ann

Whichever way the nines go . . . I'd avoid the use of the word "horizontal" with MFC. I believe that what most collectors call horizontal slags had melted pontils. Which would put them into the genuine Leighton class, meaning made in one of J.H. Leighton's glass shops. I seriously, seriously doubt that yellow-in-white marble above is MFC. Seriously. Nothing in their history indicates they made marbles like that. Leighton? Eh. Not what I'd expect from Leighton. More I look at it, the more Bulgarian whispers through my mind . . .

It's very, very, very basic. Very. Basic.

If they were mine, I'd have them with my onionskins, too. Can't tell if there's a white or yellow base underneath the stripes, or just transparent colorless, but either way, it would have to have way more colors to be a Joseph's Coat. In my world, anyway. Others may see things differently, though. They're pretty -- I like them!

How do we break it to her?

To the best of my knowledge (mostly from the book), no. The marble plant stayed where it was.

Yup, I almost wuz one. >>shudder<< Or . . . wuz just . . . gone . . . A legend in my own time . . .

Well. Me and another stupid 19-year-old on FSU's foreign study program (in Florence) thought we'd be different and go to Greece and then Istanbul and then who knew where, maybe Jerusalem? on our Christmas break, partly because everybody else was going to Paris or London, (how booooring) and partly because we would both be fulfilling a personal fantasy . . . we would take the Orient Express. So we did. Got on the Orient Express in Trieste with thousands of migrant Turkish workers and some chickens in wooden cages (this was before the Orient Express had regained its former glory, or some of it, anyway). Had to stand in the aisle all the way to Zagreb, Yugoslavia. Got off there to change to another train for Athens and couldn't find it, and our old train was pulling out, so we said "what the hey, we'll go to Turkey first" and jumped back on. That time we shared an 8-person compartment with 8 very polite Turkish laborers. Lots of hand signals. Until about 3 am when the lights went on and there was a military guy (with a red enamel star on his cap, which made the hair on the back of my neck stand up) in the door demanding something, and all our Turkish men were rustling around and presenting papers and passports and stuff. So we did too. But he kept yelling at us and we had no clue what he was saying so he left and came back with another similarly-dressed guy who spoke rudimentary English, who then said "Where are your visas??" We promptly became mouthbreathers. I remember thinking "Visas?? Visas? Where the hell are we??" Well, after we said "No visas," he said -- and I quote, for it was ever after burned into my brain, "If you have no visas you must rest in Bulgaria." And 2 guys with guns took us off the train. I remember thinking "Mamma and Daddy will never know what happened to me. Ever. A card from Trieste about the Orient Express and then nothing. Ever again. And where the hell is Bulgaria??" Long story short -- we spent about an hour trying to bribe the boss military guy they took us to. He only wanted German D-marks or American dollars. We had Yugoslavian and Italian money and American Express travelers checks. We finally decided to weep piteously to see if that would help and it did. He took the travelers checks. And gave us a six-hour visa good from Sofia to the Turkish border. And told us not to come back. We said "Alrighty!" and scuttled out of his office to discover that they had held the Orient Express for us. Oh, fulfillment beyond our wildest dreams. People were hanging out of the windows of the train clapping and laughing as we stumbled back to it. That's how my Christmas vacation started that year. And Bulgaria has held a strange fascination for me ever since.

Speaking of Bulgaria, did I ever tell you I was there once, illegally, in 1966?

I'm disappointed in the outcome, Still. And it was last week.

I like it! I think of the ones with two- or three-colored very narrow ribbons as Alley. Mostly. But because of the extra colors here, like the light green, I'm wondering if it could be a JABO? What's the size?

Hey! I once had a serious (1966) MGB! Back in the day, we would have waved at each other on the road!

Zowie. I think you've got it.

I totally understand.

He's a goner. YAY!

Sometimes, in the odd Pelt, you can make it out . . . but if there's no color change, it's not particularly noticeable. You have to be looking for it . . .

I've heard it in the same context. Also -- if you carefully read the Peltier patent that's been a source of much discussion (and argument) here in the past (and NO I'm not trying to start THAT up again! ) -- the one that I and a few others believe was behind the feathered slag -- that is the specific word used. Not ribbons, not threads, not strands, etc. Stria. Keeping in mind that patents are legal documents, and that in them word choice is crucial. I should go to the random conversation thread and talk about how my bedroom, when I was a teen, was paneled in striated plywood . . .

Oh jeeze, now I need a Tank . . . this green isn't deep enough, is it?

I know, and now that hood looks more like a T-bird hood to me . . . I should probably shut up. I know more about Chevys and Pontiacs . . .

Then you understand why I occasionally say "I would like to put it in my mouth" when I see a nice juicy slag! Some laugh, but . . .

There's not much we'd all rather talk about! Or look at. Keep 'em coming.

Looking at the flare of the back side-fender I'd agree that it's probably some kind of Dodge (or Plymouth or Chrysler but probably Dodge).

YES!

Looks hand-gathered. The sparing use of white usually points to Akro rather than M.F. Christensen . . . but of course there are always exceptions to everything. But I'd go Akro hand-gathered if it were mine.

I don't see them around much, either -- nice find!