I got this book from Billy on May 7, 2015. I finished reading it on March 15, 2022. It is, as Billy himself admits and my elapsed reading time confirms, “a difficult read”. “Most people,” he says, “have understandably given up on it.” I was determined not to be like most people — no matter how long it took.
Although I never gave up on it, I obviously put it aside from time to time. Sometimes it was for a day or two and sometimes it was for weeks or months. Each pause in my reading of The Sycamore Trees basically lasted as long as I had something at hand that was not a difficult read. I believe that understanding the book’s chronology would have been difficult in any case. My many starts and stops aggravated it immensely.
The book has been called a semi-autobiographical novel. According to Billy, it tells about his early life. “The best story I can tell in words is there if one really wants to know it”, he says. The writing style has been called stream of consciousness. In some manner, “stream of consciousness” and “semi-autobiographical” might also apply to the giant metal sculpture that is his life work. Its picture is on the book’s back cover. It is what initially made me and most others aware of Billy’s existence. When I first happened upon the sculpture in 2005, I thought its name, “Billy Tripp’s Mindfield”, might have been the title of a misplaced Beatles song, and learning that William Blevins Tripp is the artist’s real name has not entirely erased that image.
Almost from the moment I started reading The Sycamore Trees, I saw similarities not only in the artist’s approach to the sculpture and to the book but in my reaction to both. I have viewed that sculpture multiple times and always marvel at the artistry and craftsmanship in pretty much every detail. Yet, when I step back and try to take in the entire thing, I’m overwhelmed. I can appreciate and maybe even understand the parts but not the whole. I have that very same relationship with the book.
In spots, the book does seem to be an unfiltered stream of consciousness. But most of the components of that stream are reasonably constructed thoughts. There are instances of rambling that are frustrating to a reader wanting to get on with the story but, for the most part, they seem to be trying to say something in as many ways as possible rather than saying the exact same thing over and over.
There was certainly some relief felt when I turned the last page but it was not the relief of finally being done with something unpleasant. In fact, part of it may have been the relief of realizing that reading the book had not been a waste of time (which was something I’d questioned more than once while the reading was in process). This is one of the few books I’ve read where a first reading equipped me to get a whole lot more out of a second reading. I’m not going to rush into it. I’ll wait at least until my next physical. If the doctor thinks I might have another seven years in me, I just might rewind and repeat.
Like most others, this review ends with an Amazon link. There are some used copies available at reasonable prices and even a couple claims of new copies at exorbitant prices. However, if you really want a copy and can possibly get to Brownsville, TN, I recommend visiting the Mindfield and getting the book from Billy.
The Mindfield Years, Vol. 1: The Sycamore Trees, Billy Tripp, Mindfield Press (January 1, 1996), 5.5 x 8.5 inches, 736 pages, ISBN 0-9652238-0-9
Available through Amazon.
It’s been said you should write what you know. Brian Butko may or may not believe that but there is reason to think he might believe even more in the corollary: Write what you want to know. I frequently get the impression that Butko enjoys the hunt as much as the kill, research as much as publishing, learning as much as teaching. Isaly’s Chipped Ham, Klondikes, and Other Tales from Behind the Counter gives me that impression in spades. This is Butko’s second run at the subject having published Klondikes, Chipped Ham, & Skyscraper Cones: The Story of Isaly’s in 2001. I’m not familiar with the earlier book but know that there is some unavoidable overlap. No surprise there. There is no doubt a multitude of reasons for the redo but I’ll suggest — and this is pure conjecture — that not only was it tackled in order to improve the story with knowledge learned in the intervening twenty years but as an excuse to learn even more.
In the middle half of the twentieth century, Isaly’s was a major regional presence whose farms, factories, and stores helped feed a whole lot of people in northeast Ohio and northwest Pennsylvania. The arc of that presence is not unique. It was a family business that saw the success and growth of the first few generations eventually fade away in corporate buyouts. I’ve lived in Ohio my entire life but we missed each other. My neighborhood has been the state’s southwest corner, and the closest Isaly’s ever came to my home was Columbus. Although a few Columbus stores remained in the late 1960s and it’s possible that I saw one, I have no memory of it. The company entered Columbus in 1935, peaked there in the 1940s, and officially began its exit in 1954. Everything I know about Isaly’s I learned from Brian Butko. Brian Butko learned from family members, former employees, company records, newspapers, and libraries. 
There were other innovations such as Skyscraper Cones, Party Slices, and Klondike Bars. Klondike Bars were the biggie. The only Isaly’s product to have success nationally, they are still available today although they are made by Unilever and no longer bear the Isaly’s name. They do, however, still bear the Isaly’s bear.
Unlike me, Brian has plenty of personal Isaly’s memories. He says that his earliest was of their macaroni and cheese. His excitement is evident when given access to a 3-ring binder of company recipes. He finds the sought-after Baked Macroni then writes, “I have yet to try the official recipe…”. The fact that the recipe yields 60 servings might be one deterrent but I think I also detect a little fear that today’s result might not live up to yesterday’s memories. I, for one, encourage Brian to face his fear and look that macaroni right in the elbow. Finding 59 mac & cheese eaters should be easy.
This History Press publication, as is their standard formula, is built around lots of photos both old and new. In this case, a few of those photos are mine. I won’t pretend that isn’t what made me aware of the book and triggered this review but will point out that the book does fit handily into the local-author-local-subject category that I’m fond of talking about. The local author, Wendy Hart Beckman, isn’t a native Cincinnatian but has spent much of her adult life here. I’m thinking that her New England background might actually help in recognizing what is unique or even just a little different about Christmas in Cincinnati.
“Things to Do” in Cincinnati around Christmas time include skiing, sledding, and ice skating on Fountain Square. Shopping and visiting Santa in the numerous downtown stores was once a major draw in the days leading up to the holiday but the stores and the shoppers slipped away to the suburbs some time back. In 2020, COVID-19 nearly put a stop to in-person shopping anywhere and only time will tell if it ever fully returns. The same is true of sitting on jolly men’s laps. Beckman includes “Donating” among things to do and writes about several Cincinnati signature campaigns like the Ruth Lyons Children’s Fund and Neediest Kids of All.
There are indeed plenty of things to do and hear in Cincinnati but there are even more “Things to See”. Beckman lists many Nativity scenes and light displays including some at private residences that have become must-sees over the years. The Cincinnati Zoo’s “Festival of Lights” and the tree on Fountain Square are in that must-see category. What might be considered the big three of Cincinnati Christmas events are on Beckman’s “Things to See” list. The oldest is Boar’s Head and Yuletide Festival which has been celebrated in Cincinnati since 1939. That’s clearly long enough ago to qualify as a true tradition but the festival’s history goes back another 600 years in England. Number two is The Nutcracker which the Cincinnati Ballet Company has been doing since 1974. The newest of the three is Playhouse in the Park’s production of A Christmas Carol which dates to 1991.
Jim Grey blogs, collects film cameras, uses those cameras, develops the film himself, walks, bikes, and observes. Put them together and what have you got? This book.
It is a story about the neighborhood in which he lives, and where he interspersed COVID-triggered working-at-home with some calorie-burning walking-near-home. We are introduced to the neighborhood as a collection of modestly priced homes in an area of pricier residences. A big attraction is access to very good schools at somewhat bargain prices. Although the location makes them bargains, they are hardly shabby and actually look quite attractive — from the front.
Construction is wood frame with vinyl siding and brick accents. Those accents, however, are almost entirely on the front of the houses. The other three sides are the focus of the story. Part of Grey’s story is about these sides being exposed by the curving streets, numerous retention ponds, and open spaces created by electric and gas lines.
The rest of the story is about those exposed surfaces and areas being a long way from handsome. The story’s name comes from the large expanses of vinyl siding exposed by those curves and ponds. Windows are few and from the outside often appear to be placed rather randomly and often awkwardly. Many side walls are unbroken by any windows at all.
There are few words but lots of pictures. The pictures are black and white and large. The most common arrangement is two 4×6 inch photos to a page. Where words do appear, they typically share a page with one of those 4×6 photos. Occasionally a photo gets a page all to itself which lets it grow to approximately 5 1/2 by 8 1/4 inches. Grey has changed publishing platforms (from Blurb to Amazon) for this project which results in some physical differences from the previous essays. The pages are slightly smaller (8×10 vs 8.5×11) and the paper used is uncoated rather than semi-gloss. Photo quality does suffer but again it is the subject of the picture that is important. The pictures are here to document the subject and illustrate Grey’s story, not to be admired in and of themselves. It’s an assignment they handle quite well.
Just like all but one of my previous books, Tracing a T to Tampa is a travelogue. Unlike any of those books, it is not about following a specific road or reaching specific destinations. It is about following a single specific trip. That trip is one made by my great-grandparents in 1920 in a Model T Ford. Throughout the 1920 journey, my great-grandmother sent a series of letters to her daughter in which town names were often included in her reports of what they were seeing and doing. Those town names allowed me to roughly reproduce their route. There are multiple reasons why my reproduction is a rough one. One is that roads have changed in the intervening years and another is that I usually had to guess at the path they took between the towns my great-grandmother mentioned. Some of those guesses are almost certainly wrong but proving it, should you be so inclined, would not be easy. Parts of the 1920 trip were clearly on the Dixie Highway and National Old Trails Road although neither is identified by name in the letters.
If I maintained a list of questions I frequently ask myself, “Why another Route 66 book?”, would be high on the list. I have never arrived at a reason that another one is actually needed; only justifications for ones at hand. Those justifications generally take the form of answers to two questions. They are, “What makes this book different from all others?”, and “Why should I buy it?” In practice, I ask them in the reverse order which means that, if I don’t have a good reason to buy a book, I’ll probably never get around to discovering what, if anything, makes it different.
Although not of the coffee table variety, this is first and foremost a photo book. It contains upward of a hundred photographs, in color, printed on good quality semi-gloss paper. They are primarily documentary photos. That does not mean that they are boring, but it does mean that properly recording each subject is the main goal. The book is certainly not without its share of creative composition, but there are no abstract-light-patterns-on-pavement style pictures. There are usually two or more photos on a page for a max size somewhere around 5.5 by 3.5 inches. That might keep you from displaying it on your coffee table, but it is plenty big enough to show off bridges, buildings, and signs.
Yes, the pictures are cool and those of some fairly obscure places enlightening, but it is the words that made me happy with my purchase. The histories of most of the pictured buildings are told. Some are reasonably well known and available elsewhere, but Miller’s telling is both complete and concise. Others are not so well known, and I’ve little doubt that Miller’s aforementioned sleuthing ability brought out some details and possibly some entire stories. Maybe others knew all those details about the schools of Valentine, but I sure didn’t, and the story of the Ostermans and Peach Springs was all new to me. There are other examples of what I take to be sleuthing in the book, and all of them add to my appreciation of it.
I knew nothing of this book or its author until just before it was reviewed in the Jefferson Highway Association newsletter, The Declaration. The only reason I learned of it that early was because the reviewer, Wayne Shannon, is a friend whom I happened to chat with by phone while he was putting his review together. He was quite positive in talking about the book but, like me, unfamiliar with the name Stephen H. Provost.