Friday, June 27, 2014
Our Singapore Kitchen
27 June, 2014
Lagos, Nigeria
We once lived in a house that was fine for all intents and purposes, but the kitchen left much to be desired: it had the tiniest one of any house I have ever seen, much to my wife's chagrin. I must admit, I, too, felt that it could have been quite a bit larger.
I look back at that house and wonder sometimes why a house would have such an essential room in such a small size, or, knowing that, why we ever bought the place to begin with.
Having recently made trips to Singapore I discovered that most flats there either have very small kitchens or have none at all. Residents of that island city-nation prefer to use their precious apartment space for things other than for the preparation of food, and so they eat out or take-out. Besides, eating out in Singapore is very inexpensive.
The joke there is:
Q: What does someone in Singapore make for dinner?
A: RESERVATIONS!!
We were not wealthy enough to be eating out all the time, but given the size of that itty-bitty kitchen, we often wished we could.
Having a family of two adults and three small children normally presents any young couple with an array of problems and situations. Add a very small kitchen and an aged father-in-law into the mix and the game changes again.
We called him PAPI. He was a gentle man who sought peace throughout his life, spoke his truth quietly, listening far more than speaking, and sought solace in his work and in tiny demitasses of strong Cuban coffee.
He worked with his hands. Unable to carry on his chosen trade of furniture-making in the United States, he was, however, able to make a decent living by reupholstering furniture.
Although his customers came to him strictly through word of mouth,
his workshop (our garage) was always full of sofas and easy chairs in various stages of repair.
Papi was a methodical person - one could say he was a slave to habit, so one could pinpoint with amazing accuracy where he would be and what he would be doing simply by looking at the clock.
But the clock tolled off the hour for all the rest of us as well. On a schoolday, we also had a routine, from which we rarely deviated.
We would all awake at about 6:30 A.M., and the house would go from a place of peaceful slumber to one of sheer pandemonium, as we all jostled for position using the bathrooms. While some were thus occupied, the others scurried about during the wait, looking for items of clothing, books, homework, and the like.
My wife had her place in all this: she would try to awake before the others and get started with breakfast, as well as making lunches for the kids.
From the first light of daybreak, our Singapore kitchen became the focal point of activity, and the little ones would be running in and out of it still looking for some misplaced item while dodging their mother, me, and each other in the skinny, narrow strip of room that passed for a kitchen at our house.
I am, at this point, emerging from a quick but invigorating morning shower and am getting dressed to start my day. Soon enough I, too, join the merry din of a new dawn, as I begin my morning struggles by entering the already crowded kitchenette bleary-eyed and yawning, but on a mission! I need to find my _________. (Fill in the blank with whatever you like. Whatever you may write there I am sure that at least ONE morning I haven't fumbled around the house looking for it.
Sorry, but I have not made mention of Papi, yet, but it is at the peak moment of activity and at the time of the highest number of people crowding into the kitchen when he walks quietly there to begin his morning.
He would then commence the alchemy and titration involved in making a small pot of Cuban coffee. It is a great deal of work - only to yield a mere thimbleful of dark, robust coffee that has enough caffein in it to jump-start a Chevy. The process takes awhile - and longer, still if you are Papi.
So the scene is set: tiny kitchen, husband, wife, two small boys, one small girl - all trying to get ready to go to school or work, and all five people are trying their level best to get everything done before they have to leave.
In the midst of all this Bedlam walks Papi - the living image of Mahatma Ghandi, calmly walking in peace and tranquility amid a chaotic throng of thousands of shouting people, running to and fro in the streets.
Not only are we all trying to avoid colliding with each other while getting our respective deals done, but now we must avoid Papi, who is intently at work with his funnels, spoons, scoops, and other alchemist's paraphernalia.
With him there we have much less space now. The tinkling noise of him stirring the sugar in his metal Italian coffee pot joins the sunrise symphony of our little household.
Amid the last-minute clanking of plates, mugs, saucers, knives, forks, spoons, and so forth, being placed, or tossed, or falling into the sink, Papi's coffee has not begun to brew, yet there he stands like a sentinel, in the middle of the little kitchen, awaiting the bubbling whooshing sound from his beloved coffee pot telling him his wait is now over.
Very soon the appetizing smell of breakfast is joined by the aroma of the freshly-brewed espresso coffee. Papi pours it carefully into a porcelain demitasse, and finally takes a well-deserved sip of his dark brown elixir.
Then, just as the most powerful tornado subsides as quickly as it starts, the domestic "intranquility" abruptly ends as the school bus arrives and the three youngest members of the household quickly kiss their parents and grandfather and make a mad dash out the front door. Often enough the door reopens immediately thereafter as one of them has forgotten something - after all that fuss earlier.
The bus pulls off and now it is my turn to say my goodbyes as I grab my briefcase and head out for the rat-race. The house disappears in my rear-view mirror and I leave behind my frazzled wife to do what she can.
Papi by this time has just finished his long drink from a short cup. He places it into the sink and rinses it, then, with silence having fallen heavily once again upon our humble abode, he exits, stage left, for another hard day's work in silence, interrupted only by an occasional sip of coffee.
EPILOGUE:
I often wondered why Papi always came into the kitchen when everything was in turmoil. Eventually I came to the conclusion that he actually enjoyed the banter of the children and the excitement of the new day.
So did I.
Every once in awhile I think about those days - were they really so long ago?? Now I am the one walking into the tiny Singapore kitchen in the mornings to brew my coffee as my grandchildren scurry all about me looking for things and getting ready for their school day.
Sometimes my mind goes back to another day long ago. I can almost hear the clink-clink of the stirring spoon as Papi dissolved the sugar. I can almost hear the bubbling whoosh of air escaping from the coffee pot, smell that good Cuban coffee, and hear him announce, using his own unique expression, that the coffee was finished brewing when he'd say: "¡Yá colóco!*
Today the rising sun shines brightly through the kitchen window. I look at the pot: the coffee has brewed. I smell the wonderful aroma.
A new day has begun!
*colar is Spanish for strain, as coffee is strained through filter paper. To say "Yá coló" would mean "It's already strained," or, in other words, coffee's ready.
Monday, June 23, 2014
The Sound of Silence
23 June, 2014
Houston
One day I was having a philosophical conversation about music with a person who was a musician by profession and a philosopher by birth. He told me that the whole universe was filled with music. I agreed.
He said that the earth itself resonated at a particular frequency. I had never heard that before, but I smiled and said that I knew that, because hear it all the time - and that it is Middle C, or thereabouts.
Nobody ever told me this, and I never read it anywhere. I discovered this when in Lurray Caverns in Virginia at age 6. The tour guide turned took us into the main cavern, turned off the lights, and we stood there deep beneath the earth, and experienced total darkness and quiet.
It was then that I heard the sound *Schubert heard; I called it the "Sound of Silence." Turns out, I was one note off - it is B.
In the late Sixties, the duo Simon & Garfunkle came out with a song I liked, called (much to my surprise) "The Sound of Silence." I wondered at the very first if they were going to sing about a ringing in the ear, but the song had nothing to do with what I experienced. I loved the song because of its message.
Once, in a silly movie I saw, a young boy chided a little girl for her style of piano playing: "Music is a precise mathematical configuration, not a sentimental noise!"
I believe music is both, and much, much more. Since that tender age I have been aware that there is music everywhere and in everything - if we would only stop, be quiet, and listen.
*"Schumann resonances" are the closest anyone could come to the sound the earth makes. The apparent base frequency of the earth's electromagnet field is 7.8 Hz.
According to this calculator, the note would be B (-2).
There is a certain margin of error here and there is not just one frequency, but several resonant modes.
I wonder if one of them was the note A, which rang incessantly in the composer Robert Schumann's ears, ultimately leading him to suicide. Anyway, just another one of those weird coincidences if it was. Maybe this physicist Schumann in the 1950s was a descendant of Robert.
Edit: Resonant frequencies are not the result of the earth's rotation or its orbital period.
Saturday, June 21, 2014
RING! RING! RING!
21 June, 2014
Tampa, FL
Flight attendants are supposed to live glamorous lives, chasing their elusive dreams across the heavens to exotic places all over the world.
The truth is, what most if us actually wind up by chasing is SLEEP! After an all night ten hour flight to our destination, nearly everyone aboard has had a chance to sleep - everyone but the crew.
By the time we've put in a long night's work, we, too, need to get some shut-eye, remembering that we missed last night's sleep.
One thing many flight attendants prize more than a free beer at the hotel pub is a QUIET, noise-free room.
We changed hotels in Paris, and were presented with a host of new idiosyncrasies from the hotel staff, as well as a new set of challenges.
I had checked in to our new abode-away-from-abode, showered, and had just settled my brains for a long midday nap.
Suddenly, there came a loud tweedling sound from just outside my door. The sound continued intermittently. This went on for some time until I was well-roused from my attempt at sleeping.
I opened the door and saw the instrument of annoyance just across the hall from my room: it was a telephone.
It began to sound again, and I waited to see if anybody would answer it, and thus stop the unceasing botheration. Nobody showed up, and the phone kept ringing.
After the FIFTIETH ring (I counted!) I could take it no more, and walked over and picked it up.
They were looking for one of the maids. I told them that I was a hotel guest, and that the maids were working - doing what they were supposed to be doing.
I furthermore informed the caller that if they themselves did not like to be disturbed in the middle of their sleep, that they should extend that same courtesy to their guests. I suggested that if they had questions for the maids, to call housekeeping, and they'd relay whatever important message.
I then hung up, and the doggone thing rang again!!!
I was SO happy that I spoke French!!!
"Obviously you don't understand the concept of peace and quiet!" I said, beside myself. "I'm warning you: if you call back, I will break the phone!"
"You wouldn't DARE!" said the caller.
"TRY ME!" I challenged, "And while you're making calls, call the hotel manager.... OR I WILL!"
I hung up, and immediately thereafter the irritating device rang again. I walked right up to it and disconnected the handset from the phone and took it into my room.
I slept for a few hours peacefully enough, until, unbelievably, the darned thing began ringing AGAIN!!
REALLY?
I repeated the process of removing handset, and put it in the night table drawer next to the first one, and returned to a couple of uninterrupted hours of peaceful slumber.
The next morning at checkout I asked to speak to the front desk manager, to whom I gave the confiscated handsets. I also gave him an earful, and asked that they never again check any air crew into that room, and that they just might have a talk with the staff about common courtesy.
I never again stayed in that room, or in any room near it. Sometimes complaining can be most effective!
Phone Lines: Tweedle Tweedle Little Phone
21 June, 2014
Tampa, FL
Millennium people will never know most of the joys and annoyances we Children of the Fifties grew up with.
Take, for example, the telephone.
PHOTO COURTESY RENEE GALLAGHER
In the Fifties and Sixties, and well into the Seventies, telephones were usually black, heavy, clunky devices, connected to the wall by a cord. You couldn't move around too much while on them - only just as far as they'd let you.
Until the late Sixties (depending on where you lived) phones had rotary dials instead of push buttons to call another number.
left: STANDARD PHONE, SIMILAR TO THAT USED BY MY GRANDPARENTS. THE PHONE NUMBER WAS WRITTEN IN A PAPER INSERT IN THE CENTER OF THE DIAL - JUSTIN CASE YOU DIDN'T KNOW YOUR OWN TELEPHONE NUMBER! (I KNEW MY NUMBER, BUT EVERY TIME I CALLED IT, IT WAS BUSY, SO I QUIT TRYING!) BACK THEN, THERE WERE EXCHANGES, KNOWN FOR THE FIRST TWO DIGITS OF THE NUMBER. NAMES WERE GIVEN TO THOSE EXCHANGES. THE WHITEHALL EXCHANGE BEGAN WITH 94, SO THEIR NUMBER WAS WHITEHALL 4-3428.If you dialed "0", a voice quickly came on the line, speaking in a nasal monotone, and saying: "Op'rayda!" (Operator.)
Folk-rock singer Jim Croce sang about his operator experience in his song "Operator": "Operator, well could you help me place this call...?"
When you picked up the receiver, there was a steady tone, called a dial tone, that usually sounded a single note (most commonly Middle C).
When someone called, the phone actually rang, meaning there were two bells inside the apparatus that went "dingalingaling!" In some countries, you actually "ring" somebody, instead of calling them.
As a kid, I remember dialing 1191 and hanging up - then in a few seconds the phone would ring! If you dialed 1186, the ring would be different.
Up to the early Sixties, there were such things as Party-Lines! Two or sometimes THREE subscribers would share a single line. Our party-line was old Mrs. Brooks who lived around the corner. My grandfather bellyached every time he'd pick up the phone and hear her gossiping. " That woman was vaccinated with a phonograph needle!" he'd say. Guess that loses something in the translation in the new century.
Up to the early Sixties, there were such things as Party-Lines! Two or sometimes THREE subscribers would share a single line. Our party-line was old Mrs. Brooks who lived around the corner. My grandfather bellyached every time he'd pick up the phone and hear her gossiping. " That woman was vaccinated with a phonograph needle!" he'd say. Guess that loses something in the translation in the new century.
If you were to pick up the instrument and accidentally bump it, the bell would issue forth a quiet "ding!" Phones were semi-portable. This means that one could carry it from place to place - but first the phone would have to be disconnected from the wall by pulling the plug from a wall jack. In earlier days, this was not possible, as the phone wires were actually connected into a board inside the wall outlet.
In the Eighties, phones got smaller and no longer resembled the instruments we remember, and the bells in our phones began to disappear, to be replaced with tweetings and beepings of non-analog electronic telephones.
My first experience with such a new-fangled device was in 1982. I was making a sales call on a major oil company in Lafayette, La. With me was the head of our Customer Service Department from Houston.
Our high-powered meeting with this corporate exec had just begun when he was suddenly called away from his desk on a matter of great urgency. He apologized profusely as he left us.
We waited patiently, chit-chatting the minutes away, when our conversation was interrupted by the strangest noise either of us had ever heard. It was a kind of "Tweedle-tweedle!" bird warble.
We furrowed our brows, and looked at each other as if to say "what the …?" It continued several times more, and we could not figure out what it was or where this odd noise was coming from.
We got up from our seats and began looking high and low to see if we could determine the source of this twittering, and it occurred to me that this might just be a setup for a popular hidden videocam comedy TV program called "Candid Camera."
The exec returned to find the two of us deeply engrossed in searching his desktop.
"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, with a rather strange look on his face.
(I can't IMAGINE what he thought we were doing!)
"YES!" we both answered in unison.
"There's this bird sound coming from something on top of your desk." I explained. "We don't know what it is."
"Oh," he said - a big smile lit up his face. "You mean my PHONE!"
"Your phone…" I said, inferring that I wasn't buying that explanation.
As if on cue, the tweedling began anew, and he picked up a small device that looked like no phone we ever saw.
"The company just installed this new system," he informed us after his conversation ended.
"It's cutting-edge technology." I guess it was cutting edge - if you're a BIRD!!!
Yes, times they were a-changing, and this change was comical indeed. - at least to us.
On the way to our next appointment, I whistled a high-pitched warble, closely imitating that of the Louisiana Warbler we heard on our last call.
"That was a great imitation of his phone!" she said, and we had a good laugh.
Many years have passed since that sales call, and I have heard just about every noise or song imaginable on cellphone ringtones. It takes a lot nowadays to make me take notice.
However, what I haven't heard in a very long while is a real, honest-to-goodness telephone ring - with BELLS! In a way, I guess you could say that I miss it a bit.
"Don't take Ma Bell away from me....
I've gotten used to monopoly...."
Friday, June 20, 2014
Madam Librarian?
Madam Librarian?
KENNETH E. HALL 20 June, 2014 ORLANDO, FL
🕮
*NEW ORLEANS' NORMAN MAYER LIBRARY, WHERE I SPENT MANY A HAPPY HOUR
She was stacking some books, writing down notes as she did so. I walked up to the information desk where she was, and she glanced up at me through antique spectacles.
"How can I help you?" she asked, somewhat dryly, still placing one book atop another.
"What do you think the future of libraries is?" I asked.
She was astonished at the question, and after the initial shock, replied: "Sir, there have been libraries since well before the Library of Alexandria. There were even human libraries in the form of story-tellers back in the time before writing was invented. We will ALWAYS have libraries!"
A sad look on her wrinkled face betrayed the optimism of her answer. She had worked at that library branch since my mother could remember, but it was obvious that few years remained for her as a librarian.
She stopped what she was doing and asked me: "What prompted such a question, young man?"
"Well," I explained, "it's that I just came from the bookstore, and there are fewer and fewer BOOKS for sale there! There are other things - books on CD, and the like, but I remember when there were so many, many more. I'm afraid that in twenty years the books that will remain will be in museums and in private collections, or maybe they'll just crumble away into dust like those ancient tomes in H. G. Wells' novel The Time Machine.
"Let me ask you this" she said, "Do you see many schoolchildren using clay tablets - or slate boards?"
"No, ma'am."
"We are constantly evolving as a species, improving our means of technology, and now we are doing so at a faster rate than ever before in history. Why should we not improve in this area as well?" She asked.
"I see your point," I said.
I smiled, thanked her, and then walked away, leaving Madam Librarian to continue her work.
I had been coming to this public library branch since I was a young boy. I knew where certain books were from so many years walking the rows of shelves, yet I must confess that many a summer had passed for me since last I entered that now-aging Art-Deco-Era building.
Library Memories:
I looked at the wall straight ahead. Missing was the huge index file cabinet that had been a prominent furnishing of the place since I first walked in at the tender age of age ten. When I used the library after school, that index-card file cabinet contained lots of small, long drawers filled completely with 3 x 5 cards, each one painstakingly typewritten by someone using a manual typewriter, and these cards contained the information on how to locate each and every volume found on the library's many rows of bookshelves. The card noted the book's title, author, date of publication, publisher, Dewey Decimal locator number, etc.
I remembered a few times searching for a book title using the index cards, and got frustrated and disappointed because when I got to the shelf, all the other numbers were there, but the one book I wanted wasn't.
!On the few times I went there without paper or pencil, I recalled how all they'd give you was tiny slips about 2" square, and itty-bitty pencils, just like at a golf course. It was just enough to jot down a book number. I often wondered if the librarians there were golfers. If I needed a larger sheet or two of paper, I'd have to fish some out of the trash - and get funny looks from a few fellow library patrons while doing it.
Since I used the library more during the summer months, this was a great place to keep cool, getting out of the sweltering heat while improving the mind at the same time.
The thing I recall most about the library was the smell of ink and paper that permeated the place. There was this special odor that a brand-new book had, and then there was also the feel of the paper itself. This part of the reading experience cannot be duplicated by an electronic display screen.
One day when I was about 12 years old, I checked out a few books, but for one reason or another did not get around to reading them. I forgot to return them, and when I did, I had a hefty fine to pay - and what was worse, it was out of my OWN MONEY! I was most upset about having to shell out my hard-earned dough for books that I couldn't keep and never read!
I told me mother that one day I'd "buy my OWN books, by golly, and have my own personal mini-library, and I'd read them all to spite the world!!!" Admittedly, that was just a bit too much drama, but in my defense, I was extremely frustrated and angry over the waste of hard-earned money. Nevertheless, over the years since that melodramatic statement, I made good on my promise, and collected a good many books - mostly the classics - and I'm very proud to say that the books were not for show - - - I've read most of them!
I recently read the Russian classic: Taras Bulba, by Gogol, and it was an eBook! So was Common Sense by Thomas Paine. Thus I survived my first electronic reading. It was no different than reading a book - not really, or so I told one of my sons when I competed them.
"Welcome to the 21st Century, Dad!" my son said, teasingly, when I admitted I had strayed from the beaten path and actually read something other than a book.
...But my mind keeps going back to Edgar Allen Poe's famous poem, the Raven:
"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore..."
That poem could not have been written today, using those words!
There's just something about a book...🖎🕮
!NOTES:
This blog article is intended to accompany another, entitled: "We Won't 'Read All About It' Anymore" and can be found here: http://kennyduke.blogspot.com/2018/07/we-wont-read-all-about-it-anymore.html
sPhoto from Louisiana Digital Library: http://www.louisianadigitallibrary.org/islandora/object/hnoc-clf%3A11175
s"Madam Librarian' is the opening of a song: "Marian the Librarian", from "The Music Man"
sLibrary illustration: https://sites.google.com/site/digitallibrarynumis/
KENNETH E. HALL 20 June, 2014 ORLANDO, FL
🕮
She was stacking some books, writing down notes as she did so. I walked up to the information desk where she was, and she glanced up at me through antique spectacles.
"How can I help you?" she asked, somewhat dryly, still placing one book atop another.
"What do you think the future of libraries is?" I asked.
She was astonished at the question, and after the initial shock, replied: "Sir, there have been libraries since well before the Library of Alexandria. There were even human libraries in the form of story-tellers back in the time before writing was invented. We will ALWAYS have libraries!"
A sad look on her wrinkled face betrayed the optimism of her answer. She had worked at that library branch since my mother could remember, but it was obvious that few years remained for her as a librarian.
She stopped what she was doing and asked me: "What prompted such a question, young man?"
"Well," I explained, "it's that I just came from the bookstore, and there are fewer and fewer BOOKS for sale there! There are other things - books on CD, and the like, but I remember when there were so many, many more. I'm afraid that in twenty years the books that will remain will be in museums and in private collections, or maybe they'll just crumble away into dust like those ancient tomes in H. G. Wells' novel The Time Machine.
"Let me ask you this" she said, "Do you see many schoolchildren using clay tablets - or slate boards?"
"No, ma'am."
"We are constantly evolving as a species, improving our means of technology, and now we are doing so at a faster rate than ever before in history. Why should we not improve in this area as well?" She asked.
"I see your point," I said.
I smiled, thanked her, and then walked away, leaving Madam Librarian to continue her work.
I had been coming to this public library branch since I was a young boy. I knew where certain books were from so many years walking the rows of shelves, yet I must confess that many a summer had passed for me since last I entered that now-aging Art-Deco-Era building.
Library Memories:
I looked at the wall straight ahead. Missing was the huge index file cabinet that had been a prominent furnishing of the place since I first walked in at the tender age of age ten. When I used the library after school, that index-card file cabinet contained lots of small, long drawers filled completely with 3 x 5 cards, each one painstakingly typewritten by someone using a manual typewriter, and these cards contained the information on how to locate each and every volume found on the library's many rows of bookshelves. The card noted the book's title, author, date of publication, publisher, Dewey Decimal locator number, etc.
I remembered a few times searching for a book title using the index cards, and got frustrated and disappointed because when I got to the shelf, all the other numbers were there, but the one book I wanted wasn't.
!On the few times I went there without paper or pencil, I recalled how all they'd give you was tiny slips about 2" square, and itty-bitty pencils, just like at a golf course. It was just enough to jot down a book number. I often wondered if the librarians there were golfers. If I needed a larger sheet or two of paper, I'd have to fish some out of the trash - and get funny looks from a few fellow library patrons while doing it.
Since I used the library more during the summer months, this was a great place to keep cool, getting out of the sweltering heat while improving the mind at the same time.
The thing I recall most about the library was the smell of ink and paper that permeated the place. There was this special odor that a brand-new book had, and then there was also the feel of the paper itself. This part of the reading experience cannot be duplicated by an electronic display screen.
One day when I was about 12 years old, I checked out a few books, but for one reason or another did not get around to reading them. I forgot to return them, and when I did, I had a hefty fine to pay - and what was worse, it was out of my OWN MONEY! I was most upset about having to shell out my hard-earned dough for books that I couldn't keep and never read!
I told me mother that one day I'd "buy my OWN books, by golly, and have my own personal mini-library, and I'd read them all to spite the world!!!" Admittedly, that was just a bit too much drama, but in my defense, I was extremely frustrated and angry over the waste of hard-earned money. Nevertheless, over the years since that melodramatic statement, I made good on my promise, and collected a good many books - mostly the classics - and I'm very proud to say that the books were not for show - - - I've read most of them!I recently read the Russian classic: Taras Bulba, by Gogol, and it was an eBook! So was Common Sense by Thomas Paine. Thus I survived my first electronic reading. It was no different than reading a book - not really, or so I told one of my sons when I competed them.
"Welcome to the 21st Century, Dad!" my son said, teasingly, when I admitted I had strayed from the beaten path and actually read something other than a book.
...But my mind keeps going back to Edgar Allen Poe's famous poem, the Raven:
"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore..."
That poem could not have been written today, using those words!
There's just something about a book...🖎🕮
!NOTES:
This blog article is intended to accompany another, entitled: "We Won't 'Read All About It' Anymore" and can be found here: http://kennyduke.blogspot.com/2018/07/we-wont-read-all-about-it-anymore.html
sPhoto from Louisiana Digital Library: http://www.louisianadigitallibrary.org/islandora/object/hnoc-clf%3A11175
s"Madam Librarian' is the opening of a song: "Marian the Librarian", from "The Music Man"
sLibrary illustration: https://sites.google.com/site/digitallibrarynumis/
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
AIR LINES: Institution of Aggravation
17 June, 2014
Tampa, FL
Airports! Centers of transportation, arteries of commerce and travel! Beehives of activity! ... and institutions of aggravation!
As a flight attendant, I am frequently in charge of welcoming passengers aboard large, state-of-the-art aircraft, bound for far-flung international destinations. For the longest I was completely mystified as to why many passengers coming onto my plane were often in a foul mood.
After many years of travel, for business, pleasure, and as a flight professional I have at last figured out the reasons why the traveling public often displays a less-than-positive demeanor: airports themselves are probably the most stressful places a law-abiding citizen is likely to encounter in their lives!
The average passenger - be he or she a one-timer going to visit Aunt Suzie in Omaha, or a seasoned traveler with multiple platinum cards heading to Lagos for the fifteenth time - and everyone in between - all have to suffer going through a difficult travel process and be in a place that is quite trying of one's patience, annoying, intimidating, time-consuming, and, in short, is anything but conducive to having a stress-free, happy flight.
Nearly everyone stresses over making a flight on time, as if dire consequences would surely follow and woe would betide those who do not arrive well in advance of the plane's departure.
From someone who has missed a plane or two in my day, unless you have a high-power business meeting or other serious reason why you absolutely, positively cannot arrive even a few hours late, missing a plane is not by any means the end of the world. It is certainly not worth going red-line on the being-upset scale. It is NOT - or certainly SHOULD NOT be, I must add, a motive or excuse for abusing every airline employee you come into contact with in your quest to fly the "Friendly Skies!" This goes for your fellow passengers as well: they're in the same boat you are in, so DON'T ROCK IT!
Usually, it's the first-time flyers that are particularly stressed. This is completely understandable! They go from quiet, calm, nice people to jittery nervous-Nellies pretty much from the moment they enter the terminal - if they haven't already psyched themselves up (or down) for a bad day upon leaving their homes that morning. There is a ripple effect as these agitated folks make others around them upset as well.
Tampa, FL
Airports! Centers of transportation, arteries of commerce and travel! Beehives of activity! ... and institutions of aggravation!
As a flight attendant, I am frequently in charge of welcoming passengers aboard large, state-of-the-art aircraft, bound for far-flung international destinations. For the longest I was completely mystified as to why many passengers coming onto my plane were often in a foul mood.
After many years of travel, for business, pleasure, and as a flight professional I have at last figured out the reasons why the traveling public often displays a less-than-positive demeanor: airports themselves are probably the most stressful places a law-abiding citizen is likely to encounter in their lives!
The average passenger - be he or she a one-timer going to visit Aunt Suzie in Omaha, or a seasoned traveler with multiple platinum cards heading to Lagos for the fifteenth time - and everyone in between - all have to suffer going through a difficult travel process and be in a place that is quite trying of one's patience, annoying, intimidating, time-consuming, and, in short, is anything but conducive to having a stress-free, happy flight.
Nearly everyone stresses over making a flight on time, as if dire consequences would surely follow and woe would betide those who do not arrive well in advance of the plane's departure.
From someone who has missed a plane or two in my day, unless you have a high-power business meeting or other serious reason why you absolutely, positively cannot arrive even a few hours late, missing a plane is not by any means the end of the world. It is certainly not worth going red-line on the being-upset scale. It is NOT - or certainly SHOULD NOT be, I must add, a motive or excuse for abusing every airline employee you come into contact with in your quest to fly the "Friendly Skies!" This goes for your fellow passengers as well: they're in the same boat you are in, so DON'T ROCK IT!
Usually, it's the first-time flyers that are particularly stressed. This is completely understandable! They go from quiet, calm, nice people to jittery nervous-Nellies pretty much from the moment they enter the terminal - if they haven't already psyched themselves up (or down) for a bad day upon leaving their homes that morning. There is a ripple effect as these agitated folks make others around them upset as well.
Other than seeking professional help, pteromerhanophobia (fear of flying) can be conquered often by simply getting onto a plane and arriving at your destination safe and sound - something that millions of other people do every day.
As far as the rest of the traveling public, there is another nemesis that must be overcome: the AIRPORT itself!!
Why are airports so stressful? The entire process - down to every minor detail - is carefully engineered and choreographed to create the maximum level of discomfort possible among the flying public. It's to the advantage of airport personnel to instill fear, doubt, anger, etc. into otherwise calm, cool, collected, self assured people. It gives the airport employees a sense of control and satisfies a hunger for power. They also get PAID to do it.
Your very first contact with that entity dedicated to separating you from your money and your sanity, is the Parking area. It opens the Rocky Sorrow Picture Show with its own set of challenges and unpleasantries. The attendants there have such despicable attitudes and the prices are so high that it makes you want to turn around and forget the whole thing!
When you find a parking spot, and get onto those little park/ride vans, you take your life in your hands as they zip around the access roads in a dreadful haste... only to do it all again, and again, all day long. Why are they in such a hurry?? They certainly do not careen headlong into traffic like a juggernaut for your benefit; they even drive like maniacs when they have no-one on board their bus. BUT if you ask them to drive faster because you are running late, they will most assuredly downshift into SLOW! ... Try it! (But only when you are NOT in a hurry!)
Even if you don't actually take those discourtesy vans, you're likely to have at least one close call with one of them as they wildly cut in front, slam on their brakes, and turn in front of you very slowly. Advice: Don't EVER try to pass one!!! Mario Andretti couldn't get past these guys!
Getting dropped off is like meeting the Grinch Welcome Wagon. There is always some cop (or cop wannabe) who ate gunpowder for breakfast, and is just looking for a fight. Your car pulls up in front of the dropoff zone and he comes up and starts yelling at you - or the poor slob you talked into taking you, and really wonders what the heck you guys are doing there. You tell him you're getting out to catch a plane and he yells back to move the car - to not stay there. (Like anyone in their right MIND is going to hang around an airport - just because...)
If it is not the hassle of queuing up to check in, or figuring out bag sizes and weight limit, or printing out boarding passes, it's looking up one's flight on the board, and on and on.
Looking for your gate? The flight information boards are a favorite spot for people to just hang out. They can spend an hour there standing around - and there's no place better to do that then where they can block your view of a needed source of information.
There is only one other favorite hangout for the young and the clueless: the main entrance to the terminal ticket area... It's a wonderful place to get your deal done (meaning renewing old friendships, planning your vacation in Bali, or repacking your bag while everybody else goes nuts trying to go around you! At the same time, these folks expect the rest of the world to just go around, if there is room, or to go somewhere else! They look at you and right through you as if you weren't even there!
The Security at airports are adventures in themselves. If you like standing forever in line, being made to feel unimportant, being made to feel like a suspect, getting fussed at, and getting a free attitude adjustment, all at the same time, the airport is your kind of place!
Complaints, comments of any kind, and even scowls are not trip-enhancing moves. To the big-wigs, those movers and shakers whose very pompous pontifications send shivers up and down spines of unfortunate underlings at corporate board meetings, it must indeed be an ego-deflater to have to shut up and take orders from people earning a pittance by comparison.
If you defy them and ask in a haughty tone: "DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?" you might just get a free ride to the nearest Alzheimer's clinic.
Realize: those poorly-remunerated employees have a uniform, a tazer, and Federal authority to remove anyone from a flight, thus the ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT!!
The whole process is meant as an intimidation to all would-be troublemakers, and in the eyes of the Security officers, EVERYBODY is a suspect until and unless run through the gauntlet of removing shoes, laptops, liquids, articles of clothing, and one's pride, emerging at the other end of the process frazzled, humbled, annoyed, and quite possibly missing one or more items that have fallen through the rollers at the X-Ray machine, or been seized.
Rule of thumb here: if you are running late, above all DO NOT LET ON that you are! Do not comment about your flight, ask about connections, and for goodness' sake do not look stressed (even though you are by this time a nervous wreck!) Wipe that sweat from your brow.
Remember this: the velocity at which you go through Security is directly related to your need for speed. Got all the time in the world? You are sure to fly through. In a hurry? The area becomes a Jerry Lewis movie, with half the population of BULGARIA standing in front if you - and every one in line ahead of you will set off the alarm with their car keys left in their pockets.
During this whole ordeal, your ears get a battering, although you may well be unaware of it. There is a steady babble of useless information, such as PA's about unattended cars, unattended bags, the USO location, the interfaith chapel location, endless pages for people who cannot possibly understand their names the way they are mispronounced, and several announcements for each and every flight that is due to leave that day.
I am convinced that there is a rule against long periods of silence at airports. Something MUST break that silence in order to maintain a high level of stress. Of course you tune all of this out as you try desperately to get to your gate, but the annoyance is subliminal, and quite effective.
"Mister Ree-akk Smee-ath! Mister Ree-akk Smee-ath, please report to the BlueSky Airlines ticket counter. Mister Ree-akk Smee-ath!" Your name is Rick Smith, but with all the 268 different announcements made that HOUR, and with the lousy mispronunciation of your name, you continue on fat, dumb, and happy while your laptop you forgot at checkin goes on to lost-and-found, and to eternal oblivion.
To add to the din, as you go through the Ordeal of Intimidation that is Security, your poor ears are bombarded by a cacophony of very irritating noises, such as incessant beeps of the scanners, agents fussing at and instructing the cattle, (sorry, the people who are being treated like cattle), the whining, wailing, and gnashing of teeth of those poor, down-prodden souls who are trying to get out of Dodge, as well as the PA's and the ordinary hustle and bustle of the airport already mentioned.
You sit to rest for a second, and there is big news on the TV. You draw near to hear about it and, of course, there are several people sitting right below the speaker, and they are all talking very loudly, so as to be heard over the TV that they so brilliantly sat right beneath, thereby drowning out the news completely, so you move on.
You walk to the gate, tired and anxious about your departure. Airports are all WPA projects: Walking Plenty Around. Your flight, no matter where it is you're going, is going to be found at the very END of the terminal - especially if you're late. The later the flight, the more you will have to walk!
Now, you don't realize it yet, but you've just joined a baseball team: the Dodgers! You artfully dodge electric carts, running passengers, food carts, cleaners mopping the floor, construction sawhorses, suitcases in the aisles, little toddlers running right in front of you, and people who walk in front of you and just stop for no apparent reason.
Ahead of you is a group of Millennium People, slowly walking FIVE ABREAST, all talking on their cellphones. They don't think there's anybody but them there, they won't let you get by, and if you try to force the issue, you'll come upon an electric cart heading the opposite way that just HAS to get by at that exact second.
You see a moving sidewalk up ahead and pick up the pace to get to it before a family of seven reach it, but unbeknownst to you, they have been in training for a year in the Puxatawnee Walk-a-Thon, and so they beat you there ... only to stop completely to ride the slow-moving conveyor without walking -- and, oh, yes, you guessed it: they're BLOCKING the whole walkway and cannot understand why you want by.
You poke along, watching as several varieties of garden snail pass you. You break out your deck of cards and get in a quick game of Solitaire, fire up your cell and get the stock market quotes, catch a few Z's... And then, just as you finally come to the end of the slow-moving walkway, the family with whom you've by now become intimately acquainted, suddenly takes off faster than O. J. Simpson in a classic Hertz commercial!! Go figure!
Just like the discourtesy vans outside, the electric carts are constantly sneaking up on you and waiting for the moment that you drift into the midde of the passageway. Then you hear: "Excuse the cart!" You are startled, because he is on your heels, almost literally!
You huff and puff and finally arrive at where your plane should be, only to learn that there's been a gate change, and of course it's in a different terminal - way down at the end, of course.
You finally walk to your plane, agitated, frustrated, tired, stressed, and missing a few items, but at least you MADE IT!
The flight attendant says:"Good morning! How are you?"
You reply: "just like that guy in New York!"
"What guy" you are asked.
"There's this man who jumps off the top of the Empire State Building, see?" you explain. "On the 48th floor, a secretary opens up a window to check the weather. She sees the guy falling and hollers to him: 'How's it going?' He answers her: 'So far so GOOD!'"
HAPPY TRAILS!
Your very first contact with that entity dedicated to separating you from your money and your sanity, is the Parking area. It opens the Rocky Sorrow Picture Show with its own set of challenges and unpleasantries. The attendants there have such despicable attitudes and the prices are so high that it makes you want to turn around and forget the whole thing!
When you find a parking spot, and get onto those little park/ride vans, you take your life in your hands as they zip around the access roads in a dreadful haste... only to do it all again, and again, all day long. Why are they in such a hurry?? They certainly do not careen headlong into traffic like a juggernaut for your benefit; they even drive like maniacs when they have no-one on board their bus. BUT if you ask them to drive faster because you are running late, they will most assuredly downshift into SLOW! ... Try it! (But only when you are NOT in a hurry!)
Even if you don't actually take those discourtesy vans, you're likely to have at least one close call with one of them as they wildly cut in front, slam on their brakes, and turn in front of you very slowly. Advice: Don't EVER try to pass one!!! Mario Andretti couldn't get past these guys!
Getting dropped off is like meeting the Grinch Welcome Wagon. There is always some cop (or cop wannabe) who ate gunpowder for breakfast, and is just looking for a fight. Your car pulls up in front of the dropoff zone and he comes up and starts yelling at you - or the poor slob you talked into taking you, and really wonders what the heck you guys are doing there. You tell him you're getting out to catch a plane and he yells back to move the car - to not stay there. (Like anyone in their right MIND is going to hang around an airport - just because...)
If it is not the hassle of queuing up to check in, or figuring out bag sizes and weight limit, or printing out boarding passes, it's looking up one's flight on the board, and on and on.
Looking for your gate? The flight information boards are a favorite spot for people to just hang out. They can spend an hour there standing around - and there's no place better to do that then where they can block your view of a needed source of information.
There is only one other favorite hangout for the young and the clueless: the main entrance to the terminal ticket area... It's a wonderful place to get your deal done (meaning renewing old friendships, planning your vacation in Bali, or repacking your bag while everybody else goes nuts trying to go around you! At the same time, these folks expect the rest of the world to just go around, if there is room, or to go somewhere else! They look at you and right through you as if you weren't even there!
The Security at airports are adventures in themselves. If you like standing forever in line, being made to feel unimportant, being made to feel like a suspect, getting fussed at, and getting a free attitude adjustment, all at the same time, the airport is your kind of place!
Complaints, comments of any kind, and even scowls are not trip-enhancing moves. To the big-wigs, those movers and shakers whose very pompous pontifications send shivers up and down spines of unfortunate underlings at corporate board meetings, it must indeed be an ego-deflater to have to shut up and take orders from people earning a pittance by comparison.
If you defy them and ask in a haughty tone: "DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?" you might just get a free ride to the nearest Alzheimer's clinic.
Realize: those poorly-remunerated employees have a uniform, a tazer, and Federal authority to remove anyone from a flight, thus the ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT!!
The whole process is meant as an intimidation to all would-be troublemakers, and in the eyes of the Security officers, EVERYBODY is a suspect until and unless run through the gauntlet of removing shoes, laptops, liquids, articles of clothing, and one's pride, emerging at the other end of the process frazzled, humbled, annoyed, and quite possibly missing one or more items that have fallen through the rollers at the X-Ray machine, or been seized.
Rule of thumb here: if you are running late, above all DO NOT LET ON that you are! Do not comment about your flight, ask about connections, and for goodness' sake do not look stressed (even though you are by this time a nervous wreck!) Wipe that sweat from your brow.
Remember this: the velocity at which you go through Security is directly related to your need for speed. Got all the time in the world? You are sure to fly through. In a hurry? The area becomes a Jerry Lewis movie, with half the population of BULGARIA standing in front if you - and every one in line ahead of you will set off the alarm with their car keys left in their pockets.
During this whole ordeal, your ears get a battering, although you may well be unaware of it. There is a steady babble of useless information, such as PA's about unattended cars, unattended bags, the USO location, the interfaith chapel location, endless pages for people who cannot possibly understand their names the way they are mispronounced, and several announcements for each and every flight that is due to leave that day.
I am convinced that there is a rule against long periods of silence at airports. Something MUST break that silence in order to maintain a high level of stress. Of course you tune all of this out as you try desperately to get to your gate, but the annoyance is subliminal, and quite effective.
"Mister Ree-akk Smee-ath! Mister Ree-akk Smee-ath, please report to the BlueSky Airlines ticket counter. Mister Ree-akk Smee-ath!" Your name is Rick Smith, but with all the 268 different announcements made that HOUR, and with the lousy mispronunciation of your name, you continue on fat, dumb, and happy while your laptop you forgot at checkin goes on to lost-and-found, and to eternal oblivion.
To add to the din, as you go through the Ordeal of Intimidation that is Security, your poor ears are bombarded by a cacophony of very irritating noises, such as incessant beeps of the scanners, agents fussing at and instructing the cattle, (sorry, the people who are being treated like cattle), the whining, wailing, and gnashing of teeth of those poor, down-prodden souls who are trying to get out of Dodge, as well as the PA's and the ordinary hustle and bustle of the airport already mentioned.
You sit to rest for a second, and there is big news on the TV. You draw near to hear about it and, of course, there are several people sitting right below the speaker, and they are all talking very loudly, so as to be heard over the TV that they so brilliantly sat right beneath, thereby drowning out the news completely, so you move on.
You walk to the gate, tired and anxious about your departure. Airports are all WPA projects: Walking Plenty Around. Your flight, no matter where it is you're going, is going to be found at the very END of the terminal - especially if you're late. The later the flight, the more you will have to walk!
Now, you don't realize it yet, but you've just joined a baseball team: the Dodgers! You artfully dodge electric carts, running passengers, food carts, cleaners mopping the floor, construction sawhorses, suitcases in the aisles, little toddlers running right in front of you, and people who walk in front of you and just stop for no apparent reason.
Ahead of you is a group of Millennium People, slowly walking FIVE ABREAST, all talking on their cellphones. They don't think there's anybody but them there, they won't let you get by, and if you try to force the issue, you'll come upon an electric cart heading the opposite way that just HAS to get by at that exact second.
You see a moving sidewalk up ahead and pick up the pace to get to it before a family of seven reach it, but unbeknownst to you, they have been in training for a year in the Puxatawnee Walk-a-Thon, and so they beat you there ... only to stop completely to ride the slow-moving conveyor without walking -- and, oh, yes, you guessed it: they're BLOCKING the whole walkway and cannot understand why you want by.
You poke along, watching as several varieties of garden snail pass you. You break out your deck of cards and get in a quick game of Solitaire, fire up your cell and get the stock market quotes, catch a few Z's... And then, just as you finally come to the end of the slow-moving walkway, the family with whom you've by now become intimately acquainted, suddenly takes off faster than O. J. Simpson in a classic Hertz commercial!! Go figure!
Just like the discourtesy vans outside, the electric carts are constantly sneaking up on you and waiting for the moment that you drift into the midde of the passageway. Then you hear: "Excuse the cart!" You are startled, because he is on your heels, almost literally!
You huff and puff and finally arrive at where your plane should be, only to learn that there's been a gate change, and of course it's in a different terminal - way down at the end, of course.
You finally walk to your plane, agitated, frustrated, tired, stressed, and missing a few items, but at least you MADE IT!
The flight attendant says:"Good morning! How are you?"
You reply: "just like that guy in New York!"
"What guy" you are asked.
"There's this man who jumps off the top of the Empire State Building, see?" you explain. "On the 48th floor, a secretary opens up a window to check the weather. She sees the guy falling and hollers to him: 'How's it going?' He answers her: 'So far so GOOD!'"
HAPPY TRAILS!
Monday, June 16, 2014
Cat Tales - Tiles!
15 June, 2014
Houston
Kim had fought the good fight. We watched over our new little kitten as he lay near death on the floor of the bathroom. It was a sad vigil. We all knew that it was against the odds for this little kitty to beat such a severe case of distemper.
Knowing this night might very well be his last, I laid down on the towels and bath mats that carpeted the tiles. My mother put layers of them there so Kim would not be cold.
As I lay there, I held my little kitten, and did not expect the little guy to make it through the night. He cuddled close to me to keep warm, and we also had the space heater lit for the same reason. I stayed up for awhile, but fatigue took its toll, and I drifted off to sleep.
I awoke next morning to find Kim alert and actually walking around. He made it through the night!!! The worst has passed.
The next few days went by, and he grew in strength and alertness. He no longer showed symptoms of the disease, and soon we had no further need for the heater - nor for the towels and bathmats that completely covered the floor.
One morning I went into the bathroom and Kim followed me - curious about everything I did. I began to collect the towels so we could wash them.
As I picked up a couple of them, the hexagonal ceramic tile floor was revealed. It consisted of 1" white hexagons with a black one interspersed here and there.
Seeing the little black spots appear where before only a plain white floor had been, Kim got startled big-time!
He suddenly jumped high up into the air off the bathroom floor - his little legs extended straight out and stuff - and his claws spread out like an open hand. He bounced up and down on the floor like a jumping spider! Then he began to swat at the black tiles one-by-one, but of course they did not move.
IF a cat could think like a human, I can only imagine what he would have thought after spazzing out like that over a few little tiles! He would have been embarrassed no end. As it is, after having investigated all of the little black tiles in his newly-discovered floor and realizing they belong there, Kim moved along. He was an itty-bitty kitty with a big, wide world to explore!
Sunday, June 15, 2014
THUNDERSTRUCK!!
16 December, 1999
PHILMONT SCOUT RANCH, New Mexico
Ask any American Boy Scout anywhere, no matter what age he may be, about camping and the camps themselves, and the conversation will, at some point, turn to a Boy Scout camp way out West, known as Philmont!
Philmont is a sprawling Scout ranch located in the vicinity of the towns of Cimarrón and Ratón, N. Mexico. Although thousands of boys go to this wonderful place every year, sadly most who go through scouting do not make it to Philmont. After my esperiences there, I have to say that it's really a shame! For me, this trip was the pinnacle of my Scouting experience, and I am very glad indeed for having made the trip.
I arrived there on a chartered bus on July 10, 1966. I was 14 years old.
THUNDERSTRUCK!!
31 March, 1996
VIEW OF MT. BALDY FROM MIRANDA CAMP WHERE WE WERE BASED.
Our main objective in our Philmont expedition was to climb a mountain known in those parts as "Old Baldy" - so-called because it was completely void of vegetation at the top, resembling a bald head. It was the tallest mountain in the area, and received the greatest number of lightning strikes. The higher up and the taller the tree grew, the more likely it was to be hit and killed by lightning strikes, and there were ashen logs lying about in mute testimony to the power of a bolt from the blue.
"OLD BALDY" IS STRAIGHT AHEAD!
[12,441 ft elevation]
Sadly I did not record the exact date of our ascent of this magnificent mountain, but I estimate it was mid-July - July 15, give or take a day, approximately the halfway point in our 10-day trek. We began our ascent early that morning, and by noon, the twin-peaked summit loomed before us, framed by an azure sky, decorated with white puffy clouds.
We finally arrived at the top, and the clouds were getting thicker and darker, and there was a bit of moisture in the air, indicating rain in the distance. When in a very arid climate, water can be felt and smelled miles away.
The view from the mountaintop was breath-taking. For anybody who has never climbed a mountain, there is no way to adequately describe the feeling of reaching the summit! The view is much different from seeing the same topography from a plane. That panorama amply rewarded the pain and expense of getting there. The valley below was misty, and the air was cool and damp.
I had brought along my Kokak Instamatic camera and rolls of film - so I was well-prepared for such a moment and I began to snap away, taking several pictures all around. I was on the taller of the two peaks, along with three other members of our expedition. The rest were on the lower part of the mountain, and we had fun waving and shouting for them co come up and join us.
Just then, I heard a low rumbling sound, as of thunder in the distance. I looked about and saw the dark clouds of an approaching rainstorm. I noticed the line of dead trees slightly below me, and thought this might be a warning to us to leave.
"Hey, guys!" I called out, so that they could hear on the other peak, "Look at those clouds over there! I think it's gonna rain! We'd better get down from here!"
BLACK RAIN CLOUDS ABOVE REALLY DO NOT LOOK THREATENING.
"You're CRAZY!" said one guy, "We just GOT here after five days hike, and you want us to leave NOW??"
"Those clouds are miles away!" said another.
"Just the same," I said, in Brainy Smurf fashion, "it's heading this way!" I admonished the others, testing the breeze by wetting my index finger and holding it up.
The top of the mountain was covered with potato-sized rocks. Stumbling on one of them, I accidentally dropped my camera. I bent down to pick it up, and as I was straightening up, WHAPP!! I got knocked on the head very hard. I thought someone had thrown a rock at me and nailed me good, right on the old noggin.
At the exact same instant I saw a brilliant white flash of light and heard a deafening roar or boom. This all seemed to be happening in slow motion, but in fact, it all took place within a matter of a few seconds. I fell to the ground - or rather I was knocked to the ground - by the force of the blow to my head. I went a*s over teakettle, and wound up lying on my back.
I was very angry at whoever threw that stone at me, but as I lay there face-up, I realized I could not move! Although I felt a tingling sensation all over my body, and my ears were ringing, I could get nothing to respond those first few minutes.
The guys who were on the other peak came running up to me, shouting excitedly: "Are you all right??"
"Who threw that rock at me?!" I said, pleased that at least I could talk, and I was so angry...
"ROCK?" asked one of them, "You guys just got hit by LIGHTNING!!!" I realized I was surrounded by several of the others, all with worried looks on their faces.
We were looking your way when this bolt came down and struck the mountain top - it hit the ground right in the middle of the four of you. That was the MAIN strike, but there were these four branches that split off and hit you all!"
They were right: my three other buddies were also lying down on the rocky ground, same as I, trying to get up, and acting groggy. It had been a close call! A VERY close call, indeed.
Mother Nature has a way of letting us know who's boss, and can sometimes be forgiving, as She was that day. To this very day I have a healthy respect for thunderstorms and lightning. Thank God nobody suffered any injuries, and our trek that was nearly at its end at the halfway point, fortunately continued without further incident.
This trip was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I am all the richer for having done it.
"Silver on the sage, starlit skies above,
Aspen covered hills,
Country that I love!"
Philmont, here's to Thee,
Scouting paradise...
...out in God's country tonight!!!"
PHILMONT SCOUT RANCH, New Mexico
Ask any American Boy Scout anywhere, no matter what age he may be, about camping and the camps themselves, and the conversation will, at some point, turn to a Boy Scout camp way out West, known as Philmont!
Philmont is a sprawling Scout ranch located in the vicinity of the towns of Cimarrón and Ratón, N. Mexico. Although thousands of boys go to this wonderful place every year, sadly most who go through scouting do not make it to Philmont. After my esperiences there, I have to say that it's really a shame! For me, this trip was the pinnacle of my Scouting experience, and I am very glad indeed for having made the trip.
I arrived there on a chartered bus on July 10, 1966. I was 14 years old.
THUNDERSTRUCK!!
31 March, 1996
VIEW OF MT. BALDY FROM MIRANDA CAMP WHERE WE WERE BASED.
Our main objective in our Philmont expedition was to climb a mountain known in those parts as "Old Baldy" - so-called because it was completely void of vegetation at the top, resembling a bald head. It was the tallest mountain in the area, and received the greatest number of lightning strikes. The higher up and the taller the tree grew, the more likely it was to be hit and killed by lightning strikes, and there were ashen logs lying about in mute testimony to the power of a bolt from the blue.
"OLD BALDY" IS STRAIGHT AHEAD!
[12,441 ft elevation]
Sadly I did not record the exact date of our ascent of this magnificent mountain, but I estimate it was mid-July - July 15, give or take a day, approximately the halfway point in our 10-day trek. We began our ascent early that morning, and by noon, the twin-peaked summit loomed before us, framed by an azure sky, decorated with white puffy clouds.
We finally arrived at the top, and the clouds were getting thicker and darker, and there was a bit of moisture in the air, indicating rain in the distance. When in a very arid climate, water can be felt and smelled miles away.
The view from the mountaintop was breath-taking. For anybody who has never climbed a mountain, there is no way to adequately describe the feeling of reaching the summit! The view is much different from seeing the same topography from a plane. That panorama amply rewarded the pain and expense of getting there. The valley below was misty, and the air was cool and damp.
I had brought along my Kokak Instamatic camera and rolls of film - so I was well-prepared for such a moment and I began to snap away, taking several pictures all around. I was on the taller of the two peaks, along with three other members of our expedition. The rest were on the lower part of the mountain, and we had fun waving and shouting for them co come up and join us.
Just then, I heard a low rumbling sound, as of thunder in the distance. I looked about and saw the dark clouds of an approaching rainstorm. I noticed the line of dead trees slightly below me, and thought this might be a warning to us to leave.
"Hey, guys!" I called out, so that they could hear on the other peak, "Look at those clouds over there! I think it's gonna rain! We'd better get down from here!"
BLACK RAIN CLOUDS ABOVE REALLY DO NOT LOOK THREATENING.
"You're CRAZY!" said one guy, "We just GOT here after five days hike, and you want us to leave NOW??"
"Those clouds are miles away!" said another.
"Just the same," I said, in Brainy Smurf fashion, "it's heading this way!" I admonished the others, testing the breeze by wetting my index finger and holding it up.
The top of the mountain was covered with potato-sized rocks. Stumbling on one of them, I accidentally dropped my camera. I bent down to pick it up, and as I was straightening up, WHAPP!! I got knocked on the head very hard. I thought someone had thrown a rock at me and nailed me good, right on the old noggin.
At the exact same instant I saw a brilliant white flash of light and heard a deafening roar or boom. This all seemed to be happening in slow motion, but in fact, it all took place within a matter of a few seconds. I fell to the ground - or rather I was knocked to the ground - by the force of the blow to my head. I went a*s over teakettle, and wound up lying on my back.
I was very angry at whoever threw that stone at me, but as I lay there face-up, I realized I could not move! Although I felt a tingling sensation all over my body, and my ears were ringing, I could get nothing to respond those first few minutes.
The guys who were on the other peak came running up to me, shouting excitedly: "Are you all right??"
"Who threw that rock at me?!" I said, pleased that at least I could talk, and I was so angry...
"ROCK?" asked one of them, "You guys just got hit by LIGHTNING!!!" I realized I was surrounded by several of the others, all with worried looks on their faces.
We were looking your way when this bolt came down and struck the mountain top - it hit the ground right in the middle of the four of you. That was the MAIN strike, but there were these four branches that split off and hit you all!"
They were right: my three other buddies were also lying down on the rocky ground, same as I, trying to get up, and acting groggy. It had been a close call! A VERY close call, indeed.
Mother Nature has a way of letting us know who's boss, and can sometimes be forgiving, as She was that day. To this very day I have a healthy respect for thunderstorms and lightning. Thank God nobody suffered any injuries, and our trek that was nearly at its end at the halfway point, fortunately continued without further incident.
This trip was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I am all the richer for having done it.
"Silver on the sage, starlit skies above,
Aspen covered hills,
Country that I love!"
Philmont, here's to Thee,
Scouting paradise...
...out in God's country tonight!!!"
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Yuma HABOOB!
Yuma HABOOB!
14 June, 2014
Nature is full of surprises! Man can prepare in some instances, but mostly he is at the mercy of the elements. Sometimes he must bear the full brunt of Nature's fury, and sometimes there is no mercy.
It was getting late in the afternoon. We were on the outskirts of Yuma, Arizona, on a summer vacation. There was my grandfather, my grandmother, my mother, and I, traveling cross-country in a Volkswagen - pulling a small trailer.
We travelled the country in several trips, and doing so economically by camping in a tent whenever and wherever possible. Staying in State and National Parks mostly, it was a great way to see the U. S., and we even took trips into parts of Canada and Mexico, giving our jaunts a very international flavor.
Whenever there was a threat of bad weather, we usually opted for a night in a motel. It seemed a sure thing that this would be a motel night, judging from what at first appeared to be a squall-line approaching from the distance.
Just as we reached the city limits I saw a motel off on the left, and I told my mother, who reacted quickly and we pulled in.
My grandfather quipped: "Looks like it's gonna come up a DOWNPOUR! If it doesn't rain, it'll sure pass up a wonderful opportunity!"
My mother registered us, and we pulled around to our room, carefully backing the little trailer almost up to the door.
We opened up the trailer to begin unloading our suitcases. I went to get some items from the car when I looked at the highway. There was a line of dust or sand being blown up by the wind.
That's what I thought it was. I was sure there was a very heavy rainstorm immediately following, so I warned my folks that we'd soon get a "trash-mover and a gully-washer," as my mother would say.
I saw the dust kick up along the highway, and I shouted a warning to watch for it. I had no idea what was in store for us.
The wind picked up and blew furiously... then came the dust!
It started with some grains of sand stinging our faces as we continued to take items from the trailer.
Within a minute or two, dust and sand filled the air. It was so thick we could hardly see in front of our faces. We could not hear each other speak; even shouting was useless over the roar of the storm.
It got so intense we had to stop unloading and ran for the safety of the room. The wind got even stronger then, rattling the windows and door, while outside the storm raged in full fury!!
The poor little car was outside in a sandstorm with gale-force winds. Whatever we did not get by then we'd just have to do without until this thing subsided.
We imagined we could hear thunder, although the loud whining and roaring of the wind made us wonder if it really was thunder.
We were coughing by now, and the taste and grit of dirt was in our mouths. In fact, it was in our noses, in our ears, and in our eyes as well. The air stunk of dirt, and we were spitting it out into tissues and the lavatory.
Soon the dust that had blown into the room had settled, dissipated, or had been filtered out by the air conditioner.
We all were quite a sight to see: black-faced like coal miners from all the sand. What was needed more than anything was a shower!
We took turns in the shower, and we were so dirty from the dust storm that the water turned brown when we first began to take a rinse. We were so dirty we each took first a quick shower, then a longer one.
The storm raged for quite some time, but eventually ended, and we had a good night's sleep. All through the night, we could still taste and smell and feel the gritty texture of the sand and dirt.
The next morning all traces of the sandstorm had vanished, except for a bit of sand piled up in small drifts along the wall of the motel. There was still that musty, dirty smell in the air, and we were still washing grit out of our hair and faces when we showered a third time that morning.
When we checked the car, we got another surprise: the storm had literally sandblasted the paint off of the very front, and did so almost down to bare metal!
What we experienced was what is now known as a HABOOB (هَبوب) an Arabic term meaning a scouring, which is exactly what that storm did to our car that evening.
Forty-four years later, I saw a fascinating television documentary on the Oklahoma Dust-Bowl. I listened intently to how those poor, unfortunate people described their ordeals with dust storms. As they spoke, I relived in my mind that dusty, dirty day In Arizona, when I had the very same experience.
14 June, 2014
Nature is full of surprises! Man can prepare in some instances, but mostly he is at the mercy of the elements. Sometimes he must bear the full brunt of Nature's fury, and sometimes there is no mercy.
It was getting late in the afternoon. We were on the outskirts of Yuma, Arizona, on a summer vacation. There was my grandfather, my grandmother, my mother, and I, traveling cross-country in a Volkswagen - pulling a small trailer.
We travelled the country in several trips, and doing so economically by camping in a tent whenever and wherever possible. Staying in State and National Parks mostly, it was a great way to see the U. S., and we even took trips into parts of Canada and Mexico, giving our jaunts a very international flavor.
Whenever there was a threat of bad weather, we usually opted for a night in a motel. It seemed a sure thing that this would be a motel night, judging from what at first appeared to be a squall-line approaching from the distance.
Just as we reached the city limits I saw a motel off on the left, and I told my mother, who reacted quickly and we pulled in.
My grandfather quipped: "Looks like it's gonna come up a DOWNPOUR! If it doesn't rain, it'll sure pass up a wonderful opportunity!"
My mother registered us, and we pulled around to our room, carefully backing the little trailer almost up to the door.
We opened up the trailer to begin unloading our suitcases. I went to get some items from the car when I looked at the highway. There was a line of dust or sand being blown up by the wind.
That's what I thought it was. I was sure there was a very heavy rainstorm immediately following, so I warned my folks that we'd soon get a "trash-mover and a gully-washer," as my mother would say.
I saw the dust kick up along the highway, and I shouted a warning to watch for it. I had no idea what was in store for us.
The wind picked up and blew furiously... then came the dust!
It started with some grains of sand stinging our faces as we continued to take items from the trailer.
Within a minute or two, dust and sand filled the air. It was so thick we could hardly see in front of our faces. We could not hear each other speak; even shouting was useless over the roar of the storm.
It got so intense we had to stop unloading and ran for the safety of the room. The wind got even stronger then, rattling the windows and door, while outside the storm raged in full fury!!
The poor little car was outside in a sandstorm with gale-force winds. Whatever we did not get by then we'd just have to do without until this thing subsided.
We imagined we could hear thunder, although the loud whining and roaring of the wind made us wonder if it really was thunder.
We were coughing by now, and the taste and grit of dirt was in our mouths. In fact, it was in our noses, in our ears, and in our eyes as well. The air stunk of dirt, and we were spitting it out into tissues and the lavatory.
Soon the dust that had blown into the room had settled, dissipated, or had been filtered out by the air conditioner.
We all were quite a sight to see: black-faced like coal miners from all the sand. What was needed more than anything was a shower!
We took turns in the shower, and we were so dirty from the dust storm that the water turned brown when we first began to take a rinse. We were so dirty we each took first a quick shower, then a longer one.
The storm raged for quite some time, but eventually ended, and we had a good night's sleep. All through the night, we could still taste and smell and feel the gritty texture of the sand and dirt.
The next morning all traces of the sandstorm had vanished, except for a bit of sand piled up in small drifts along the wall of the motel. There was still that musty, dirty smell in the air, and we were still washing grit out of our hair and faces when we showered a third time that morning.
When we checked the car, we got another surprise: the storm had literally sandblasted the paint off of the very front, and did so almost down to bare metal!
What we experienced was what is now known as a HABOOB (هَبوب) an Arabic term meaning a scouring, which is exactly what that storm did to our car that evening.
Forty-four years later, I saw a fascinating television documentary on the Oklahoma Dust-Bowl. I listened intently to how those poor, unfortunate people described their ordeals with dust storms. As they spoke, I relived in my mind that dusty, dirty day In Arizona, when I had the very same experience.
A Chèr-Amie from Golden Meadow
14 June, 2014
Houston
What's in a name?
It is easy to spot someone from New Orleans in a phone book: Toups, Hymel, Haydel, Carrière, Gravois, leBlanc, Cuccia, Lala, Testa, Foto, Greco, Heidingsfelder, Duplantier, Buras, Bordenave, Dupuy, Deboisblanc, Picou, Badeau, etc. There are many, many surnames which we all know, that reflect the ethnic and cultural diversity of the city and its outlying areas.
I grew up in New Orleans, but my family name comes from West Virginia. In a list of the Vicknairs, Blanchards, Troxlers, and Puglias, it stuck out like an Anglo sore thumb. I might as well have been named Ken Foreigner.
Tell someone your name is Bourgeois, Hébert, or Grieshaber and you don't get a second look. Say HALL and you have to repeat it a few times, and then expect the inevitable question: "So, where are you from?" It was their nice way of letting me know that, even though I have been in New Orleans off and on since I was 4 months old, I'm still an Ausländer.
Even when you die, the city's newspaper, the Times-Picayune takes great delight reminding the public that the dearly-departed was a "native of XYZ and a lifelong resident of New Orleans," as if citizenship in the Crescent City was something conferred at birth only. Everyone else was just a resident, and thus not really a true New Orleanian.
I first became aware of this name stigma at the tenderfoot age of eleven, when I joined the Boy Scouts. They found out I was born in upstate New York, so they nicknamed me "Yank." No self-respecting Southern boy of Creole lineage wants to be called Yank, but that was my nickname, and I was glad they called me nothing worse!
When I went to Ferncrest elementary, I was the only HALL in my ENTIRE SCHOOL. Things got no better in Junior High and High School, except that in High School there actually was another Hall, and everybody thought we were related.
One day, when I was a sales representative for an air freight company, I had an appointment with a Ms. Yasich. This was an old Louisiana Croatian name, just like Yuratich, Lulich, Zuvich, and Zibilich, and with that everyone knew these people came from Buras or Empire - communities downriver from New Orleans, where Croatians (technically Dalmatians) settled over a century ago.
The secretary just couldn't pronounce my last name! I repeated it several times, and finally, injecting humor in order to ward off frustration, I put on a thick Russian accent, saying: "I am from Raasha. Ven I komink to Amerika, nobodi kann pronownz my name - Alexis Andrei Irisovich Dniepropetrovski - so I am changink my name - and for vat? Steel no kann pronounsink my name!"
As a result of that phony Russian Schtick, I got a bit part in a TV sci-fi program called Morgus Presents. And I even got PAID for it. Who would have thought that I would get money for being a foreigner?
One day, at the company where I worked, we hired a new sales representative, whose last name was Chèramie. Having grown up in the New Orleans area, I knew that name came from deep down in de Bayou. I asked: "With a name like Chèramie, you must be from Golden Meadow." Chèramie means dear-friend in French.
He looked up from whatever he was doing and smiled. He said: "You got it! And you, with that name, "Hall," you better watch it when you drive through there, if you're coming back from fishing, boy - you're sure to get a big ticket!"
"You see," he explained, "if you go even one mile over the speed limit, they're gonna nail you good! Now, me, I can go as fast as I want. If they pull me over, I just flash that Drivers' License with that "Chèramie" name on it, and they know I'm from there - so they won't mess with me."
I got transferred to Houston soon thereafter, and the conversation was soon forgotten. Chèramie got called up to Active Duty overseas, and I took his place for that time back in New Orleans. I heard a story about a fishing trip he took. He was coming back late one evening with three other men, and they all had been fishing way down in Grand Isle. Sure enough, the car full of tired fishermen got caught in that infamous Golden Meadow speed trap. This big, strapping Louisiana cop with a wide-brim hat was protecting and serving the public by generating more funds for the local constabulary, thanks to the driver's lead-foot syndrome.
Chèramie was sitting in the back seat behind the driver. He got out of his seat and opened the door, wallet in hand, ready to flash that magical "Chèramie" license, and get them off the hook. That tough cop took one look at him and yelled: "You get your a*s back in that car, sit down, and shut up!"
"Yes, Sir," came the polite response, and he complied immediately without any further sound. He had gotten an attitude adjustment - Louisiana Style!
When Chèramie finally gotten back from his tour of duty, we had a meeting to welcome him back. At an intermission, I couldn't resist saying: "Hey, Chèramie - I heard about that trip of yours down through Golden Meadows..." (He was not happy I brought that up.)
"I thought that all you had to do was flash that 'Chèramie' license, and they'd let you go." I continued, digging it in deeper.
"SHUT UP, Hall" he said, squirming in his chair.
"Yeah, but didn't you tell me...?"
"SHUT UP, Hall"
What's in a name? Sometimes not too much.
Houston
What's in a name?
It is easy to spot someone from New Orleans in a phone book: Toups, Hymel, Haydel, Carrière, Gravois, leBlanc, Cuccia, Lala, Testa, Foto, Greco, Heidingsfelder, Duplantier, Buras, Bordenave, Dupuy, Deboisblanc, Picou, Badeau, etc. There are many, many surnames which we all know, that reflect the ethnic and cultural diversity of the city and its outlying areas.
I grew up in New Orleans, but my family name comes from West Virginia. In a list of the Vicknairs, Blanchards, Troxlers, and Puglias, it stuck out like an Anglo sore thumb. I might as well have been named Ken Foreigner.
Tell someone your name is Bourgeois, Hébert, or Grieshaber and you don't get a second look. Say HALL and you have to repeat it a few times, and then expect the inevitable question: "So, where are you from?" It was their nice way of letting me know that, even though I have been in New Orleans off and on since I was 4 months old, I'm still an Ausländer.
Even when you die, the city's newspaper, the Times-Picayune takes great delight reminding the public that the dearly-departed was a "native of XYZ and a lifelong resident of New Orleans," as if citizenship in the Crescent City was something conferred at birth only. Everyone else was just a resident, and thus not really a true New Orleanian.
I first became aware of this name stigma at the tenderfoot age of eleven, when I joined the Boy Scouts. They found out I was born in upstate New York, so they nicknamed me "Yank." No self-respecting Southern boy of Creole lineage wants to be called Yank, but that was my nickname, and I was glad they called me nothing worse!
When I went to Ferncrest elementary, I was the only HALL in my ENTIRE SCHOOL. Things got no better in Junior High and High School, except that in High School there actually was another Hall, and everybody thought we were related.
One day, when I was a sales representative for an air freight company, I had an appointment with a Ms. Yasich. This was an old Louisiana Croatian name, just like Yuratich, Lulich, Zuvich, and Zibilich, and with that everyone knew these people came from Buras or Empire - communities downriver from New Orleans, where Croatians (technically Dalmatians) settled over a century ago.
The secretary just couldn't pronounce my last name! I repeated it several times, and finally, injecting humor in order to ward off frustration, I put on a thick Russian accent, saying: "I am from Raasha. Ven I komink to Amerika, nobodi kann pronownz my name - Alexis Andrei Irisovich Dniepropetrovski - so I am changink my name - and for vat? Steel no kann pronounsink my name!"
As a result of that phony Russian Schtick, I got a bit part in a TV sci-fi program called Morgus Presents. And I even got PAID for it. Who would have thought that I would get money for being a foreigner?
One day, at the company where I worked, we hired a new sales representative, whose last name was Chèramie. Having grown up in the New Orleans area, I knew that name came from deep down in de Bayou. I asked: "With a name like Chèramie, you must be from Golden Meadow." Chèramie means dear-friend in French.
He looked up from whatever he was doing and smiled. He said: "You got it! And you, with that name, "Hall," you better watch it when you drive through there, if you're coming back from fishing, boy - you're sure to get a big ticket!"
"You see," he explained, "if you go even one mile over the speed limit, they're gonna nail you good! Now, me, I can go as fast as I want. If they pull me over, I just flash that Drivers' License with that "Chèramie" name on it, and they know I'm from there - so they won't mess with me."
I got transferred to Houston soon thereafter, and the conversation was soon forgotten. Chèramie got called up to Active Duty overseas, and I took his place for that time back in New Orleans. I heard a story about a fishing trip he took. He was coming back late one evening with three other men, and they all had been fishing way down in Grand Isle. Sure enough, the car full of tired fishermen got caught in that infamous Golden Meadow speed trap. This big, strapping Louisiana cop with a wide-brim hat was protecting and serving the public by generating more funds for the local constabulary, thanks to the driver's lead-foot syndrome.
Chèramie was sitting in the back seat behind the driver. He got out of his seat and opened the door, wallet in hand, ready to flash that magical "Chèramie" license, and get them off the hook. That tough cop took one look at him and yelled: "You get your a*s back in that car, sit down, and shut up!"
"Yes, Sir," came the polite response, and he complied immediately without any further sound. He had gotten an attitude adjustment - Louisiana Style!
When Chèramie finally gotten back from his tour of duty, we had a meeting to welcome him back. At an intermission, I couldn't resist saying: "Hey, Chèramie - I heard about that trip of yours down through Golden Meadows..." (He was not happy I brought that up.)
"I thought that all you had to do was flash that 'Chèramie' license, and they'd let you go." I continued, digging it in deeper.
"SHUT UP, Hall" he said, squirming in his chair.
"Yeah, but didn't you tell me...?"
"SHUT UP, Hall"
What's in a name? Sometimes not too much.
Friday, June 13, 2014
Trolley Lines - Cabin John to Glen Echo
Trolley Lines - Cabin John to Glen Echo
KENNETH E. HALL 13 June, 2014 Lagos, Nigeria
"Clang, clang, clang went the trolley ---
Ding, ding, ding went the bell..." - *Trolley Song
"Clang, clang, clang went the trolley ---
Ding, ding, ding went the bell..." - *Trolley Song
STREETCARS are not often the cause of emotional reactions in people - except for the odd case of nostalgia among those who grew up with them and saw them disappear from nearly every city in the United States.
In its heyday in the Roaring Twenties, trolley cars were the way to get around, and one could find them in virtually every city and town - as well as in even very small communities.
Washington, D.C. managed to keep most of their streetcar lines operating up until the very early 1960's, when a variety of factors conspired to eliminate them from the streets of our nation's capital.
As a small boy, I had ridden many a mile on the ancient trams that New Orleans has so lovingly preserved. By the early 1950's, only two lines remained there, compared to a couple dozen lines in D.C. at the same time. In New Orleans up until the 1970's, cash fares were collected and put into a fare till that was accessible by the conductor to make change.
Back then, New Orleans did not allow gambling - but the were certain places in the outskirts of the city where it was permitted. My Uncle Gene took me with him once or twice when I was a wee lad of four, and it must have made an impression upon me.
My mother got a job in Washington, D. C., and when we took the streetcar for the very first time, I noticed the farebox. Passengers entered the car and inserted coins in a slot on the top, and a counter wheel processes it, eventually depositing the payment in a receiving box in the bottom.
I had a tiny but loud voice that carried - much to my mother's chagrin. I piped up so the whole car could hear me: "Oh, LOOK, Mommie: a SLOT MACHINE!!"
Needless to say, my mother was mortified.
Streetcars are not scary things; not usually. But soon after the slot machine incident, I recall going to visit the National Cathedral for Easter Mass. We exited the church, my aunt bought me some candied peanuts, and then we crossed the street onto the safety island to await our streetcar to go home.
Two came along, traveling down the avenue virtually noiselessly and gliding to a quiet stop. We were in line to board the car, and I stood right by the trolley's circuit-breaker, conveniently located exactly eye-level for a toddler. Washington's PCC-type streetcars were constantly popping them when too much current was applied.
As I said, I was right by a circuit-breaker, and it was at ear-level to me. Suddenly, I heard a very loud "POPP!" If the noise hadn't been enough to scare me half to death, the bright flash of an electrical spark provided an impressive visual display as well!
Startled beyond words I naturally began to cry, and we wound up taking another streetcar a few minutes later.
Back in the days before the internal combustion engine, people mostly got around by trolley car. Streetcar routes often had cemeteries on them, and there even was a such thing as funeral streetcars! The casket was loaded onto a streetcar designed and/or designated for the purpose, and family and friends would join the dearly departed for one last ride. (Presumably the "guest of honor" made the trip one-way!)
Another attraction sure to bring on riders was the trolley park, later called an "Amusement Park." Patrons would ride an often lengthy line to go for a day of fun.
One example of just such a park is Glen Echo, located in Montgomery County, MD. It was built in the 1890's by the Baltzley brothers, who also founded the Glen Echo Railroad Company.
Although we had a car back then, my Aunt Lucy did not drive. One day, when I was about five years old, she treated me to a day at Glen Echo, and we took DC Transit's CABIN JOHN streetcar!
It was quite an excursion. We packed a picnic lunch and were well-prepared. Soon enough the car left the cobblestone streets of DC proper and dove into a beautiful, wooded private right-of-way. We ate our sandwiches and talked the whole way, and I saw the passing countryside from my seat. The car gently rocked from side-to-side as we sped down those steel rails.
We sat close to the front, and so not only could I see on both sides, but also the right-of-way through the front windshield. The tracks and adjacent grounds were littered with trash. I went into gales of laughter when we were taking a sharp curve and saw, of all things, a BATHTUB lying on its side.
We went quite a distance, crossing trestles and going around curves. Then, all too soon, the buildings and rides of Glen Echo came into view. We had finally come to the end of the line. But this was only the BEGINNING! Before me lay a great amusement park, with a roller-coaster called the "Big Dipper" and my favorite: a Ferris Wheel.
Music, candy, popcorn, lots of rides and plenty of walking all around conspired to make one very happy and tired little boy!!
By now it was dark. The time had come to head back home. So we exited where we came in, and there to greet us was a blue and white streetcar, just like the one we arrived on. The car sped off into the dark woods which were illuminated only by the single, white, incandescent headlight that shone from the front.
If the ride TO Glen Echo was interesting, the ride BACK was magical! The summer's heat was cooled by the breeze from the speeding tram, the night's darkness gave a different aspect to everything we saw as we went now through the woodsy way, and the rocking to and fro of the car as it sped along was more than enough to lull a tired little boy to sleep.
Although I fought falling asleep, soon enough all the activities of the day took its toll, and I lay down for just a second to rest - hoping to once more catch a glimpse of that bathtub.
Sleep came quietly, as the swaying of the car and the vibrations of steel wheel against steel rail produced a mesmerizing effect, and in what seemed like only a minute, I felt a gentle nudge from my aunt's hand: our stop was drawing near.
We got off, and in nothing flat, our magic carpet had vanished into the distance, leaving only tiny red lights visible down the avenue.
But I did not have streetcars on my mind, nor did I think of food or drink. It was putting one unsteady foot in front of the other that I concentrated on at that moment, yawning as I rubbed my sleepy eyes, and soon enough, a little five-year-old boy lay fast asleep, snug in his bed, dreaming no doubt of carnival rides, cotton candy, good times with Aunt Lucy, and a nighttime trolley ride through the Maryland woods.
NOTE: The last trolley to Cabin John ran on January 3, 1960. The last streetcar lines in D.C. were closed on 28 January, 1962. The Glen Echo amusement park itself closed in 1968.
Photo credit and for information about the Glen Echo line:
http://glenecho-cabinjohn.com/GE-01.html
Glen Echo - the Conduit Line: http://glenecho-cabinjohn.com/CR-02.html
The Glen Echo Trolley Line: http://humealumni.org/trolley.html
*Trolley Song -Written by: HUGH MARTIN, RALPH BLANE
In its heyday in the Roaring Twenties, trolley cars were the way to get around, and one could find them in virtually every city and town - as well as in even very small communities.
Washington, D.C. managed to keep most of their streetcar lines operating up until the very early 1960's, when a variety of factors conspired to eliminate them from the streets of our nation's capital.
As a small boy, I had ridden many a mile on the ancient trams that New Orleans has so lovingly preserved. By the early 1950's, only two lines remained there, compared to a couple dozen lines in D.C. at the same time. In New Orleans up until the 1970's, cash fares were collected and put into a fare till that was accessible by the conductor to make change.
Back then, New Orleans did not allow gambling - but the were certain places in the outskirts of the city where it was permitted. My Uncle Gene took me with him once or twice when I was a wee lad of four, and it must have made an impression upon me.
My mother got a job in Washington, D. C., and when we took the streetcar for the very first time, I noticed the farebox. Passengers entered the car and inserted coins in a slot on the top, and a counter wheel processes it, eventually depositing the payment in a receiving box in the bottom.
I had a tiny but loud voice that carried - much to my mother's chagrin. I piped up so the whole car could hear me: "Oh, LOOK, Mommie: a SLOT MACHINE!!"
Needless to say, my mother was mortified.
Streetcars are not scary things; not usually. But soon after the slot machine incident, I recall going to visit the National Cathedral for Easter Mass. We exited the church, my aunt bought me some candied peanuts, and then we crossed the street onto the safety island to await our streetcar to go home.
Two came along, traveling down the avenue virtually noiselessly and gliding to a quiet stop. We were in line to board the car, and I stood right by the trolley's circuit-breaker, conveniently located exactly eye-level for a toddler. Washington's PCC-type streetcars were constantly popping them when too much current was applied.
As I said, I was right by a circuit-breaker, and it was at ear-level to me. Suddenly, I heard a very loud "POPP!" If the noise hadn't been enough to scare me half to death, the bright flash of an electrical spark provided an impressive visual display as well!
Startled beyond words I naturally began to cry, and we wound up taking another streetcar a few minutes later.
Back in the days before the internal combustion engine, people mostly got around by trolley car. Streetcar routes often had cemeteries on them, and there even was a such thing as funeral streetcars! The casket was loaded onto a streetcar designed and/or designated for the purpose, and family and friends would join the dearly departed for one last ride. (Presumably the "guest of honor" made the trip one-way!)
Another attraction sure to bring on riders was the trolley park, later called an "Amusement Park." Patrons would ride an often lengthy line to go for a day of fun.
One example of just such a park is Glen Echo, located in Montgomery County, MD. It was built in the 1890's by the Baltzley brothers, who also founded the Glen Echo Railroad Company.
Although we had a car back then, my Aunt Lucy did not drive. One day, when I was about five years old, she treated me to a day at Glen Echo, and we took DC Transit's CABIN JOHN streetcar!
It was quite an excursion. We packed a picnic lunch and were well-prepared. Soon enough the car left the cobblestone streets of DC proper and dove into a beautiful, wooded private right-of-way. We ate our sandwiches and talked the whole way, and I saw the passing countryside from my seat. The car gently rocked from side-to-side as we sped down those steel rails.
We sat close to the front, and so not only could I see on both sides, but also the right-of-way through the front windshield. The tracks and adjacent grounds were littered with trash. I went into gales of laughter when we were taking a sharp curve and saw, of all things, a BATHTUB lying on its side.
We went quite a distance, crossing trestles and going around curves. Then, all too soon, the buildings and rides of Glen Echo came into view. We had finally come to the end of the line. But this was only the BEGINNING! Before me lay a great amusement park, with a roller-coaster called the "Big Dipper" and my favorite: a Ferris Wheel.
Music, candy, popcorn, lots of rides and plenty of walking all around conspired to make one very happy and tired little boy!!
By now it was dark. The time had come to head back home. So we exited where we came in, and there to greet us was a blue and white streetcar, just like the one we arrived on. The car sped off into the dark woods which were illuminated only by the single, white, incandescent headlight that shone from the front.
If the ride TO Glen Echo was interesting, the ride BACK was magical! The summer's heat was cooled by the breeze from the speeding tram, the night's darkness gave a different aspect to everything we saw as we went now through the woodsy way, and the rocking to and fro of the car as it sped along was more than enough to lull a tired little boy to sleep.
Although I fought falling asleep, soon enough all the activities of the day took its toll, and I lay down for just a second to rest - hoping to once more catch a glimpse of that bathtub.
Sleep came quietly, as the swaying of the car and the vibrations of steel wheel against steel rail produced a mesmerizing effect, and in what seemed like only a minute, I felt a gentle nudge from my aunt's hand: our stop was drawing near.
We got off, and in nothing flat, our magic carpet had vanished into the distance, leaving only tiny red lights visible down the avenue.
But I did not have streetcars on my mind, nor did I think of food or drink. It was putting one unsteady foot in front of the other that I concentrated on at that moment, yawning as I rubbed my sleepy eyes, and soon enough, a little five-year-old boy lay fast asleep, snug in his bed, dreaming no doubt of carnival rides, cotton candy, good times with Aunt Lucy, and a nighttime trolley ride through the Maryland woods.
NOTE: The last trolley to Cabin John ran on January 3, 1960. The last streetcar lines in D.C. were closed on 28 January, 1962. The Glen Echo amusement park itself closed in 1968.
Photo credit and for information about the Glen Echo line:
http://glenecho-cabinjohn.com/GE-01.html
Glen Echo - the Conduit Line: http://glenecho-cabinjohn.com/CR-02.html
The Glen Echo Trolley Line: http://humealumni.org/trolley.html
*Trolley Song -Written by: HUGH MARTIN, RALPH BLANE
Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
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