Doris Day: On the Sunny Side of the Street

Day in 1973

The day that Doris Day died, I did something irrational. Instead of driving straight home from work, I went out of my way and visited her childhood home.

Maybe I was half-expecting a small crowd of mourners. Elderly men and women in overcoats on a damp, overcast evening, sharing their grief over the passing of another icon from their youth.

Of course, no one was there but me. The red-brick house appeared shuttered, as did the entire neighborhood. I wondered, Do the current residents know they are living in Doris Day’s house? It’s a much different neighborhood now than in 1922, when she was born. An interstate highway rips through the center of Evanston, Ohio, now part of downtown Cincinnati. You can see the semi trucks from her front yard. Most of the residents are African-American, not German-American.

Perhaps I was the only visitor all day. But I like to think that my sentimental journey provided a smile for the girl christened Doris Mary Anne von Kappelhoff, wherever she might be right now while tossing pastel pillows back and forth with Rock Hudson.

Doris Day birthplace

The former Kappelhoff home, Cincinnati, Ohio

I was only a year old in 1959 when the movie Pillow Talk was released. As the 1960s progressed, I knew little about what was happening in the world. I received news of the Kennedys, Martin Luther King Jr., Cuban Missile Crisis, Vietnam War, Haight-Ashbury, and the Watts riots via “trickle down” effect. The Cold War, for me, was Boris and Natasha from The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle and Friends. I’m not really a child of the Sixties. Much as I often hate to admit, I’m a child of the Silent Majority.

Doris Day was a Silent Majority cultural icon. She was conservative 1950s who spilled into the 1960s before they became “The Sixties.” She was middle-class, nuclear-family, Caucasian America; traditional, familial, uncomplicated, and safe. With her ever-present smile, twinkling eyes, golden-blonde bob haircut and California tan, she was sunshine and, in my imagination, is always clothed in canary yellow. The ending of her film Move Over, Darling says everything: she jumps in the backyard swimming pool—fully clothed—to join her husband (James Garner) and two kids. Their laughter and splashing, after finally being reunited, are as good an antidote to late 20th and early 21st century anxiety and cynicism as you’re likely to find.

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The nuclear family in Move Over, Darling (1963)

Day’s close friends called her “Clara Bixby.” Rock Hudson, her romantic co-star in three of her most well-known films, called her “Eunice.” To her parents she was Doris Kappelhoff, and to everyone else, Doris Day. Names that are simple, non-glitz, and (though she hated the term) girl-next-door. And despite her great beauty, difficult personal life, and professed dislike of her chaste image, that’s how she presented herself in her movies.  It’s telling that she turned down the juicy role of “Mrs. Robinson” in Mike Nichols’  The Graduate because she found the script “vulgar and offensive.”

Doris’s father was a philanderer who walked out on the family when she was young. (One night, in her bedroom, little Doris was a traumatized earwitness to her father’s sexual relations with a party guest in the next room.) She was married four times. Her first husband, a jazz trombonist, tried to force her to abort their unborn child, then beat her when she was eight months pregnant. She divorced her second husband, a saxophonist, because he was jealous of her success. She was married to her third husband, Martin Melcher, for 17 years. But despite producing some of her best films, his blind faith in a fraudulent attorney left her bankrupt when he died. (She fought for years to finally obtain a $6 million decision.) Her fourth husband divorced her because he was jealous of her “animal friends.”

There was the tragedy of Rock Hudson’s death from AIDS. They were good friends offscreen, and his last public appearance was in 1985 when, looking extremely frail and telling her he had no appetite, he visited “Eunice” at her home and was filmed for the short-lived cable show, Doris Day’s Best Friends.

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Dramatic turn in Hitchcock’s The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956)

Her biggest sorrow was the death of her only child, Terry Melcher, from melanoma in 2004. They were only 20 years apart and like brother and sister. Melcher was a talented music producer, working with the Byrds, Beach Boys, and Paul Revere and the Raiders, assisting with music for his mother’s movies, and producing the 1968-73 sitcom The Doris Day Show. He came close to producing songs by Charles Manson, but backed out after visiting The Family at their ranch. The house Melcher had earlier shared with actress Candice Bergen was the site of the 1969 Tate murders (although Manson denied he was targeting Melcher).

By the mid-1970s, Day had had her fill of Hollywood. She moved up the California coast to Carmel Valley, taking in stray pets and establishing the Doris Day Animal Foundation. She was also part-owner of the pet-friendly Cypress Inn. In the last few decades, she politely but steadfastly refused requests for appearances, even after receiving a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award.

That’s the private Day. Doris Day the entertainer took her alliterative stage name in 1939 after a song, “Day After Day.”

Doris Day Posing with Hand on Chin

“Clara,” in 1949 (Bettman Archive/Getty Images)

She became a popular ballad singer with Les Brown and His Band of Renown, scoring a huge hit with the WWII homecoming theme, “Sentimental Journey.” She had a confident and clean singing style, modeling herself after Ella Fitzgerald. She was a natural. In a rare audio interview with Turner Classic Movies, she said she never experienced stage fright, either while singing or acting.

As great a recording artist as she was, though, it is her 1950s musicals and 1960s romantic comedies that she is remembered for, especially the latter. They’re G-rated, but sophisticated; light and fluffy confections, with upbeat music, colorful clothing, and animated opening graphics, maybe a little Day singing, and lots of playful romance. (Called “sex comedies” when they were filmed, the word “sex” referred more to gender than physical lovemaking.) The plots generally revolve around a trite and temporary misunderstanding between Day and her partner.

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Classic Day expression from Lover Come Back (1961)

These innocent predicaments allow Day to skillfully shift emotions between domestic contentedness and exasperation or outrage. The humor comes because you know what will transpire before Day’s character does. Then, when the revelation hits, you get to see her puff her cheeks, swivel her head sideways, plant her hands on her hips, and stomp away briskly, her back stiff as a board.

While Day is the undisputed focal point in these movies, a key humorous element is her leading men. As a foil for her, they had to be handsome, but in a warm, non-threatening way. Rock Hudson (Pillow Talk, Lover Come Back, and Send Me No Flowers), James Garner (The Thrill of It All and Move Over, Darling), and Rod Taylor (Do Not Disturb and The Glass Bottom Boat) all fit the bill, because they have a puckish playfulness, especially Hudson, who was extremely adept at light comedy.

But it is Doris Day who carries these films. The great Steve Allen called her “one of the very best comedy actresses of all time” but one who “hasn’t gotten the critical appreciation to which she is entitled.” Steve, you are correct on both counts.  And longitudes predicts she will ultimately get this recognition.

Since her recent death at age 97, some male writers have grappled with just how sexy was this “World’s Oldest Virgin,” as she was mockingly labeled (though she actually advocated living together before marriage…four marriages might have something to do with that). Sex and sexuality are an obsession in our post-sexual revolution age, when mere pillow “talk” is considered boring. I won’t dwell on this topic, other than to assure the aforesaid writers that—while I never knew Day before she was a virgin—in my testosterone-soaked eyes she was hot, in both looks and personality, and she got hotter as she got older. Anne Bancroft is talented and beautiful, but it’s a shame adolescent males couldn’t enjoy Clara as “Mrs. Robinson.” And if you writers don’t agree, you can click this.

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One of Day’s most fun flicks, The Glass Bottom Boat (1966)

***

As with The Lawrence Welk Show and Petticoat Junction, which I’ve also profiled on longitudes, Doris Day’s films are a safe harbor for me. They carry me back to a time of innocence, to family and fireside. It’s not because I’m a “male animal” who pines for the days when women were merely Pollyannaish partners to the “stronger sex.” (My career-minded wife and liberated daughter also love her films and introduced me to several. My macho son, on the other hand, is a different story.) It’s more because they are uncomplicated, wholesome, funny, and fun. They are a shelter from the storm, and we all need shelter, especially in these turbulent, less rational times.

While I’m thankful for the “The Sixties” and the Kennedys, Martin Luther King Jr., Grateful Dead, détente, civil rights, equal rights, gay rights, copyrights, etc., I’m also thankful for animal rights and Doris Kappelhoff of Greenlawn Avenue in Evanston, Ohio for the safe harbor she’s given us.

Que será, será!

***

After retiring from the spotlight in the 1970s, Doris Day devoted herself to the cause of animal welfare. I gave a small donation. If you’d also like to help, here’s the link: Doris Day Animal Foundation.

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(Silver Screen Collection/Moviepix/Getty)

Them’s Fightin’ Words, Buckeye Nut

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Fall is my favorite time of year for many reasons. I won’t roll out clichés about apple cider and the “chill in the air.” I’ll just say it’s almost the perfect season. Now you’re asking, “Why almost?”

Here’s my answer: football. “Why football?”  Because it’s poison ivy in my big pile of beautiful autumn leaves. I don’t dislike the actual competition, which is often exciting. And I actually prefer watching American football to real football (soccer).

My issue is with the unavoidable accessories that accompany the actual competition.  I could write a dozen blog posts on these accessories, none of which I ordered with the base model. They extend from puerile television commercials, to the misguided and crooked college scholarship system, to certain leagues that blackball socially conscious players and try to squirm out of concussion lawsuits.

This doesn’t bother most people.  They munch, guzzle, high-five each other, and conduct loud one-way conversations with the TV screen oblivious to the accessories.  But I’m a sensitive sort, who ponders stuff way more than is healthy, so they bother me.

But I’ll just concentrate on one sports accessory in particular: haughtiness. And this haughtiness hits close to home (literally, to use my daughter’s favorite word). Specifically, the haughtiness of one particular college football organization: the Ohio State Buckeyes.leaves

I know of whence I speak. I’ve lived in Ohio for 54 of my 61 years. Just wrote a blog series brandishing my Ohio connection. Grew up in a town that had an Ohio State (OSU) branch campus. My mom and in-laws were successfully treated at the OSU medical center in Columbus. Got a brother and sister-in-law who went to the main campus. Heck, got a wife who went there.

One would think these circumstances would render me an OSU fan. However…my DNA double helix was long ago constructed such that when anything is shoved down my throat, and whereas most people swallow with gratitude, I always gag.

Okay, I get that chest-thumping is part and parcel of college athletics, and a fun and usually harmless activity. Maybe it’s even healthy (a refreshing diversion from Powerpoint presentations, anyway). My father and daughter graduated from Pennsylvania State University (literally). That school chest-thumps with We Are Penn State! Note the crucial exclamation point.

Ohio State, on the other hand, has several thumping gestures, one of which is THE Ohio State University. Note the emphasis on THE, always Biblically pronounced thee. The school was founded in 1870 with this word article intentionally in front. But when certain partisans emphasize that first word, sometimes like a weapon, the implication is that Ohio has only one legitimate public university (which, of course, is patently false). Otherwise, why would this insignificant article even matter?football

In my opinion, the emphasis on this word goes beyond mere chest thumping and spills into unmitigated haughtiness.

I may as well now reveal the chief source of my grievance: I attended Ohio University (OU). OU is located about an hour’s drive southeast of that other school with the ‘S’ in the middle, in a small town called Athens. It is a much smaller school: 17,000 main campus undergraduates compared to OSU’s 47,000. It has a much smaller endowment: 569 million compared to 5.2 billion. And a much smaller football program. We play in the Mid-American Conference (MAC), not the Big Ten (which should actually be Big Twelve, or maybe it’s up to 13…I can’t keep track).

map ohio

Ohio University is located in one of the most scenic parts of Ohio, and for years our main claim to fame was that we were one of the top party schools in the nation (ranked #1 by Princeton Review eight years ago…not bragging, just saying). Although we have a great athletic program, OU is not what might be termed a sports powerhouse. Beer drinking powerhouse, yes.  But sports is not the biggest thing on OU’s radar. So this “THE Ohio State University” crap—at least in a sports context and delivered in the presence of a graduate of a different public university in Ohio—is personal.

How did this ridiculous trend of OSU emphasizing “THE” begin, anyway? Can I get some love here, people? As you’ll soon see, my figurative Napoleon complex is entirely justified.

Founded in 1804, my school of Ohio University has used the abbreviation “OHIO” since 1896. In 1993, we trademarked that nickname for merchandising purposes. OHIO is on our apparel, flags, bumper stickers, and other licensed merchandise. But in 1997, Ohio State challenged our trademarked nickname/logo. Evidently, “Ohio State” and “OSU” weren’t good enough. The Buckeye nuts wanted the whole enchilada, including “OHIO.” Why? Haughtiness, of course.

During the acrimonious legal dispute, the two school presidents got together, probably over some 3.2 beer on High Street in Columbus. Surprisingly, OSU’s titular head eventually saw the light and admitted his corporation—I mean school—was being silly. So, my school, which was founded 66 years before Ohio State popped out via C-section (it was too large for natural childbirth), was able to retain its nickname OHIO. It’s still on my forest-green sweatshirt. I continue to wear it in public, and I haven’t been arrested.

Just as in the real world…just as in Washington and elsewhere…here was a classic tale of Goliath wanting to beat up David. And this time—which seldom happens—David prevailed.

Battle Of David And Goliath

“Go, Go, Go-liath!” Seriously? (vecteezy.com)

(David and Goliath stories always spike my blood pressure. It’s probably why I’m a liberal Democrat…the old-fashioned kind, anyway.)

You know where this is leading, right? Chewing on their sour grapes, the sword-wielding children up there at Ohio State had to save face somehow. And that’s why that corporation—I mean school—in Columbus and its football scholarship jocks feel the need to emphasize the article “The.” Sour grapes. End of story. I think.

NEWSFLASH: I just learned that THE Ohio State University recently tried to trademark the article “THE.” This is not a joke. Evidently they have lots of time on their hands. However, they failed in this ludicrous attempt as well. Laughed out of the courtroom. Thou failest, Thee Ohio State University.

Maybe that school should next try to trademark the colors red (they haughtily call it “scarlet”) and grey.

***

So this is why my Buckeye-nut wife threatens to divorce me every fall when the traditional Ohio State-Michigan rivalry game comes around. Even though I don’t utter a word, much less watch the game, she knows I’m secretly pulling for, as Ohio State fans refer to them, “that team up north.” Not because I particularly like Michigan, but because, for me, rooting for Ohio State is like drinking skunky beer.

All kidding aside, OSU, Michigan, and Penn State are top-ranked public research institutions which annually churn out high-achieving graduates (as does OU). Athletically, Michigan football ranks first in NCAA history. Ohio State is one of only two schools to win men’s football and basketball championships the same year. Penn State has more overall NCAA Division I championships than any Big Ten school.

And my school? The humble, green-and-white Ohio University Bobcats down in lil ole Athens County? Win, lose, draw, or game cancellation…doesn’t matter. We’ll find a reason to be on Court Street and party at the Cat’s Den.

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An Ohio Yankee Camps at John Lennon’s House

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The address is 251 Menlove Avenue.

John Lennon lived here between the ages of five and 22. It was the semi-detached home of his indomitable Aunt Mimi, and her husband, George Smith. They called their middle-class domicile “Mendips.”

Lennon’s father had abandoned his wife and son. His mother, Julia Stanley Lennon, handed him over to be raised by her eldest sister Mary (Mimi) because she was ill-equipped to do so. It didn’t help that Lennon was a troublemaker who exhibited symptoms of ADHD. (And those were pre-Ritalin days.) Even as an adult his acid tongue burned more than a few people who ventured too closely.

When Lennon was 14, his beloved Uncle George died. Then, when he was 17, his world upended when his mother was struck and killed by a car driven by an off-duty policeman. It happened while Julia was crossing Menlove, a divided highway, just moments after she had left Mimi’s house. She was walking toward the northbound bus stop.

This is just opposite of where the southbound Liverpool city bus dropped me off.

As I alluded to in my last post, I didn’t have a map with me. So, as with Blanche DuBois on her streetcar named desire, I had to “rely on the kindness of strangers.” Such independence is good, however. It means you have to be bold and ask questions and engage with the locals. If the lady sitting behind me on the bus hadn’t overheard me ask the torpid driver several times about Mendips—then nudged me to get off at The Vineries—I might have ended up in Clock Face.

Mendips on Menlove Ave.

View of Mendips from northbound bus stop. Julia Lennon was killed near here in 1958 (11 days after Ohio Yankee was hatched.)

Not knowing where to go, I wandered across busy Menlove (carefully) and down The Vineries. A small sedan pulled up in front of a house, and a woman got out. I walked over briskly and asked if she could point me toward Mendips.

“Oh, it’s right around the corner, other side of the road. It’s the house with a blue plaque on it. You’ll probably see a crowd outside!” I thanked her and turned to leave, but she insisted on accompanying me to the corner to point out the house.

“Where you from, love?” she asked with a beaming smile. I told her North America.

“Well, I know that!” she said with a laugh, obviously recognizing my accent. “Where exactly?”

“From Ohio,” I said sheepishly. “In…er…America.”

I anticipated a dirty look or an “I’m so sorry.” But instead she told me she once visited America, and my state was one of the few she didn’t get to. I told her she must visit Ohio…but off the top of my head I couldn’t think of a reason why.

“Oh, you’re in luck!” she said, pointing across the street. “Only a few people!”

We said goodbye and I re-crossed Menlove, arriving at Lennon’s home as it started to drizzle and as the few visitors were packing into their car. Then a young guy appeared out of nowhere, phone at his ear, excitedly giving a play-by-play of his Beatles tour to his dad back home. We exchanged photo poses, and I learned he was from Colorado.

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Lennon and me. Seventeen years, one ocean, and worlds of talent apart.

Then Colorado guy left, and another car pulled up. About five or six people got out, all of them Asian except the tour guide.

“This is where John lived with his Aunt Mimi…” the guide dryly recited, as the crowd leaned in closely. I got the impression they either struggled with English, or didn’t know much about The Beatles.

The guide noticed me take a couple steps back. “It’s okay, you can listen,” he said. How thoughtful of him.

Tour guide wrapped up Mendips in two minutes, and while he and his charges walked toward their car, I asked if it wouldn’t be out of line to ask which way to Strawberry Field, which I knew was near Mendips.

“I’ll tell you, but you really should take my tour to properly see all the sites.” My bad angel wanted to tell him to go jump in the Mersey. But my good angel overruled and said He’s just trying to earn a living.

I left modest Mendips just before the jumbo, rainbow-painted Magical Mystery Tour bus arrived. Strawberry Field is only a half mile from where Lennon lived, on a hilly, shaded side street called Beaconsfield Road. It was a Salvation Army home for orphans, and Lennon used to climb the surrounding wall to play with the kids. Each year, the home had a big festival, and Mimi would later describe how Lennon always pestered her with “Hurry, Mimi, or we’ll be late for the festival!”

Strawberry Field gate

Strawberry Field. The gate is a replica of the original.

(This the same bloke who claimed The Beatles were more popular than Jesus, posed full frontal au naturel for an album cover, and made Nixon’s Enemies List.)

As the drizzle continued, I came upon a well-dressed man coming down the hill and asked him where Strawberry Field was. He told me I’d just passed it. So I backstepped until I saw the graffiti-framed strawberry-red gate marking the entrance. But other than the gate, which was locked, there wasn’t much to observe, since the Victorian building that once sheltered the children was torn down in 2005. There was only a partially built visitor center, and construction materials littered the grounds. (The tourist center opened in September of this year.)

I then walked down Vale Road, which Lennon once bicycled on, toward Woolton Village. After asking a few folks for directions, including one teen with a Scouse twang not unlike George Harrison’s, I located St. Peter’s Church, where John’s skiffle band The Quarry Men performed at a garden fete on July 6, 1957.

As the story goes, Lennon’s friend Ivan Vaughan introduced him that day (maybe the preceding evening, depending on the storyteller) to a younger chap named Paul McCartney, who lived in nearby Allerton and also played guitar. Paul knew the chords and lyrics to Eddie Cochran’s “Twenty Flight Rock.” He showed John, who was suitably impressed, and John offered him a position in The Quarry Men. This was the watershed moment that birthed The Beatles and, truly, altered the course of pop cultural history.

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St. Peter’s Church in Woolton. The plaque is under the left window.

I was the only one in the darkened lot outside the church, standing under a small plaque commemorating that meeting of future musical giants. I often think the adjective “surreal” is overused, but I can’t think of another word to describe how I felt.

After wandering around the quaint streets of Woolton, and eating a quick supper in the Istanbul Barbecue and Bistro, I returned to the bus stop at Mendips, intending to catch a bus back to the Travelodge in Liverpool. But I felt like I was glued to the house where “Please Please Me” and “I’ll Get You” were written. It was a kind of sanctuary. Protected by the National Trust along with the other three Beatle homes, I was glad it had avoided the fate of the Cavern Club, Brian Epstein’s old record store, and the Salvation Army home at Strawberry Field.

I joked to myself that, had I brought my tent along, I might have pitched it. The rain had stopped, and it appeared the Tragical History Tour bus was stationed in Liverpool for the night.

My dawdling at Mendips was rewarded when a tiny car pulled up, parked on the grassy berm, and a tiny man scurried over to the gate while jingling his car keys. He gazed at Aunt Mimi’s house for about 30 seconds. Then he abruptly turned and headed back toward his car. Strange, I thought. No keepsake photo of the house?

“Sir, would you like me to take your photo?” I asked, same as with Ken the Heartbeat on Mathew Street.

“Oh no, that’s okay, but thank you,” he said in a soft Liverpudlian accent. “I just pop in once in a while. I live just down the road in the village.”

This revelation led to a long and interesting conversation. He said his name was “John,” and he’d lived in the area all his life. He told me about the Cavern Club days, and how his wife (then girlfriend) was one of the groupies known as “Beatle-ettes.”

Woolton Village

The Grapes Inn in Woolton Village, the oldest pub in town

“Me mates and I used to tear up their Beatle photos, we were so jealous!” he laughed.

John told me he was allowed unlimited entrance into all four Beatle homes. He described how, a while back, he discovered an old guitar in his attic. It was a rare Framus model similar to what Paul used before he became a Beatle. John had given it to his grandson, but suggested his grandson might want to donate it to the National Trust.

“He’s a good lad. We met with Colin of the Trust over a cuppa. Colin was overjoyed. He said they’d been looking for that same Framus model for a long time. So in gratitude, he’s allowed us to enter any of the four homes for free!” (I got the impression John was no longer jealous.)

John actually offered to drive me over to Allerton to see Paul’s home. But it was getting late, and I needed to hail a ride back to Liverpool, so I thanked him but declined.

Anyway, I plan a Round Two in Liverpool. Not only are Liverpudlians friendly, but I’ll visit Paul’s house in Allerton. I’ll also seek out the roundabout at Penny Lane, located between Woolton and Liverpool, which I only glanced at through the bus window. Maybe Quarry Bank High School. There’s also John Rigby’s granddaughter, one Eleanor, buried in the St. Peter’s Church cemetery, which in my delirium I totally forgot about.  And, of course, George and Ringo.

I only wish I’d gotten John’s last name. If I had, I’d “pop in” to see him, and then the two of us could day trip over to Aunt Mimi’s for a “cuppa.”

This is the end of my “Ohio Yankee” series about my visit to Scotland and Liverpool.  Thanks for joining me.

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An Ohio Yankee Visits Liverpool, England

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[An Apology: in my last post, I wanted to humorously discuss absurdity and pettiness in the office. (For you young people, it happens more often than you might think.)  Sort of a Dilbert-styled satire with a casual nod to the classic short story “Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall Street.”  But my wife, who reads my stuff occasionally when she has the stomach for it, characteristically sidestepped the gist of my essay and, instead, took exception to my reference to urinals.  Also, my friend Tad politely noted some double entendres that were—believe me—entirely unintentional.  Anyway, I’m sorry if I offended anyone, and I promise today’s post will go nowhere near porcelain fixtures.  No guarantees about double entendres, though.]

When I decided to fly to Glasgow to visit my daughter’s family, one of my first actions was to open my world atlas and check the distance from Glasgow to Liverpool, England. In 1964, my friend John Hire and I became fans of an exciting musical group from Liverpool. I think this was concurrent to John instructing me about his older sister’s body parts.

I’ve been marveling at and studying The Beatles’ music…and the physical attributes of the opposite sex…ever since.

But in addition to visiting the home of The Beatles, I was also curious about Liverpool as a famed seaport city. During the 19th century, Liverpool was a thriving port for American merchant ships delivering cotton to textile factories in northern England, and also a busy departure city for immigrants. In the 20th century, U.S. naval sailors took shore leave in the city and sold their blues and early rock ‘n’ roll records to working-class English youth hungry for anything with a backbeat.

American writer Herman Melville (“Bartleby,” Moby-Dick) was a young merchant sailor who visited Liverpool in 1839 and wrote stirringly, in his book Redburn, about the profound poverty of this mecca of the Industrial Revolution:

Every variety of want and suffering here met the eye, and every vice showed here its victims…Old women, rather mummies, drying up with slow starving and age; young girls, incurably sick, who ought to have been in the hospital; sturdy men, with the gallows in their eyes, and a whining lie in their mouths; young boys, hollow-eyed and decrepit; and puny mothers, holding up puny babes in the glare of the sun, formed the main features of the scene…But these were diversified by instances of peculiar suffering, vice, or art in attracting charity, which, to me at least, who had never seen such things before, seemed to the last degree uncommon and monstrous.

Ferry Cross the Mersey

Ohio Yankee, looking for ferries on the Mersey

“Uncommon and monstrous.” Hard to believe it’s the same city. Liverpool in 2019 barely resembles the city of Melville’s time, or even when the Fab Four were growing up. The dock that existed in 1839 is now below ground about 200 yards inland from the River Mersey, the water having been “reclaimed” by land. In 2008 Liverpool was recognized a European Capital of Culture by the European Union (EU), which helped encourage urban renewal, exemplified by Liverpool ONE shopping complex. Liverpool is now a top tourist destination in the UK.

Since I had a limited amount of time in Liverpool, I listed my top priorities. John Lennon’s boyhood home at Mendips, Menlove Avenue, Woolton was the bullseye. If you don’t know who John Lennon is, he’s famous for being the only person to have his name on a major British airport.

Second to this was the Cavern Club, where The Beatles first made a name in 1961-63 while playing an astonishing 292 dates (little wonder that ensemble was so tight). Third was the location of Old Dock. Fourth was St. Peter’s Church in Woolton Village, where John and Paul McCartney first met at a garden fete on July 6, 1957. And if I had time, Strawberry Field, Penny Lane, and Paul’s boyhood home in Allerton.

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St. George’s Hall, from Lime Street station

I exited Lime Street Railway station and was confronted by the neoclassical splendor of St. George’s Hall and a sea of people and buses.  I poked around Liverpool City Centre toward what I hoped would be the Mersey. It took me a while, but I eventually found Albert Dock and Merseyside Maritime Museum. The museum receptionist told me about the reclaiming that turned Mersey water into land, and that the only way to see the original 1716 Thomas Steers’ dock, the world’s first commercial wet dock (later called Old Dock), was to take an underground tour. I didn’t have the time or inclination, but I did manage to get a peep at history through a viewing window on a plaza near the Hilton Hotel.

Staring through a glass capsule in the middle of a hotel plaza while a musician absentmindedly played Beatles songs on a cheesy organ, it was a minor struggle envisioning 20-year-old Melville squeezing his way through emaciated beggars and cripples in 1839 after disembarking his vessel St. Lawrence. But for a fleeting second, I was there.

Old Liverpool Dock

Old Dock…buried under the edifice of a luxury hotel

Close to Old Dock is Mathew Street, where the Cavern Club is located, although I didn’t immediately know it. I just wandered through streets and alleyways until stumbling upon a small crowd in a curving pedestrian alley. Then…boom. There was John Lennon, lounging against a wall.

Or, at least, a life-sized statue of him. It was positioned next to a sign indicating this was the CAVERN PUB. Not to be confused with Cavern Club…but so many businesses in this area try to link themselves with The Beatles, the proprietors may want you to be confused, just to get your business. There was also a wall of bricks with numerous band names inscribed on them, some famous, some unknown. Each band had performed at one time at the Cavern Club, which existed from 1957 till 1973.

I saw a man gazing at the wall for a long time. He appeared somewhat misty-eyed. I asked if he wanted me to take his photo.  He thanked me but declined. After chatting with him a little, I learned his name was Ken, and he was looking for his band’s brick. He said he was once in a group called the Heartbeats, and it had performed at the Cavern Club on three occasions in 1966.

Liverpool Ken of the Heartbeats

Ken the Heartbeat, in front of Mathew Street Wall of Fame

Ken let me snap his photo with my own camera.  After he left, I spent a good ten minutes looking for his brick myself, but with no luck. Ken was very nice, and I really wanted to find his brick.  But it must have tumbled through the cracks of time.  (NOTE: a Manchester band called the Heartbeats did exist in the Sixties, and they later became Herman’s Hermits. But Ken never said anything about being a pre-Hermit.)

Getting back to the Cavern Club…the Club, not Pub, is actually across the alley and downwind about a hundred feet. Or, at least, a facsimile of the original club. Believe it or not, the Liverpool home of The Beatles was demolished in 1973 to make room for a proposed underground (subway) air shaft, which never materialized. The basement club was later resurrected, but with a different entrance location, interior, and stage.

I don’t consider many things sacred, but on the stupidity scale, a demolition project like this ranks with a construction project on the U.S.-Mexican border.

The original entrance is marked by a black-and-white mural with photos and a club history. Another statue is here: Cilla Black (1943-2015), who was a Cavern Club hat-check girl, then began jumping onstage to sing, then became friends with The Beatles, then forged a very successful recording and television career.

While near Mathew Street, I tried to locate the site of the record store which genius Beatles manager Brian Epstein (1934-1967) owned when he first heard about the group. It was on busy Whitechapel Street. I asked a few people, but all appeared under the age of 75 and didn’t know anything. (Some, sadly, didn’t even know the name Brian Epstein.) As for the store, it may have been swallowed by a London or U.S. land shark wearing designer clothing.

epstein

Brian Epstein

Well, if I’m gonna visit Johnny L. at Mendips, I’d better get scooting. I made one more trip to Albert Dock, to the office of the “Magical Mystery Tour” (which conducts a guided bus tour) to get a map of Beatle sites. The price of the map was typically outrageous, and the tour folks typically tried to sell me a tour ticket, since “It’s really the only way to properly see all the sites.” I smiled and told them You say ‘Yes’ but I say ‘No,’ then headed to the city bus station for my own ticket to ride.

But not before dropping into the spanking new Museum of Liverpool. As if on cue, the museum was at that moment hosting a limited-run exhibit devoted to John and Yoko. I spent about a half hour here. Yoko had a big hand in the presentation, much of which was devoted to her and John’s social activism, which I was already fairly knowledgeable about (bagism, hairism, bedism, and other peace-isms).

What really hit me was coming off the elevator, turning the corner, and hearing “Imagine” at the moment I stepped up to the photo below.

Though a deserved classic, “Imagine” isn’t one of my favorite Lennon songs. But I must say, I got a little choked up. (I kept my tears in check, though, as I didn’t want the security guard embracing me.)

There was also a large wall with upwards of a hundred handwritten notes. A pencil and a pile of blank pieces of white paper were on a small table with a sign encouraging people to scribble anything about Lennon, The Beatles, the world, universe, jelly babies, or anything one had a mind to. All the notes would eventually be delivered to Yoko.

I kept it simple and just told Yoko that her late husband’s group has been a bright piece of an Ohio boy’s life since 1964, when he lived on 142 Sherbrook Road.

Then I walked toward the elevator.  I descended, left the museum, and made my way…a sentimental old man in a foreign city, haunted by memories…to 251 Menlove Avenue.

 

John and Yoko exhibit, Liverpool 2

 

I Would Prefer Not To

Urinals

“Can you stop by?”

This was the Skype message I recently received from my supervisor. Those of us Bartlebys who have worked in an office environment and have been unlucky recipients of such a message from the boss (aka “The Big Cheese”) know that, no matter how cool and self-assured one might be in other situations, there’s always a quickening of the pulse when such a message is received.

It used to be a phone call, or a head appearing in one’s office doorway. Then it was email. Now it’s Skype.

I was half-tempted to type back “I would prefer not to.”  But I sold out and typed “OK.”

As I walked toward his office, I wondered if this would be one of those “Shut the door” type conversations. Sure enough, it was.

“Shut the door,” he said abruptly. “Have a seat.” How polite of him. My heartrate had by now increased dramatically.

“Don’t get excited,” the big cheese assured me, unsuccessfully.

In addition to words and voice tone, body language is also very revealing in these encounters. And at this moment, his body language indicated that, yes, this would be yet another session of existential revelation, explanation, justification, and eventual atonement.

My body language indicated that my heart was now pumping enough blood to cause the front of my shirt to vibrate like the skins on a drumhead at a Hottentot wedding celebration. So it was kind of difficult to instruct my involuntary cardiac muscle not to “get excited.”

He leaned over his desk, folded his arms, and looked at me with solemnity over the top of his wire glasses.

“Just answer me…”

He paused for dramatic effect. I waited with bated breath to see if I would be granted or denied admittance through the Gates of Heaven.

“…did you or did you not forget to flush the urinal yesterday?”

I was busted. Oh, God. I’ve always had a feeling that one day I might slip up.

Indeed, I had made a visit to the bathroom yesterday. And after doing my “business,” I followed the same ritual I always did. I walked to the sink, washed my hands in lukewarm water (for some odd reason, this one bathroom doesn’t provide hot water), dried my hands with a small paper towel…then walked across the tile, grasped the door handle with said paper and opened the door, then flipped the used paper in the nearby waste can.

However…on this one occasion…I forgot to use said paper to push handle on said urinal before exiting said bathroom. And I remembered that an anonymous gentleman was, at that moment, conducting his own business in a parallel urinal. He must have narc’ed (squealed) on me.

(You ladies might be interested to know that men’s public bathrooms are perhaps the most unsociable places on earth. Sinks are acceptable locations for idle conversation, although men being men, conversation is infrequent. Urinals are definitely off-limits. Conversation occasionally occurs, but eye contact is forbidden, unless there’s loud rock ‘n’ roll or football going on, and the men are drunk.)

“Uh…yes,” I stammered. “I mean…I did forget. Is that a big deal?”

The cheesy one sat back in his swivel chair and, with a sad expression, stared at his hands, now folded in his lap.

“Always…” he began, “always flush the urinal. This incident has reached Rosemary.”

Rosemary is the Human Resources Director. She’s a petite, attractive woman about 30 years old. Half my age. Her nickname is “Rottweiler.” I’m assuming she earned this nickname because, not only does she have a pet Rottweiler (a dog with a reputation for “territorial aggressiveness”), but every time an employee leaves the company, she sends out a company-wide email with the employee’s photo stating “John Doe is no longer employed at (the company). Should he visit our facility, he must be treated as a visitor.” This cold declaration is followed by various security requirements that employees must follow—and John Doe must adhere to—if John Doe visits former facility.

I can understand taking away an employee’s electronic badge before he leaves. But I’ve never understood either the necessity or the effectiveness of these company-wide emails.

Rosemary not only hires people, handles their benefits (paid time off, 401K, health, and life itself), processes their resignations, delivers news of their layoffs and firings, but after employee has vanished, she alerts the workforce that former employee is, essentially, persona non grata. The only analogy to this last action that I can think of is someone who might desecrate a gravesite.

Rosemary may be petite and attractive, but she has more power and influence than the company president. Think a smaller version of Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

But getting back to our little drama…I expressed atonement to Herr Limburger for my thoughtless action the previous day. Then, with trepidation, I asked him if I needed to visit Rosemary.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” he said, just as solemn as when I first sat down. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again. There will, of course, be mention of this incident in your next performance appraisal. But your employment situation is still secure.”

Whew. I staved off a company-wide email from Rosemary.

Cheesy one apologized for, as he termed it, the “brouhaha.” I told him “That’s okay, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“Hey, don’t apologize,” he said. “This is my job.” Indeed, it is.

I left his office. I felt a strong urge to visit the scene of the crime and flush all the urinals, as a sort of psychological purging.

I also felt a strong urge to determine who the asshole was who narc’ed on me.  Then decided “screw it…I would prefer not to.”  And, then, a revelatory moment:

I pinpointed the reason for Rosemary’s high-security emails.

 

bartelby

(Bill Bragg, 2012/foliosociety.com)

 

A Day in the Life of a 21st Century American

greta

Woke up. Fell out of bed.

On the drive to work, the news concerned a 16-year-old Swedish girl with a developmental disorder called Asperger syndrome. She’s pleading with world leaders to try to understand science and act accordingly so our planet and its inhabitants might remain healthy.

One of the most powerful of the world leaders—democratically elected—completely ignored her as he walked past her. He later mocked her on something called “Twitter” that spreads words, frequently opinions, to many people at the drop of a hat.

His example was emulated by others, some of whom are professional “journalists.” One of the “journalists,” a man, suggested the Swedish girl with Asperger syndrome might need a “spanking.”

Another professional “journalist,” who apparently had some insight the rest of the world lacks, explained she was mentally ill and was being manipulated by her parents.

The news described other instances of adults employing insults against the Swedish girl.

Arriving at work, I received an electronic letter known as an “email.” This email requested all employees respond to a meeting invitation. The “meeting” is actually a gathering of all employees for something called “active shooter response training.” The electronic letter explained that this training is a safety measure to protect employees in case a person or persons tries to murder the office employees.

I declined the meeting invitation. I then received a thing called a “Skype,” which is a way of immediately conversing with someone electronically. The Skype message I received was from my department manager, who wanted to see me in his office.

I entered my manager’s office. He lifted his head up from a small communication and entertainment device called an “iPhone.” He began talking about the uncharacteristically hot weather. He then asked me why I declined the meeting invitation for “active shooter response training.” I asked him if I could shut his door, and he said “Please do.”

I explained to him that, while I understand his reasons for conducting this training, I couldn’t in good conscience participate. He asked me why. I told him that I feel that businesses, schools, and churches in America shouldn’t be compelled to play “duck and cover” when our own government refuses to take adequate action. I also told him that these “duck and cover” exercises will merely encourage our government to be even more complacent.

He told me that he respected my views, but didn’t necessarily agree with them. I asked him if that meant he thought that our government was doing enough. He said “No, that’s not it,” then began talking about guns in his basement, and how his wife didn’t like the all the spiders around the vault where he kept his guns.

My department manager didn’t explain why he didn’t agree with my views.

My department manager thanked me, excused me from the “active shooter response training,” and I left his office. I walked past the five American flags that hung outside the cubicles of two of my workmates, and the TRUMP: MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN bumper sticker that is taped atop a cubicle wall near one of the flags.

I rounded the corner and returned to my cubicle, placed headphones on my head to drown out nearby conversations, finished my workday, then began my drive home.

The news on the drive home concerned a Wall Street Journal report about a transcript that revealed the American president requested the president of Ukraine “look into” a former U.S. vice-president and his son. The Ukrainian president evidently declined. The news story added that the American president will possibly be facing the former vice-president in the 2020 election. He may also be facing impeachment, according to a related story.

I noticed that the light changed, and entered my neighborhood. I passed the three homes across the street that had American flags dangling over their front porches. Two of the homes had other flags in addition to their American flags. These other flags were small white flags planted in the corners of the yards, indicating recent toxic chemical application. So I rolled up my car window to block the smell of 2,4-D herbicide, which the science has shown to be carcinogenic.

I pulled into my driveway to hear the final news story on my car radio. It was related to the Swedish girl. But it didn’t concern her pleas to world leaders, or whether or not the world leaders would be responding to her pleas with greater action to combat climate change, which the science has shown to be related to man-made greenhouse gases.

The news story didn’t deal with the girl’s message. It dealt with the girl. Specifically, her Asperger syndrome. With gravitas in his voice, the commentator speculated that her disorder might be related to chemicals in the environment.

I moved the gear lever to PARK, turned the car key, removed my sunglasses, and gazed at the steering wheel a long while.

I didn’t blow my mind out.

An Ohio Yankee Searches for Food and Nudists on Scotland’s Trails

Sometimes I want to murder time
Sometimes when my heart’s aching
But mostly I just stroll along
The path that he is taking

—from “October Song” by The Incredible String Band

Last time, I was on the lookout for a rumored nudist colony along the West Highland Way (WHW) in Scotland.

Strolling along the southeastern shore of Loch Lomond with my hiking companion Johannes, I kept glancing at the forested island to my left. A flash of white?! Maybe not. I’ll scope it out again on my return trip.

We pitched our tents at Milarrochy Bay campground, only a hundred or so yards from the loch. We’d hiked nearly 20 miles that day. I was exhausted and turned in early, although Johannes struck up conversation, auf Deutsch, with several other camping groups, all of whom happened to be younger Deutschlanders like him.

adam and eveI enjoyed Johannes’s hiking company. Intelligent and affable, he had a unique and enviable way of weighing his words before voicing them…maybe because he was a professor. And we hiked at the same pace. So he was the ideal hiking partner.

We said goodbye next morning, Johannes continuing northward, me turning back to Milngavie. I’d been warned of midges, which are tiny gnat-like insects that can consume a human in five minutes. Unzipping my tent, a small cloud of them drifted inside and began munching on my arms. So I packed up quickly and immediately hit the trail. (Scotland’s midges play fair, though. They won’t bother you if you maintain a 7-mph pace, or reach a certain elevation. I wasn’t timing my stride, but I skedaddled and headed for the hills.)

Conic Hill was most important. We’d bypassed it yesterday to make time, but today I was hoping for an expansive view of beautiful Loch Lomond, the largest lake in Great Britain in surface area, and dotted with many islands shaped like green puzzle pieces. One of them, Inchcruin, was used as an insane asylum in the 18th century. Another, Inchmurrin, is today used by sane people to “appreciate nature.”

conic hill1

Loch Lomond, from Conic Hill. Inchmurrin is the farthest island. Inchcruin is further north, to the right of the photo.

Arriving at the top after a short climb, the view of Loch Lomond was beautiful. One of those larger islands down there is Inchmurrin. I’m too far away to spy nudists, though. But, really, why would I want to invade their privacy? I guess because their lifestyle is different and, in a way, admirable.

(If you’re still curious about Inchmurrin naturists, click here.)

Conic Hill wasn’t as high as Ben Nevis, but the view was just as scenic. The Conic descent was a bonus, because for perhaps a mile ahead I could trace the WHW path, a beige scribble that swept and swooped over the rounded pastures. Passing bleating sheep then crossing a stream through a shaded wood, I met a friendly guy from Croatia who was striking camp. You’ve got a great view ahead of you, sir.

While exiting the last sheep-grazing meadow, I saw a large sign that encouraged people to keep their dogs leashed. The sign had a gory photo of a mutilated sheep. Supposedly, 50 privately-owned sheep are killed every year by unleashed dogs on the West Highland Way. What struck me, though, was the polite wording. I’m paraphrasing, but it went something like this:

Do keep your pet tethered whilst walking though these fields. This will prevent unnecessary distress for all. Thank you.

The U.S. equivalent would be POSTED: ALL DOGS MUST BE LEASHED!! VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED!!

The troll lives in the little dark area on the left.

Approaching the rowhouses on Gartness Road where Johannes and I had rested and enjoyed ice lollies the previous day, I passed by a stone bridge almost totally obscured by dense foliage, with a small sign reading “Trolls Bridge.” If you recall from childhood the fairy tale “Three Billy Goats Gruff,” you might understand why I paused here and listened for an irritated “Who goes there?!”

Then I arrived at the rowhouses. Now, remember, I’m a stupid Yank, and an even stupider Ohio Valley Yank at that. So I know little about stone rowhouses (townhouses). Anyway, I was hungry, and between the size of the building and the many cars parked outside, I figured one of the doors would open to the restaurant that I knew was there, and where I could get a hearty lunch. The question was…which door was the entrance?

Door number one—it might have been the one with the nameplate that said “Wilkie Watters”—was locked. But door number two did, indeed, open. However, I didn’t expect to see a half-dressed woman, on a couch, with a phone at her ear, with bulging eyeballs, who yelled “What are ye doin’?! This is me hoose!!”

Uh, sorry, ma’am, just a blockheaded Yank looking for a hot meal. I abandoned the restaurant idea and had a Clif bar instead.

The last significant stop for me on the West Highland Way was Glengoyne Distillery (est. 1833), only a quarter mile from the trail on the other end of a large field. I’m not a whisky man, but I was distressed after the rowhouse incident. Also, when in Scotland do as the Romans do, so I swerved my rubbery legs offtrail to the distillery’s gift shop, where I bought a souvenir bottle of Glengoyne’s 18-year-old single malt Scotch whisky. I figured the liquor would give me a shot of much-needed energy, as I was fast losing strength in the July heat, a blazing 92 degrees Fahrenheit, way excessive for Scotland.

Of course, the booze didn’t have the same effect as Popeye’s spinach might. But it went down like liquid velvet. I took a few luxurious swigs and saved the rest for my whisky-drinking son-in-law.

I dragged myself past The Shire, Mugdock Castle, and arrived at my trailhead turnoff about 4 p.m. I’d hiked approximately 40 miles with backpack in two days, a personal record. But my geriatric legs paid a heavy price.

glengoyne1

Glengoyne Distillery in Dumgoyne, Scotland

The final insult, after the Gartness Road rowhouse, was encountering two drunks on a bench in the middle of the trail turnoff to my daughter’s house. Arms embracing each other, laughing uncontrollably, they told me I still had a mile to go to Milngavie center, and that I was…get this…cheating.

Can you imagine? I tried to explain, but they kept me there for a full five minutes, laughing the entire time, while I wilted in the heat.

Actually, these two were pretty hilarious—God’s holy fools—and an appropriate ending to my troll…I mean, stroll. Now that I think of it, I should have gifted them my Glengoyne bottle.

(I made one other side trip while visiting my daughter and her family, this one to neighboring England and the port city of Liverpool. I’ll write about that next. If I recall, there was a little band from Liverpool that made a few records…)

troll

West Highland Way troll, who looks like he’s had some 18-year-old single malt

 

 

An Ohio Yankee Rambles on Scotland’s Trails

scotland

This is the third installment in my travel-to-Scotland series. Most travel essays read like toothpaste commercials, so I’ve tried to jazz up mine with some subjective asides. After all, it’s not just about geography, food, culture, and hotel accommodations, it’s also about how all these affect each personality, and personalities are different, including distorted personalities like mine.

With Longitudes, you get the good, the bad, and the self-indulgent.

While in Scotland, I tried to mix town with city with country. I’ve already discussed Milngavie (“Mull-guy”), Glasgow, and Edinburgh, so now I’m leaving the pavement and discussing some trails. Specifically, Ben Nevis and the West Highland Way.

Ben Nevis: Mr. Nevis isn’t a person, he’s a mountain. His name is an anglicization of the Gaelic Beinn Nibheis, which means “malicious mountain.” Having summited Mounts Whitney and Washington in the U.S., I didn’t find him malicious at all. In fact, he was more like a large teddy bear. My old school friend Tad had summited him years ago, and since we Kiski boys (“Faith, Humility, Tolerance”) are a competitive lot, I felt compelled to plant my own invisible Kiski flag alongside Tad’s.

I struck out early Sunday morning with my son-in-law, Mike. We drove from Milngavie to Fort William, a several-hour-drive (see map below). Ben Nevis Mountain Path starts at a car park outside Fort William, and meanders across fields of grazing sheep, gradually rising up toward the clouds.

Big Ben is the highest mountain in the British Isles, at 4,411 feet (1,345 meters). Most hikers summit and return in a day, so there are no camping areas, huts, signs, or other evidence of man’s tinkering. Just a gentle, rocky trail and a few cairns for directional help. The only eyesore was a clear-cutted mountain slope to the southeast, but we soon left this far behind us.

ben nevis

View from about halfway up Ben Nevis

Mike was much faster than me, a Ferrari compared to my Ford Fiesta. But he waited at the top, waving me over to where he sat amongst a small crowd at the base of a large cairn near an emergency shelter. We peeked inside this shelter, intended for climbers who might be stranded atop during bad weather. Pretty dismal; nothing more than a coffin-like hole in the rock to protect from wind and rain.

Also atop Ben Nevis: “…(A) piano that had been buried under one of the cairns on the peak was uncovered by the John Muir Trust, which owns much of the mountain” (Wikipedia). Amazingly, the piano was evidently carried up 20 years earlier as a charity project by some enterprising men from Dundee. This stunt sounds suspiciously like a Monty Python skit—I picture Cleese, Idle and company with red beards and kilts—but it’s a fact. “And now for something completely different.”

We returned to our car in late afternoon, a perfect day hike. Our muscles ached for several days afterward. But it was a good pain.

whw map

West Highland Way and Ben Nevis

West Highland Way (WHW): there are many hiking trails in Scotland, but this is the longest and most well-known, with distance backpackers arriving from all points on the globe. The trail starts in Milngavie (where our daughter lives), north of Glasgow, and runs northward through western Scotland to Fort William, a total of 96 miles, or 154 kilometers (see map). It encompasses farmland, forests, lochs, villages, and mountains.

I allowed myself a good week to recover from Ben Nevis, and planned a two-day solo hike. Luckily, it coincided with the two warmest and sunniest days of my whole visit.

It was only a ten-minute walk from Holly’s house to the trailhead, located about a half-mile from the official start in Milngavie. Though my standard practice is to hike alone, at the trailhead was a young man adjusting his pack straps, we got to talking, and we ended up hiking together all day. His name is Johannes, and he’s an environmental microbiologist originally from Heidelberg, Germany. He had just finished attending a nearby conference, and wanted to explore most if not all of the WHW.

Johannes on WHW

Johannes, taking the lead on West Highland Way

Unlike Ferrari Mike, Johannes was closer to my cruising speed. Leaving the environs of Milngavie, we passed by Mugdock Country Park, the side trail to Mugdock Castle (see my August 1 post) …then practically bumped into River and Alistair (River is Holly’s golden retriever, and Alistair is a retired gent who regularly walks him). We were a good two miles from Holly’s house, and I was impressed with Alistair’s devotion to his job.

One thing I learned about the Scottish is that they not only love dogs, they love to ramble. The U.S. is one of the most corpulent societies on earth (28.8 kg/m2 body mass index), and I’m convinced we’d be a helluva lot healthier—physically and mentally—if we rambled more.

After coming in view of the Campsies Fells (hills) and passing Craigallien Loch, a small lake that looked ripe for some fishing action, we took a short break where a road called Ballachalairy Yett crosses the trail. Near the Yett is a picturesque cottage painted in brown and red called The Shire. I’d seen it earlier in the week while on a morning run. Although I think it’s a hostel of some sort, I’ve been unable to find any information on it. (If anyone knows anything, please leave comment.)

While resting and munching on snacks, Johannes and I met Timothy, who was making a delivery to The Shire. When Timothy found out we were from outside Scotland, he asked us our views on controversial Brexit, which Scotland is overwhelmingly opposed to. This topic led to Boris Johnson, then Trump, then the far-right German AfD party, then climate change, then Native Americans.

The Shire_on WHW

The Shire

In the states, I avoid verbal political conversations with people, whether friends, neighbors, or co-workers. We’re so polarized in America, these talks invariably result in blood pressures rising, or worse. So I was amazed at, not only Timothy’s cheekiness, but also how the three of us had consensus. I may have to leave my home country; there are actually people with clear heads! Needless to say, it was very refreshing. If a Scotsman, German, and American can break bread like this, maybe there’s a glimmer of hope for our planet. And it’s yet another reason we Yanks need to ramble more.

(You can pay me later, Rick Steves.)

Later in the day, Johannes and I made a second stop at a collection of rowhouses along Gartness Road near a stone bridge. Someone had placed a cooler outside one of the houses, stocked with refreshments for hikers, with payment on the “honor system.” We rested here about 15 minutes, listened to the trickling waters of Endrick Water stream, and I had a refreshing watermelon ice lolly (popsicle). Not a single vehicle or person in sight. Ahh, such peace!

Watermelon ice lolly at Wilkie Watters'

Enjoying a watermelon ice lolly outside Wilkie Watters’ place on Endrick Water

After this came a long trek along Gartness Road, where we shared cramped space with several ultra-modern and ultra-large farm tractors. Then Garadhban Forest, where we lunched in a shady grove and met a winded hiker about my age from Perth, Scotland. Both Johannes and I were also feeling tired, so we decided on a shorter alternate route to the main WHW, our intended destination a public campground on Loch Lomond shore, northwest of Drymen (see map).

This alternate trail followed a boring road stretch through the small village of Balmaha, and bypassed Conic Hill, one of the higher points along the southern WHW, and which (I found out the next day) offered a stunning view of south Loch Lomond.

Loch Lomond has many irregular-shaped islands, and I’d heard rumors about an 11-acre nudist colony on one of the largest. Since I was doing an out-and-back hike, I vowed to determine the naked truth of this tomorrow.

Next time, I’ll share my discoveries.

An Ohio Yankee in Sir Walter Scott’s Court…Still Bumbling Along

edinburgh

Our dubious hero was last seen peeking through the windows of The “Oxford” Bar on self-effacing Young Street in Edinburgh. No sign of James Bond. (Click here.)

But, let’s follow our hero back to ground zero: the Royal Mile, near Edinburgh Castle, where non-locals go to eat, tilt Scottish whiskies, and hear the same bagpipe song at each intersection.

My blogging friend, Neil (Yeah, Another Blogger) had earlier visited Edinburgh and recommended Deacon Brodie’s Tavern for lunch. Brodie’s is located at maybe the busiest corner in Edinburgh, on Lawnmarket and Bank Streets. I stepped inside, but the place was as crowded as a New England sports bar on Super Bowl Sunday, so I continued downhill along Lawnmarket until it turned into High Street. Neil also recommended Whiski Bar and Restaurant, and this joint was ideal: cool, dark-paneled, and tourist-free (except for me). I took his advice and ordered a Brewdog Punk IPA, along with a shot of whisky and a dish of haggis.

Normally, I dislike sharing photos of the food I consume. Word descriptions are one thing, but there’s something tacky about posted photos of one’s meals. But haggis is uniquely Scottish, and rarely found elsewhere, so forgive me for breaking my self-imposed restriction.

Haggis and Brewdog Punk IPA

Haggis, at least as prepared at Whiski, is a small globe of mashed potatoes with bits of ground beef, ladled with a smooth gravy sauce, probably made with sheep guts. My dish had a rounded wafer of some sort piercing the potatoes like circular buzz saw.  It was a little flag that said “Eat me!” So, I obeyed. I lean toward more spicy cuisine, but this Whiski haggis was a unique experience, quite tasty, and perfect light lunch fare.

Oh, I almost forgot: the Brewdog Punk. Maybe I’m losing my taste for IPAs, but Neil, this Brewdog tasted a bit too “hoppy.” Next time I’ll go with your other IPA suggestion of Stewart First World Problems.  Maybe it hops around less.

While sipping my whisky at Whiski, I had a short conversation with a pretty waitress who told me that she was the only native Edinburgher employed there. This confirmed some suspicions I’d had of Edinburgh.

For dessert, I ambled across the street to Mimi’s Little Bakehouse (another Neil recommendation) for a cheese and chive scone. (I’m glad you were around, Neil, as Graham Kerr was nowhere to be seen. Anyone remember him?). Scones are fat, flaky muffins, usually wheat or oatmeal based. Brits often nibble on them with their afternoon tea. My scone was as big as a cake, and helped soak up a lot of the booze from the Whiski. Best scone I ever had. And, I might add, the only one I’ve ever had.

Leaving Mimi’s, I started seeing narrow brick-lined alleys with interesting names like “Tweeddale Close.” The alleys led to cozy courtyards with dwellings and businesses punctuating the perimeter. Curious, I wandered down Tweeddale Close.

After squeezing through a pack of dazed-looking sightseers wearing nametags and tethered to a tour guide, I entered one doorway, climbed the stairs to the third floor, and barged into the offices of a local leisure magazine. Brewdog Punk on my breath, scone crumbs at the corners of my mouth, I asked one of the employees about this “Close” phenomenon. She explained it’s an exclusive Edinburgh term meaning…well, an alley with a courtyard.

Gee, and I thought there was something deeply meaningful about a Close. Thanks for the info, Fiona! (Burp.)

Back on High Street, I saw several more Closes. My favorite was World’s End Close. Okay, but please, how much time do I have? I really wanted to investigate this one. But I was afraid I might tumble into one of Calcutta’s black holes, or into a one-way celestial omnibus, or worse, spontaneously combust. So I fought my curiosity. Like heaven, hell, and the appeal of the Republican Party, some things are intended to be a mystery.

World's End Close

World’s End Close is the stone entrance on the left. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

Before hopping my train back to the Glasgow suburbs, I visited a few more monolithic hunks of rock in beautiful Edinburgh: Calton Hill, with its towering monument to English naval hero Lord Nelson, the highest point in the city, and where I could scan all of Edinburgh, along with the placid waters of the Firth of Forth; Old Calton Cemetery, where the bones of Scottish Enlightenment philosopher David Hume are honored with a large tomb; and skyscraping Melville Monument, erected to a guy who was impeached in 1806 for misappropriation of public money, the last public official to be impeached in the United Kingdom (thus far).

Just as in the states, massive stone memorials to dead people seem really important to some folks. I don’t know, but I continue to scratch my head on that one.

I think it was German writer Bertolt Brecht who said not to pity those nations without heroes. Pity instead those that need them.

(Next time I’ll be stepping onto the West Highland Way trail to visit the natural carvings of the Scottish Highlands. Stay tuned!)

 

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Grappling with Woodstock in 2019

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Nobody back in the 1960s or 1970s could have imagined anything this fucking awful—Joan Baez, on America during the age of Trump

The Woodstock 50 extravaganza crashed like an overburdened shuttle copter somewhere between Maryland and organizer Michael Lang’s attorney’s offices. But Woodstock Nation crashed many years ago.

First, the planned anniversary concert. It was a dumb idea from the get-go. Not only since you can’t replicate—or pretend you’re not replicating while trying to replicate—the original 1969 Woodstock Music and Art Fair festival, either musically or sociologically. But doing so in an age when the host country of America is a global village idiot is beyond laughable.

Maybe it’s come down to getting stoned on corporate-sponsor beer and flashing the peace sign while posing for social media selfies. The peace sign used to mean something, but I guess we needed a war to remind us.

And Woodstock Nation? I’ve seen the documentary of the original Woodstock multiple times. It is a strange experience for one who shares the ideals of many of the organizers and festivalgoers, in theory if not always in practice.

The music, of course, is always a rush.  Richie Havens singing of “Handsome Johnny” marching to the Concord war, with skeletal scaffolding and descending chopper framing his intensity. Or Joe Cocker screaming his lungs out in front of his half-million friends.  And a former army paratrooper, delivering the most searing and honest version ever of “The Star-Spangled Banner”…honest because there were no words or sentimentalities to muck it up, and the song is open to interpretation, although I think I know what he was saying.

But outside of that…well, one minute I have tears welling up at the innocent promise of that incredible weekend. And in the next, my head is in my hands, sad and disgusted at how that promise was frittered away, with hard drugs, disco, and Reaganonomics, with yuppies snoring and snorting and stashing their wealth while the vulgarians stampeded through the gate.

No, I didn’t expect a subculture could change the world overnight, or do it without making mistakes along the way. But like Baez said, no one could have foreseen the backlash that caused this.

In 1969, I was too young to pilgrimage to Bethel without being listed a missing child or runaway.  But like many, I’ve visited numerous times in my mind: pitching a tent in green trees behind Filippini Pond; hammering nails through the night to prepare the stage; rolling joints backstage with Jerry Garcia; serving granola and smiles with Wavy Gravy and the Hog Farm; searching for Holly and Wheat Germ’s medicine bag…all the while unearthing directional arrows for the adult path ahead of me.

Now that I’m a grandfather and see nothing but a landscape of mud and garbage awaiting my grandkids, I ask myself: have we lost all our directional arrows?  Are we insane, stupid, greedy, or all the above? To find “the garden,” will I have to wait till I mix my ashes with those of Richie Havens?  And if so, will the vulgarians put up a gun shop or Chick-fil-A along Hurd Road in view of Richie and me?

All we can do is continue to hope for fewer slogans chanted and more trees planted. Hope for fewer concealed-carry classes and more Kundalini yoga classes.  Fewer Animal Farms and more Hog Farms.  Fewer police forces and more Please Forces.

Then, maybe after another 50 years, we’ll have finally gotten ourselves back to the garden.

By then, I’ll be long time gone.

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An Ohio Yankee in Sir Walter Scott’s Court

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Last year, our daughter moved from Nashville, Tennessee to a sleepy village in Scotland called Milngavie. It’s located seven miles northwest of Glasgow. (The move was precipitated by our son-in-law’s job transfer). While my wife and I have always encouraged our kids to travel, Nashville to Milngavie seems quite a cultural shift. But Holly is comfortable over there. She’s more Vauxhall Corsa than Dodge 4×4, anyway.

Last month, I finally got to visit them and our two granddaughters. The only thing I missed, aside from The Lawrence Welk Show, was American sunshine.

One of my familial lines leads to Scotland, so it was a sort of coming home. My middle name is Scott, a family clan name traced to ancestor William Scott, who ran a deer park and salmon fishery in Scotland in the 1700s. Bill fled Scotland for County Derry, Ireland (something about papists). His grandson, James, then ratcheted up the rebel thing and sailed to the state of William Penn. Jimmy Scott then joined the Pennsylvania Line to battle British Redcoats during the American Revolution.

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1822 painting of writer-historian Sir Walter Scott

Coincidentally, my plane landed on July 4, which is America’s Independence Day (also my birthday). In England, some call this “Treason Day.”  Really, everything is a circle.

But I discovered both the English and Scottish were exceptionally friendly, bending over backwards to help a stupid Yank with train and bus info, directions, money confusions, etc. They all noticed my hayseed accent and were curious where I was from. To avoid apologies and embarrassments due to recent events, I just said “North America.” Fortunately, they didn’t push for details.

The highlight of my trip was spending time with my granddaughters, Avi (22 months) and Rory (4 months). But I did manage to sightsee some. Here’s a wee bit of my travels in the land of clans and kilts.  And I promise, there will be no photos of kilts or bagpipes here.

MILNGAVIE (pronounced “Mull-guy” per the original Gaelic): the Scottish love their dogs, and I saw more dogs here than anywhere I’ve ever been, and they’re all very well trained. Hikers also flock to Milngavie, because the 96-mile West Highland Way, one of the UK’s most popular distance trails, begins here. I met hikers from Denmark, Sweden, Germany, Croatia, California, Seattle, and elsewhere. Early one morning I met a local man named Chris, who was doing a one-man protest to save an old English phone booth (“phone box”) from being removed. He explained that, in Scotland (or maybe just Milngavie), authorities won’t remove or destroy anything if at least one person shows up each day to protest. (Does that include living things like trees?) Anyway, I think that’s a great law.

Chris in Milngavie

Chris, rescuing red phone boxes in downtown Milngavie

The center of Milngavie, like many towns across Europe, is a brick walkway for pedestrians. Lots of quaint shops and cafés, including Fantoosh Nook, where Holly and I ate lunch one day. My friend Neil…Yeah, Another Blogger…visited Edinburgh recently and mentioned Cullen skink, which I sampled while at the Nook. It’s a smoked haddock and potato soup that has a bacon flavor. I loved it…a far cry from Campbell’s New England clam chowder. Thanks for the tip, Neil, you blogger you.

Along the West Highland Way, just north of Milngavie, I visited Mugdock Park. The park is named after Mugdock Castle, which dates back to at least 1376, and was in use until the mid-1600s. It was the stronghold of a clan named Graham. Parts of the remains of the castle were rebuilt over the centuries, but the main tower is original. When I visited Jamestown, Virginia a few years ago, my mind was boggled to think that, just under my feet, there rested relics and bones dating to 1607. But 1376?? That’s beyond boggling.

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Mugdock Castle in Milngavie

GLASGOW: along with Edinburgh, Glasgow is one of Scotland’s two major cities. Both have their merits. Edinburgh is definitely more scenic, with its storybook architecture. But it’s also rampant with tourists. (Tourists spend quid, which help local populations, but we also taint exactly what we’re drawn to.) Glasgow, on the other hand, is more of a working city, and the Scaw-ish brogue is more evident here. It’s said that Edinburgh is where you want to visit, but Glasgow is where you should live. Not sure this is 100 percent accurate, but it might come close.

I spent a half day with Holly and Avi in Glasgow. We visited Kelvingrove Park and University of Glasgow. Both were impressive, but I have to be honest and say that the main delight was pushing Avi on the swing, and holding her hand while strolling across the university grounds. That grandparent thing is for real. Next time, maybe Avi won’t be along to absorb my attention, and I can soak up more of this vibrant city.

Kelvingrove Park, Glasgow

Avi and Holly at Kelvingrove Park, Glasgow

EDINBURGH: one day I took the train from Milngavie to Glasgow to Edinburgh and enjoyed a rare hot and sunny day in this historic city. I exited Waverley Station in Old Town, and the first thing I saw was a massive blackened spire piercing the blue sky, towering hundreds of feet above Princes Street. With Ohio Yankee naivety, I initially thought the spire might be part of a castle. Then I got closer and discovered it was a monument to my “cousin,” Sir Walter Scott. It’s the second tallest monument to a writer in the world.

Speaking of Mark Twain, the bard of the Mississippi River used to, if I recall, ridicule Scott’s penchant for high romanticism. And maybe that’s why I never read him (Scott, that is). Does he really deserve such an impressive monument, even if we are related? Alfred-e-newmanMaybe one day I should put down Mad Magazine and read Ivanhoe.

Then, across a valley, I spied Edinburgh Castle, the centerpiece of the city. It sits on a rocky promontory overlooking much of old Edinburgh. It’s exact date of construction is unknown, but it may go back to the 12th century, and human habitation on Castle Rock dates to the 2nd century AD. It was the site of numerous military sieges from the Middle Ages until the 1745 Jacobite rising. Kings and queens, royal intrigue, crown jewels…you name it. I refer you to Wikipedia for a full history.

I walked all around the perimeter of the castle, and up to the front entrance, but the heat and locusts (tourists) made things too claustrophobic, so I declined joining a tour.

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Paul Weller and others: appearing soon at a castle moat near you!

Instead, I was drawn toward a threatening looking man standing in a café doorway, just down from a makeshift stadium in the castle esplanade. He had a shaved head, was clothed entirely in black, and had muscles on top of tattoos on top of muscles. I walked up to him and joked that he must be the Castle bouncer. But he said (in thick Cockney) that he was security for a concert later that evening. I asked who was playing.

“Paul Wella.”
Paul Weller? Yeah, I love him! The Jam and Style Council!”
“Ass roit, mate. Stoyle Cancel.”

I couldn’t believe an ex-punk rocker was performing in a collapsible stadium sandwiched between a former church (now ticket office) and the Edinburgh Castle gates. But I guess that’s life in the 21st century. I later asked about tickets. There were only six left, priced at 60 pounds apiece. It was time to move on.

I left the locust swarm in Old Town and strolled downhill, away from Castle Rock, across several blocks to 136 Lothian Road. The premises are now occupied by a pastry shop, but in the early Sixties it was The Howff, one of the top folk clubs in Great Britain. Pete Seeger, Brownie McGee, and Archie Fisher played here, and Bert Jansch had a regular residency.

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The Howff (with inset of Bert Jansch)

Jansch is an acoustic guitar legend, a Scotsman, and one of my musical heroes—he directly influenced Neil Young, Jimmy Page (Led Zeppelin), Nick Drake, Al Stewart, Donovan, and many others—so it was cool to see the place where he first earned a reputation. My side trip here might strike some as strange, but little musical connections like this always get my juices flowing. (Wait till I discuss my trip to Liverpool.) Besides, I got to see a quieter side of Edinburgh that most tourists never see.

My search for an oasis in the locust swarm took me to St. Cuthbert’s Church, at the foot of Castle Rock. This quiet cathedral may date to 850 A.D., which makes it the oldest building in Edinburgh. The burial ground here is filled with noteworthy Scotsmen and women, and, since real estate is at a premium here, some are buried under more “important” people’s tombs (monuments).  Hey, just like life!

I climbed back onto Princes Street, then crossed George Street to a tunnel-like lane called Young Street. Here, far from the madding crowd, a cool breeze pulled me along, past discreet shops and businesses that one would overlook if not for a modest plaque mounted next to a narrow doorway. I expected any second to see a Scottish version of Scrooge, Marley, or Cratchit emerging.

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The modest “Oxford” Bar, on modest Young Street

I was half-tempted to wet my whistle in the scrunched The “Oxford” Bar (the quote marks are part of the name). It’s a pub established in 1811, made famous in Scottish writer Ian Rankin’s Inspector Rebus series of novels…which I also haven’t read. It’s also a hangout for Edinburgh policemen—and secret agents, since Sean Connery supposedly quaffs here (although I wonder how many Scottish pubs make this same claim). But I had a mild headache from the whiskey and Brewdog Punk IPA that I’d earlier tipped on High Street in Old Town, so I kept “strolling down the highway.”

In my next installment, I’ll conclude the rest of my Edinburgh visit, discussing High Street, aka The Royal Mile, and the World’s End…which is Close.

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Monolithic Edinburgh Castle, from foot of volcanic Castle Rock