Nehru Hospital is nearby. Dinner could be dholl puri or octopus curry, then tartes tatin, vanilla tea. Perhaps some Phoenix beer too.
A paradox...
My five-star hotel is hospitable to strays. I'm feeding the visiting cat when a hedgehog muscles in. Cat retreats without a fight.
Originally published in Outlook
Saturday, 14 December 2013
A Pig Called Dolores and Other Australian stories
I learnt many new things on my first visit to Australia. That water drains anticlockwise Down Under. That Victorian refers not to nineteenth-century England but to the state of Victoria, of which Melbourne is the capital. Also that Australia has llamas—and two days into my travels, I was standing face to face with one on a green meadow high above the ocean.
|Llama at Otway Farm. Photograph by Anuradha Roy
My learning curve was going to get steeper: next I was told pigs are brainier than dogs. As tall, bearded Steve trilled "Dolores!" in an unexpectedly coquettish voice, a giant sow trundled across knee-deep mud to reach him, her emotional complexity obvious and moving. In that second, as Steve scratched her hairy ears, you could see how, in love, the homeliest of faces glows.
Dolores and her colleague, Mildred, live on Steve's farm to hunt out truffles. Truffles sell at about 2,000 Australian dollars, so Dolores and Mildred were about the most valuable staffers at Otway. At the Atlantic restaurant in Melbourne, when I ate chef Scott Pickett's truffled chicken wings, savouring each smoky mouthful, I sent a silent note of thanks to Team Dolores.
Melbourne showed me how, in a newish country where traditions hadn't been inherited via centuries of transmission, it was possible to invent them with flair and imagination. The Melbourne Food and Wine Festival is on its way to becoming one of those traditions: invented only about twenty years ago, it now occupies a central place in Melbourne life. Any stranger I fell into conversation with eventually began telling me about it.
Read the rest here in Outlook Traveller
Thursday, 17 October 2013
The Missing Slate
THE MISSING SLATE's latest issue ("The Politics of Art") features an extract from The Folded Earth as well as fiction from Anjum Hasan, Anjali Joseph, Jhumpa Lahiri, Kuzhali Manickavel, and Sidin Vadukut. And poetry from Tishani Doshi, Minal Hajratwala, Aditi Machado, Shikha Malaviya, Tabish Khair, Prabhat, Sudeep Sen, Ravi Shankar, Kedarnath Singh, Arundhathi Subramaniam, and Jeet Thayil. Prabhat and Kedarnath Singh are translated from Hindi by Rahul Soni. The Missing Slate is an arts and literary journal with roots in several countries. Its website says "the story behind our name (a question we're often asked) arose from the current literary landscape in Pakistan, a country with a rich history but a low tolerance for it".
|Salt by Anastasia Inspiderwiht
Kedarnath Singh (b. 1934): ON READING A LOVE POEM
When I'd read that long love poem
I closed the book and asked --
Where are the ducks?
I was surprised that they were nowhere
even far into the distance
It was in the third line of the poem
or perhaps the fifth
that I first felt
there might be ducks here somewhere
I'd heard the flap flap of their wings
but that may have been my illusion
I don't know for how long
that woman
had been standing in the twelfth line
waiting for a bus
The poem was completely silent
about where she wanted to go
only a little sunshine
sifted from the seventeenth line
was falling on her shoulders
The woman was happy
at least there was nothing in her face to suggest
that by the time she reached the twenty-first line
she'd disappear completely
like every other woman
There were sakhu trees
standing where the next line began
the trees were spreading
a strange dread through the poem
Every line that came next
was a deep disturbing fear and doubt
about every subsequent line
If only I'd remembered--
it was in the nineteenth line
that the woman was slicing potatoes
She was slicing
large round brown potatoes
inside the poem
and the poem was becoming
more and more silent
more solid
I think it was the smell
of freshly chopped vegetables
that kept the woman alive
for the next several lines
By the time I got to the twenty-second line
I felt that the poem was changing its location
like a speeding bullet
the poem had whizzed over the woman's shoulder
towards the sakhu trees
There were no lines after that
there were no more words in the poem
there was only the woman
there were only
her shoulders her back
her voice--
there was only the woman
standing whole outside the poem now
and breaking it to pieces
(translated by Vinay Dharwadker)
Saturday, 12 October 2013
Paris Diary
Another day, another stranger: she paused to give me directions -- I was walking away, quite definitely away from where I needed to be, she told me, then walked with me half the way in the dark evening despite her heavy bags, to set me straight. Two days later she turned up at the launch of the French edition of The Folded Earth, Les Plis de la Terre with a bag full of gifts -- including a tiny compass...
|Add caption
Myriam Bellehigue and I originally met on a staircase -- years ago when we were students. Now, by many strange sets of coincidences and chances, she is my translator. She teaches English at the Sorbonne and is also a translator for Actes Sud. Her translations, everyone says, are fluid and perfect, and a reader read out from them to wonderful dramatic effect when the book was released at the Indian Embassy in Paris by the Ambassador Arun Singh. There was a Q&A conducted by my French publisher Rajesh Sharma and afterwards there was what there always is afterwards -- copies signed, drinks drunk, notes exchanged.
The book was released in Paris on 9 October 2013.
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text:
Met Office forecasts gloomy week of storms, thunderous showers and low temperatures
Put away the barbeque – British summer is back
Tom Payne
Tom is a reporter for Independent.co.uk
Sunday 08 June 2014
Just when you thought it was safe to slap on the sun cream and light up the barbeque, weather experts at the Met Office have forecast a dismal week of low temperatures and thundery showers.
Over the next week, temperatures will plummet to a low of 14C and thunderous downpours will sweep across the UK.
Forecasters have said the weather will be 'changeable', but warned of frequent and heavy showers on Monday and cloud with patchy rain for the week ahead.
The north west is expected to bear the brunt of the bad weather with cloud and showers forecast for the entire week.
It follows a weekend of dreary weather for much of the UK. Over 18.2mm of rain fell on Suffolk, and in Devon a house was struck by lightning as fierce storms lashed the region.
The predicted torrent of rain is a consequence of warm, humid air moving in from Europe which creates a risk of downpours when it mixes with cooler air over the UK.
Today, temperatures are expected to reach a high of 25C.
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text:
The What's Your Soda Personality Test
Their result for The What's Your Soda Personality Test ...
You're Jolt Cola!
You scored 22 Sweetness and 78 Caffeination!
Their Analysis (Vertical line = Average)
They scored 22% on Sweetness, higher than 3% of your peers.
They scored 78% on Caffeination, higher than 96% of your peers.
All possible test results
You're Ginger Ale!
Not overly sweet, nor highly caffeinated, you're the basic... ginger ale. You're the one that people want around when they're not feeling all that great, usually, because you don't tend to be bouncy ... Read more
You're Coke!
You tend to be a little more bubbly and bouncy, but not so much that people want to smack you around for the fact that you can never sit still. You're not overly sweet, and people like that about you... Read more
You're Barq's
You definitely have bite... and people know it. You're the one that people turn to when they're tired of the basic, boring stuff, and want something with a kick to it. Read more
You're Jolt Cola!
Settle down, son! Sheesh. Try having a little bit of compassion for people, and being a little nicer now and then. The entire world doesn't hate you. They just want you to sit down for a minute... Read more
You're Sprite!
Not to sweet, but with a hint of it here and there, but utterly without the pep and pizzaz that people are looking for now and then. Read more
You're Diet Pepsi!
A little sweet, a little crazy, just a hint of both. You probably appeal to the younger, trendier crowd. Or not. What do I know? Read more
You're Diet Coke!
A little sweet, with a kick. Happy, with a hint of pep, too! Read more
You're Diet Mt. Dew!
Not overly sweet, but full of zip... you might want to think about settling down now and then. Not necessarily WITH someone, because who knows if you could handle that? But sleep can be a nice thing... Read more
You're Orange Soda!
Sweet at heart, but no real zing to follow it up with. Come on, get off the couch and quit being everyone's best friend, eh? Read more
You're Grape Soda!
Sweet, with a hint of caffeine, just enough to keep people moving. I think I love you... or it could just be that I like the challenge of not spilling you on the carpet. Read more
You're Pepsi!
Sweetness? Yes! Caffeine? Yes!! You've got it all, and in just about the right amount. Everyone likes you, don't they? And you know it. Read more
You're Mountain Dew!
Sweet, but not sickeningly so. And caffeine? WOW, do you ever have it. Perhaps, though... well, I'm sure that your friends are quite addicted to you. Lucky bastard. Read more
You're Red Cream!
Sweet, almost to the point that you make people gag at times with how much of a darling you are. But nothing of a punch to back up all that sugary-syrup-ness. Ponder your future, and think about dro... Read more
You're Dr. Pepper!
Very sweet, and with a kick that picks people up when they're down. You don't overdo the peppy personality, but you're definitely one that people come to when they're upset. Read more
You're Vanilla Coke!
Sweet, but in a good way...sometimes maybe too good. And with a nice punch at the end that wakes everyone up. Good going, and try not to be so nice to everyone once in awhile. No one likes a doorma... Read more
You're Red Bull
Scary. Just frightening. You can't sit down, because you're everywhere at once. Not to mention how happy and caring you are. Please, continue...while I back away slowly... Read more
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text:
A swingable over-the-top tongue is provided for a windrower having a main frame positioned rearwardly of its crop cutting header. The forwardly extending tongue is upwardly arched for clearing the header above which it is disposed and is provided with a hitch at its forward end for attachment to a towing vehicle such as a tractor. The tongue is pivotally coupled to the frame for lateral swinging movement from a field-operating position to a roading position in which the tractor and the windrower are in essentially a straight-line relationship to one another presenting a minimal overall width. The tongue is further constructed in a manner to provide a fluid reservoir for hydraulically powered portions of the windrower.
Claims available in
Description (OCR text may contain errors)
United States Patent 1191 Burkhart et a1. Sept. 3, 1.974
[54] WINDROWER HAVING REAR MOUNTED 3,339,352 9/1967 Burrough et a1. 56/1 OVERTOP SWINGABLE TONGUE 3,469,381 9/1969 Burrough et a1 56/209 3,518,820 7/1970 Yeske 56/377 [75] Inventors: Merl K- Bu art; F r Fell; 3,672,460 2/1971 Takata 180/79 Cecil L. Case, Newton, Kans. a H OTHER PUBLICATIONS [73 1 Assgnee' S2? Cmpmmn John Deere Pamphlet, entitled Rakes, A-l 740, On.
' 68-8, Litho in U.S.A. [22] Filed: Sept. 7, 1973 [21 I Appl. No.: 395,347 Primary Examiner-Russell R. Kinsey Attorney, Agent, or FirmSchmidt, Johnson, Hovey & Related U.S. Application Data Williams [63] Continuation of Ser. No. 191,521, Oct. 21, 1971, I
abandoned. ABSTRACT [52] U.S. Cl 56/218, 56/228, 56/DIG. l, A wingable over-theop tongue is provided for a win- 172/324, 280/463 drower having a main frame positioned rearwardly of [51] Int. Cl A01d 73/00 its QP C ng eader- The forwardly extending [58] Field of Search .556/218, 228, 377, 365, tongue is upwardly arched for clearing the header 56/366, 370, 371, l, DIG. 1; 172/324; above which it is disposed and is provided with a hitch 280/463; 180/79 at its forward end for attachment to a towing vehicle such as a tractor. The tongue is pivotally coupled to [56] Ref r Cit d the frame for lateral swinging movement from a field- I UNITED STATES PATENTS operating position to a roading position in which the 1,059,133 4 1913 Felkel 172 324 {factor i wmdrowe' are essentlilny a l i 2 316 397 4 11ne re1at1onsh1p to one another presenting a m1n1mal /19,43 Briscoe 280/463 2 809 574 10 1957 Hill et a1. 172 324 Overall The tongue 15 further constructed 3 219941180 8/1961 van der Lely et a1 56/377 manner to Provide a fluid reservoir for hydraulically 3,107,476 10/1963 Wathen 56/377 Powered Portions of the Windrower. 3,111,802 11/1963 van der Lely 56/377 3,124,921 3/1964 van der Lely et a1 56 377 9 Clams 4 Drawmg F'gures PATENIEU 3W3 I974 sum ear 2 WINDROWER HAVING REAR MOUNTED OVERTOP SWINGABLE TONGUE This is a continuation of U.S. Pat. application Ser. No. 191,521, filed Oct. 21, 1971 and now abandoned.
This invention relates to a swingable tongue for an implement such as a pull-type windrower as is commonly used in the harvesting of alfalfa, grasses, and other forage type crops. The windrower as referred to in the present invention is of the type provided with a header which, by one pass over a field having a crop to be harvested, cuts, conditions and places the latter in a windrow. Whereas the present invention relates strictly to a draft or pull-type implement, the functional purposes and operation of the header portion of the implement is essentially the same as that disclosed and described in U.S. Pat. No. 3,224,177, issued Dec. 21, 1956, in the name of R. A. Adee and having the same assignee as the present invention.
A limiting factor inherent in pull-type windrowers has been the overall width when coupled to a towing tractor due to the fact that the main frame and tongue must be so constructed that the tractor will be offset relative to the header to avoid running down the crop by the tractor wheels as it pulls the windrower through the field. This field operating width is very inconvenient when the windrower is to be taken from one field to another. In many instances, the roads are so narrow that the combined overall width of the tractor and windrower present a hazard to oncoming traffic. In addition, bridges and gates present other obstacles to the quick and easy movement from one field to another, particularly when the larger size headers are used.
Previous attempts have been made to minimize the width of the tractor and windrower for roading' purposes but these have invariably involved the use of devices for reorienting the windrower and the tractor so that the windrower is actually pulled sideways. This usually involves the use of additional carrier wheels and hitches or the physical relocating of the standard components which results in extra expense and a great deal of changover time whenever the machine is to be moved to another field.
It is, therefore, an important object to provide a main frame and tongue structure for a windrower which permits an overall roading width for the tractor and windrower that is no wider than the header assembly of the windrower.
It is a still further important object of our invention to provide a swingable tongue for a pull-type implement ,which can be readily and easily adjusted by the vehicle operator without leaving the tractor.
It is another important object of the invention to provide a swingable tongue which permits the overall width of the tractor and windrower to be reduced to a minimum without the use of secondary running gear and hitches.
It is yet another important object of our invention to provide a tongue structure for the main frame of a windrower which does not limit the size header that may be carried thereby.
It is another object of the instant invention to provide a large capacity hydraulic fluid reservoir having an adequate rate of heat dissipation in order to eliminate the need for an auxiliary cooler.
1n the drawings:
FIG. 1 is a plan view of a windrower provided with a rear mounted overtop swingable tongue shown in field operating position, its towing vehicle indicated in phantom and an alternate or roading position of the tongue and tractor likewise shown'in phantom;
FIG. 2 is a side elevational view of the windrower with the tongue in its field-operating position, one wheel having been removed to show assembly detail;
FIG. 3 is an enlarged, fragmentary, vertical, crosssectional view of the tongue and main frame portions of the windrower, some parts broken away for clarity; and
FIG. 4 is an enlarged, detailed fragmentary view showing portions of the main frame crosshead, a wheel support arm, and the pivot member for the swingable tongue.
Referring initially to FIG. 1, a farm implement, broadly denoted by the numeral 10, which may be in the nature of a windrower, having a main frame 12 is provided with a structure 14 for transmitting the pull from a vehicle 16, such as a tractor, to the implement 10 as it is towed across a field. Structure 14 comprises an elongated tongue or beam 18 having a hitch 20 at the normally forwardmost end 22 thereof adapted to be connected behind vehicle 16 as at 24 for swinging movement of beam 18 relative to vehicle 16. A coupling 26 at the normally rearmost end 28 of beam 18 connects the latter to frame 12 adjacent rearmost extremities 30 of the same. Beam 18 includes an upwardly extending arch 32 near rearmost end 28 for clearing those portions 34 of implement 10 disposed beneath beam 18 and'forwardly of extremities 30 of frame 12.
Frame 12 is generally U-shaped, presenting a transverse, normally horizontal crosshead 36 and a pair of arms 38 secured to and depending from crosshead 36. Implement-supporting, ground-engaging wheels 40 are affixed to the generally lower part of arms 38 by use of spindles 42. Coupling 26 is located on frame 12 adjacent end 46 of crosshead 36.
Beam 18 has a relatively long, straight stretch 48 inclined downwardly and forwardly of arch 32 toward hitch 20; forwardmost end 22 of beam 18, therefore, being at a substantially lower elevation than that of rearmost end 28. Hitch 20 consists of two spaced apart opposed plates 50, each having a hole 56 therein, rigidly affixed to the top and bottom sides 52 and 54 respectively of beam 18, thus permitting the latter to swing about a plurality of axes when hitched or pinned to vehicle 16 as indicated at 24 in FIG. 1.
Coupling 26 is provided with means for permitting swinging movement of beam 18 relative to frame 12. Means for such movement include an elongated pivot member 60 extending upwardly from crosshead 36 for cooperating with a correspondingly elongated, vertically oriented tube 62 affixed to beam 18 at its rearmost end 28. A sleeve bearing 64 is located in each end of tube 62 for engagement with member 60, beam 18 thereby being mounted adjacent end 46 of cross-head 36 for swinging movement relative to the latter and frame 12 about a generally upright axis.
Control means 66 are provided for directing the swinging movement of beam 18 relative to frame 12 and its crosshead 36. Means 66 includes a fluid pressure piston and cylinder assembly 68 having one end pivotally connected to a rearwardly extending arm 70 affixed to beam 18 rearwardly of member 60. The
other end of assembly 68 is similarly pivotally connected to a rearwardly extending plate 72 affixed to eroxxhead 36 intermediate the ends thereof.
lorlions 34 of implement include a transverse, elongated header 74 carried forwardly of frame 12 and wheels 40 for vertical swinging movement toward and away from beam 18. The swinging movement of header 74 is accomplished through the use of a pair of upper lift links 76 and a pair of lower lift links 78 interconnecting header 74 with arms 38 working in conjunction with a pair of fluid pressure piston and cylinder assemblies 80 (only one of which is shown) interposed between links 76 and arms 38. A pair of spring assemblies 81 are provided to cooperate with links 76 and 78 and assemblies 80 to yieldably carry header 74 in a semisuspended state.
Member 60 and means 66 are so located on frame 12 that beam 18 is swingable in one direction about member 60 to a position beyond one end 82 of header 74 as is best illustrated in FlG. 1. The locations of member 60 and means 66 are further related to one another and frame 12 so that the longitudinal axis of the header 74 and the axes of rotation of wheels 40 remain essentially perpendicular to the normal path of travel of implement 10 in any and all positions of swinging movement of beam 18.
The entire length of beam 18 is tubular, presenting a reservoir 84 for the fluid needed to power an assembly such as a hydraulic motor 86 or to pressure any other fluid actuated assembly such as at 68. Beam 18 is provided with a fill spout 88, a fluid return inlet 90 and a fluid outlet 92. If desired, assembly 68 and the pair of assemblies 80 may be operably coupled to the hydraulic system of the vehicle 16 by the use of conduits 94.
Conduits 93 and 95 operably connect motor 86 with reservoir 84 and a tractor mounted pump (not shown),
reservoir 84 in this instance being used in conjunction with motor 86. Motor 86 is coupled to a drive mechanism 100 which powers reel 96 and sickle 102 of header 74.
In operation, when the windrower 10 is to be taken to a field, it is coupled to vehicle 16 by means of hitch 20 and the hydraulic system of vehicle 16 is connected to conduits 94 after which assembly 68 of control means 66 is extended and pushes against arm thereby swinging beam 18 laterally relative to frame 16 about the vertical axis of member 60 until the vehicle 16 and windrower 10 are in virtual fore and aft alignment as illustrated by the phantom lines in H0. 1. It will be readily apparent from this figure that the lateral space occupied by the vehicle 16 and windrower 10 will be no more than the overall width of the header 74. The narrower width thereby effected is particularly advantageous and desirable when narrow gates or bridges need to be negotiated while moving the windrower 10 from one location to another as well as the minimizing of interference with oncoming traffic when on a public road.
At the time windrower 10 is to be made field operable, control means 66 is activated by retracting the piston of the assembly 68 to swing beam 18 in the opposite direction which causes forwardmost end 22 as well as vehicle 16 to be positioned laterally beyond end 82 of header 74 as shown by full lines in FIG. 1. This is the normal relative relationship of vehicle 16 to windrower 10 for the cutting and windrowing of a standing crop, thus avoiding overrunning the crop ahead of header 74 by vehicle 16. It is to be noted that regardless of the position of beam 18 with respect to frame 12, the towing vehicle 16 remains forwardly of header 74, and the longitudinal axis of header 74 and the axes of rotation of wheels 40 remain essentially perpendicular to the normal path of travel of the windrower 10.
The distinctive upward arch 32 of beam 18 clears header 74, including its reel 96 and lean bar 98, which permits unrestricted movement of the header 74 as it is raised and lowered by the links 76 and 78 and assemblies 80 from its ground engaging position to a raised transport position. Furthermore, the tubular construc tion of beam 18 permits it to be used as the hydraulic fluid reservoir 84 for motor 86. Although reservoir 84 is used only for motor 86 in this particular embodiment, it is to be understood that this same reservoir could be utilized in conjunction with control means 66 and header lift assemblies 80 if the hydraulic system of vehicle 16 is inadequate for powering means 66 and assemblies 80, making it necessary to adapt the pump (not shown) to also actuate cylinder assemblies 68 and 80. Beam 18 is particularly adapted for this use in that a large amount of surface area is available which serves to dissipate the heat buildup inherent in hydraulic drives and, therefore, eliminates the need of an auxiliary oil cooler. lt is also advantageous in that existing structure can be easily utilized and thus avoid the need to supply an additional structure in the form of an auxiliary reservoir or tank.
Additionally, location of beam 18 relative to frame 12 permits the interchangeable use of headers having various lengths which is not possible when the frame and tongue structure extend laterally and forwardly around end 82 of header 74 as is the case in pull-type windrowers which have heretofore been constructed. The arched configuration eliminates the restrictions imposed by the size of header 74 thereby allowing frame 12 to accommodate any reasonable length. The degree of swing of beam 18 permits the operator to correspondingly adjust the position of his vehicle 16 with respect to the windrower l0 and is again in no way limited by the varying length of header 74.
The ease with which beam 18 may be swung permits the operator to adjust the relative position of the windrower 10 with respect to vehicle 16 in those instances when a wedgeshaped field or land is being cut. As the point of the wedge is approached and a full cut of the header 74 is not required, vehicle 16 can be shifted inwardly toward the center of the windrower 10 thereby reducing the overall width of the vehicle 16 and the windrower 10 to avoid driving over the windrow that has been formed during the previous round. This shifting permits the positioning of windrower 10 relative to the uncut crop so that cutting takes place towards that portion of header opposite end 82.
The increased availability and use of the -100 hp tractor as the towing vehicle 16 has created the need for larger pull-type implements, which had declined with the advent of self-propelled machines, provided the excessive width of such a larger machine could be minimized. The reduced overall width and the resulting flexibility of operation afforded by the present invention, eliminates the very inherent restrictions and objections that heretofore had been voiced against the use of pull-type implements.
Having thus described the invention, what is claimed as new and desired to be secured by Letters Patent is:
1. In combination with an elongated header for cutting a crop and forming the cut crop into awindrow or depositing the same in a swath:
a U-shaped frame having an elongated, horizontal crosshead and a pair of arms integrally secured to the crosshead and depending therefrom,
said crosshead having a longitudinal axis disposed in perpendicular relationship to the path of travel of the header;
means mounting said header on the frame forwardly of the crosshead for up-and-down swinging movement relative to the frame;
a ground-engaging wheel connected directly to each arm respectively at the lower ends thereof for supporting the frame;
a single, elongated, rigid towing beam having a hitch at the normally forwardmost end thereof adapted to be connected to said vehicle behind the latter for swinging movement of the beam relative to the vehicle about a first upright axis;
pivot means at the rearmost end of the beam connecting the latter with the crosshead for swinging movement of the beam relative to the frame and the header about a second upright axis; and
structure interconnecting the frame and the beam for effecting said swinging movement about said second upright axis,
said beam being arched upwardly over the header for clearing the latter in all positions of its up-anddown swinging movement.
2. The invention as claimed in claim 1 wherein said structure is pivotally coupled with the crosshead and the beam.
3. The invention as claimed in claim 2 wherein said structure comprises a fluid pressure piston and cylinder assembly.
4. The invention as claimed in claim 2 wherein said structure couples with the beam rearwardly of said pivot means.
5. The invention as claimed in claim 1 wherein said beam is tubular presenting a hydraulic fluid reservoir.
6. The invention as claimed in claim 1 wherein said pivot means is disposed rearwardly of the axes of rotation of said wheels.
7. The invention as claimed in claim 1 wherein said pivot means is disposed at one end of the crosshead adjacent one of the arms.
8. The invention as claimed in claim 1 wherein said arms slope downwardly and forwardly from said crosshead placing the axes of rotation of the wheels forwardly of the crosshead.
9. The invention as claimed in claim 1 wherein said header has a longitudinal axis parallel with said axis of the crosshead.
DATED I September 3, 1974 INVE I Burkhart, Merle K. et a1.
It is certified that error appears in the above-identified patent and that said Letters Patent are hereby corrected as shown below: A
In Claim 1 at line 21 of column 5, delete "said" and insert a Signal and Staled this Eighth Day of April mo [SEAL] Allen:
SIDNEY A. DIAMOND Arresting Oflicer Commissioner of Patents and Trademarks
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