"The sign had been taunting passersby with that loathsome extra s for who knew how long.  It hung on a wooden fence around a vacant lot next to a dentist's office.  NO TRESSPASSING.  Sure, I'd noticed this sign before;  dozens of walks to Davis Square had occasioned dozens of silent fist-shakings at this very spot.  This time, though, the sign's offense struck deeper.  How many spelling mistakes had I noticed over the years in shop windows, street signs, menus, billboards, and other public venues?  Countless, I thought.  Not an enterance, NYC Pizza and Pasta at it's best!  Cappuchino!  Pistashio!  Get palm reading's here!  To/too, their/there/they're, and your/you're confusion, comma and apostrophe abuse, transpositions and omissions, and other sins against intelligibility too heinous to dwell on.  Each one on its own amounted to naught but a needle of irritation thrusting into my tender hide.  But together they constituted a larger problem, a social ill that cried out for justice.
For a champion, even."

~ Jeff Deck, THE GREAT TYPO HUNT / TWO FRIENDS CHANGING THE WORLD, ONE CORRECTION AT A TIME, Jeff Deck, Benjamin D. Herson, Crown Publishers, 2010.

Tomorrow:  Jeff sets out to "change the world, one correction at a time."

www.GreatTypoHunt.com

SMILE FOR TODAY ~

Pouring the Concrete ~

 

 

 

 [Photos:  Monday, April 28 lbw]

 

 



 

Take a look ~ you won't see Jim Gibson standing still again.  Jim manages Towpath on the Grand, The-In-Between Antique Shop, The Blacksmith's Garden and William Biddle's Gallery.

 Visit Cayuga-on-the-Grand on Facebook for a "step inside" The Blacksmith's Garden.

 

 

 

 

 

Getting Ready to Pour Concrete on New Bridge ~

 

 

 

[Photos:  Saturday, April 24 lbw]

 




Almost Ready for Pouring Concrete

 

From The Village Blacksmith ~

Under a spreading chestnut tree
   The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
   With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
   Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
   His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
   He earns whate'er he can;
And looks the whole world in the face,
   For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
   You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
   With measure beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
   When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
   Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge
   And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
   Like chaff from a threshing-floor.