Printed colour postcard showing a hunter with dog shooting at pheasants near Fuji, wishing the recipient a Happy New Year and advertising the Kanemaru Gun Shop in Yokohama, Japan.
Published by the Kanemaru Gun Shop, Yokohama City, not numbered.
Postally used on 37-1-7 Meiji or 7 January 1904 with Yokohama cancellation on pale blue 1½Sn stamp.
Very good condition, with very slight corner bumps.
A clear autumn day, looking toward a snow-capped Mount Fuji. In the foreground, a slow-moving river flows past; on the opposite bank, a high wall conceals all but the upper floor of a traditional thatched-roof house. Nearby, trees and grasses are golden yellow with the turning season. Further on, Mount Fuji dominates the view, its snowy peak reflected in the river below.
An early morning view looking over Lake Kawaguchi, toward a snow-capped Mount Fuji beyond. In the foreground, a pair of wiry pine trees screen our view of the calm lake; on the far side of the water, Mount Fuji rises from a skirt of mist and a few puffy clouds, its eastern-facing flank tinted rose with the dawn.
Fifty-five years ago, give or take, I stood at the base of Mount Fujiyama in winter—with no pants. What happened was this...
I was a Marine, fresh to cold weather training. We were out maneuvering, and that night we camped at elevation, pitching our pup tents in the snow. Each Marine carried a shelter half and a three-piece tent pole; two halves made one tent, a kind of forced partnership in nylon. We had cold-weather sleeping bags, too—issued, not chosen.
Before lights out, we received instructions on how to sleep. One rule stood out: don’t sleep with your pants on—put them in the bag with you. I misunderstood slightly. Instead of tucking them inside the bag, I slid them between the sleeping bag and its canvas liner, thinking that was close enough.
That night, the temperature dropped hard. Snow fell. By morning, everything was frozen solid. We were ordered to move out immediately. Our tents had to be beaten down with entrenching tools. My personal dilemma? My pants had frozen stiff. I couldn’t get them on. So there I was, marching through the hills in long johns, no pants, and a growing sense of regret.
Not my proudest moment. I was eighteen, maybe nineteen—a late bloomer with a loose grip on the concept of “attention to detail.” Back then, I wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the bunch. But life has a way of teaching. Maturity works, and it tends to arrive eventually. These days, attention to detail isn’t just a habit—it’s a pet peeve. Earned the hard way, one frozen trouser leg at a time.
“Failure is instructive. The person who really thinks learns quite as much from his failures as from his successes.” — John Dewey
“The difference between something good and something great is attention to detail.” — Charles R. Swindoll
"A dense, lively patch of Madagascar periwinkles spills across the frame like a floral tide. Each blossom is a five-petaled star, soft-edged and slightly overlapping, with a subtle dip at the center where a tiny eye—often darker pink or faintly red—marks the flower’s heart. Most of the blooms are a rich, cheerful pink, ranging from bubblegum to raspberry tones, while a few white ones punctuate the scene like quiet pauses in a bright melody.
The leaves are glossy and oval, deep green with faint central veins, forming a lush backdrop that cradles the flowers. Their waxy texture catches the light, giving the whole bed a sense of health and vibrancy. The arrangement is thick and layered, with no bare soil visible—just a carpet of color and life. Some petals curl slightly at the edges, hinting at movement or age, but the overall impression is one of abundance and bloom.
There’s no visible horizon or sky—just this intimate, immersive view of the periwinkles in full flourish, as if the garden itself were leaning in to whisper something bright and botanical." - Copilot
A view looking toward Mount Fuji, early on a cold winter's morning. In the foreground, snow weighs down the branches of wiry pine trees; beyond, a small sailboat crosses Suruga Bay, passing a treeless little island along the way. Further north, the earliest light of dawn is giving Mount Fuji's snowy peak a warm orange glow; the cloudless sky above is beginning to lighten with the coming day.