Mystic Seaport

It was a chilly November morning when we entered the seventy-five acre museum. We were in Mystic, Connecticut, at the mouth of the Mystic River.  It had been  a long time since I had seen those gorgeous color photographs in National Geographic Magazine. That day we would see Mystic Seaport, the Museum of America and the Sea for real. We had parked our car and crossed the street and entered by the guardian tugboat.

Before buying our tickets we were looking out at the river when we starting chatting with a nattily dressed gentleman installing a banner advertising a gallery.  He told us quite a bit about what we were going to see. You can only access the museum though the ticketing building.  We managed to get senior citizen discounts as well as AAA. That was good. Our tickets came with wristbands to identify us as visitors and a map with a schedule of events. The crisp winter air smelled fresh and we immediately noticed the lack of the odor of pluff mud. There was not much of a smell of salt either. But the the salt content was probably quite low in the river. At first we looked at a couple of steel hulled boats one was a trawler and the other a ferry. Claudette snapped my photo sitting in a dory doing my best impression of the Gordons fisherman. There are over sixty buildings in the restored mid-nineteenth century seaport. Mystic Seaport was the largest shipyard on the east coast at one time during the period of wooden sailing ships.  As we walked the gravel streets among the quaint shops and houses there was almost an eerie feeling. There were few visitors on that early Sunday morning. Some of the buildings were locked and many of the demonstrators were absent they would be there later in the day.  In one building there was the remnants of a large sailing ship.   There were no masts on theAustralia.   It was like a skeleton. Claudette went into the hold, but I could see her since planking was missing between the ribs. It was easy to see how the ship was constructed.  I found that interesting. Later in a smaller building we saw a collection of catboats. Most of those exhibited the epitome of the boatbuilders craft.  From there we saw a most unusual building housing the cordage production machinery. Sailing ships used hundreds of feet of rope of various sizes and it was made in that building which was over three football fields long.  It was an interesting process.  Twisting hemp. The first ship we went aboard had once been a yatch. But that was after the Conrad had been built as a training vessel.  The docent was very knowledgable but there is something about sailing ships with steel hulls that I don't like.  Maybe it's because they don't creak. There are over twenty watercraft of various sizes at Mystic Seaport to explore. There is a lighthouse there as well. I found it rather amusing because it was not very tall. But then it was positioned on a river and not the ocean.  One of the buildings held a 1/128 scale model of the entire seaport. This recreated seaport in miniature was over fifty feet long. The detail was incredible.  Each tiny house had its own privy! Perhaps, the greatest and best known attraction of Mystic Seaport is the Charles W. Morgan. It is an original nineteenth century whaling ship. The ship was launched in 1841 and took her first whale in December of that year. When we first saw the ship which towers over everything they had launched a whaleboat and were moving toward the bow of the ship. We approached the ship from the stern and entered a small building nearby.  It housed harpoons and and other whaling artifacts as well as a whale boat. There was also a diagram of how to butcher a whale. After leaving this display we boarded the ship.  We walked toward the aft part of the ship and Claudette took my picture at the helm.  The helm is where the ship is steered. The ship's wheel was at least four feet in diameter. I was surprised to notice that while at the wheel I could not see the sea.  But I could see the compass. We went below deck by way of a narrow curving stairway. I was surprised that it was not a ladder. At one hundred thirteen feet long and three hundred thirteen tons the ship was big enough to have a stairway which led to the captain's quarters. On whaling ships like merchant ships of the era the captain's entire family followed him to sea. I found it interesting that the captain's double bed was mounted so that it remained level when the ship was not. As we walked forward in this ocean going whale processing plant of wood we went through the crews quarters. There was a compliment of thirty-three men at sea to kill and process the largest mammals on earth. And they had to sail the ship too. Whale oil was in big demand. Until the advent of kerosene whale oil was used in lamps for lighting. Another surprise for me was that I could stand up in most places and I'm almost six feet tall. We left the ship with a better understanding of whaling and the life of a seaman aboard a whaling ship.

We exited Mystic Seaport and began our trek further north.

The Christmas Mouse

For several years now at our annual Christmas party one of the favorite treats have been the chocolate mice. These chocolate mice are actually Californians. Several years ago when we were visiting Claudette's sister she showed us one she had frozen. There it was like some prehistoric beast frozen in time. We took photographs and

tried to remember Bev's description of the process. It was a learning experience that came to a good end. 

From the photograph you can see what's needed. 

• Oreo cookies
• dipping chocolate
• Maraschino cherries with stems intact
• slivered almonds
• Hershey's Kisses
• red cake decorating frosting in a tube

 Some notes about assembly:

1. Remove half of an Oreo cookie. Use the half with the center still attached.

2. We used the microwaveable chocolate for dipping the cherries. If you are making many you may have to reheat.

3. Take the cherries out of the containers, and let them drain on some paper towels before dipping. The cherry juice affects consistency of the chocolate.

4. The head (Hershey's Kiss) must be attached while the chocolate on the "body" is soft.

5. Insert "ears" while the chocolate is soft, but after it has cooled a little, so the ears don't droop.

6. Add "eyes & nose" after chocolate hardens. Also add any other decoration you might like.

My friend Tom tells me that the proper way to eat a mouse is to hold it by the tail, and down the hatch it goes. 

H-m-m...isn't that the way the aliens ate them on that old TV show "V"?

Bubba and the Alligator

Dear Tony,

When I first moved to the Carolina low country I was some what fascinated by alligators. I mean those seemingly prehistoric beasties were everywhere.  They were even on the sacred golf courses of the big shots.

I was living in a place near the Intracoastal Waterway and had a canoe in my bedroom. One day I got it out and put it in a creek.  It was in the spring. No one had told me that when them old gators had just woke up from a long winter’s nap they were very hungry.  I mean really, really hungry! This fact would figure in my near demise.

Anyway I launched my boat, an Old Town, and headed up the creek.  There’s something about that term “up the creek” that I’m not real fond of. As I paddled on my lowcountry adventure the creek began to narrow. Off to my left I saw a big alligator slide into the water. It was just like in those Tarzan movies I saw in my youth. I was busy watching the creek bank when something rubbed the bottom of the boat.  It even lifted the canoe up out of the water. At first I didn’t know what it was. But when I felt that rough rub I knew that it was a gator. And it wasn’t a little bitty one either.  I paddled a bit faster.  Actually a lot faster! The I saw him.  He was longer that the boat!  It was then that I realized that I was being sized up for a meal. What could I do? I didn’t rightly know but I paddled faster. He bumped the boat again.  The next time I saw his head, I tried to whack him across the head. But when I swung that paddle with all my might he opened his big ugly mouth.  With one mighty “crunch” he bit the whole end off my paddle.  I was gettin’ desperate. What was left of my paddle struck bottom as I paddled.  The big ole gator hit the canoe hard enough with his snout to dump me out of the boat.  I fell in to the waist-deep brackish water and drank my fill. Stumblin’ to my feet I staggered to a small island. And by small I mean little bitty.  ‘Bout the size of your average kitchen.  In the middle of this island was a scraggly old tree.  I climbed it. Like a squirrel chased by a hound, I went up that tree. After I had clum as fer as I could I stopped and looked down. Yessiree! I  had been treed by an alligator! Looking up at me with his big evil eyes and his mouth agape was that old gator, all twenty feet of him. Anybody that thinks a shark has a lot of teeth ain’t ever looked into the mouth of a twenty-foot gator.  He was close to my feet and he was snapping at me and I swear i could smell gator breath!

Remember, when I said there was something I didn’t like that term “up a creek”, now I remember the rest of that sayin’.  I was up that creek!

What was I gonna do?  One thing was for certain, I couldn’t get by that big gator at the bottom o the tree. I had to come up with a plan.  My mama had said she didn’t raise no fool.  But right then I was trying make sure mama wasn’t lyin’.  I put my thinkin’ cap on. And I thought.  In a few minutes I was thinkin’ maybe I had the wrong cap on.  The sun was slipping low in the west. By now the old gator had sort of curled his self around the tree. He appeared to be sleeping. By now I was also geting hungry.  I had missed lunch and it was getting close to supper time. I felt around in my pocket and pulled out a tuna fish sandwich. That sandwich had been in there all day, was all mashed up, and had started to smell like it was getting a little ripe. I pulled it out and got a whiff of it.  That’s when i got the big idea.  One time I had read somewhere that alligators liked food that was spoiled rather than fresh. “H--m-m-m” I said to myself.

I kind of snuck down the tree and was gingerly place that sandwich on the dozing gator’s tail. I stepped over the gator and was headed for the water when he awoke.

You won’t believe what happened next. Instead of trying to get me he took one whiff of that ole tuna sandwich on his tail and chomped right down on it. Yessir! that ole gator just et his self up!

I’ll bet I gotcha on that one! Ha, ha!

Your old buddy,

Bubba

White River Junction

One of the pleasures of travel by car is the discovery of little known places. On a recent trip, one designed to visit six of the north eastern states, we ventured into Vermont.  Seeing Vermont would allow us to complete our list of states visited.  Vermont would be number fifty! We found ourselves off the beaten path in White River Junction, Vermont.  I'm sure as we drove into the center of the historical district a smile spread over my face. The buildings are reminiscent of the early 1900's.  I half expected to hear a streetcar bell as we found a parking space for the Toyota right on Main Street across from the Amtrak station. A cold rain was beginning to fall as we exited the car. The weather forecast was calling for a winter storm. I remembered what a winter snowstorm was like from having worked in upstate New York. Hopefully it would not hit before we headed back south. We had been fortunate about the weather thus far.

"I'll have to take a closer look at that locomotive before we leave," I said as we walked toward the businesses on Main Street with the old steam locomotive behind us. The old engine was attached to tender and caboose under a shelter next to the Amtrak station.

"That looks like a good restaurant next to that hotel," Claudette said, "The BoHo Cafe it says"

"Works for me. I feel like a soup.  It's a soup of  day," I responded.

We crossed the traffic less street. There was a man walking away from us on the right,the only person on the deserted sidewalk.Without traffic it was  almost eerie under the cloudy sky pregnant with precipitation. The door creaked as we entered the early twentieth century building. To our left was a sofa inhabited by what appeared to be a college student with requisite laptop and an iPhone seemingly attached to her ear.  The lobby of the hotel next door could be seen through the eight foot wide opening in the wall.  The food preparation area was along the left wall and the rear of the restaurant.  The round tables were scattered about and there was railroad memorabilia was on the wall. There were about a dozen customers.  In the far right corner was a fireplace with a roaring fire. Two ladies with coffee cups were having a quiet conversation while the flames bathed their faces

with a warm glow. The menu was written with various colored chalk on a blackboard  near the counter where food was ordered and dispensed.  Sandwiches had names such as Evil Stepsister, Rapunzel and Big Bad Wolf. Our order was taken by a young woman of fresh scrubbed good looks and a pleasant demeanor. We chose the shepherd's pie. (It had a less adventurous name!) Claudette chose Diet Coke for a beverage but I chose water. She handed us our beverages and we soaked up the ambiance while waiting for our food. I was interested in the group of old men that were having an animated discussion. They had a number of books and periodicals spread out on their table amongst the plates and coffee cups.

Across the back of the dining area was a huge painting of people dancing probably twenty feet wide. In front of it were the urns of coffee and water from which to serve yourself. I needed more water. While refilling my water glass I chanced a conversation with the pretty fresh scrubbed employee. The other employee was rather rotund and older and perhaps the mother of the younger.

"Was the painting painted in the 1930's?" I asked. I knew that during the Great Depression the federal government had paid artist to paint murals and such in public buildings.

"No," she said with a smile, "I think it was painted by a local art teacher in the 1950's."

"What was this building used for?"

"Oh, it was a bakery next to the hotel," she said. "The hotel, the Coolidge Hotel, was built in 1879.  It had two hundred rooms and was named for President Coolidge's father."

"Wow!" I said. " Did the thirtieth president every stay there?"

"Yes he did," she said with a smile, "He was superstitious, they say. He would not stay in a room with a number."

"Oh, yeah,"

"He stayed in room 'A'," she said as she moved back to the food preparation area.

I picked up our food on the way back to our table. The aroma from the shepherd's pies filled my nostrils. Wow! I thought I might have to stop and have a bite before getting the food back to a waiting Claudette!

The pie was very good.  Although it was made with beef rather than lamb. I had to refill water glass and was overcome by curiosity. The discussion by the old men around the table  intrigued me. On my way back to my table I lingered by their table staring at the printed material on their table. After a few minutes I realized conversation had stopped and I felt eyes on me. I felt the need to speak and commented, " I wonder if you fellows could tell me something about the engine across the way at the Amtrak station?" I queried noting the books and photographs about railroads.

The man in the cardigan with the reading glasses that separated in the center spoke first. The others continued to peer at a map on the table. "This was a railroad town, the largest railroad junction north of Boston. Five railroads served this town. There was an eight track crossing here in 1863 with fifty passenger trains a day passing through. But the name White River Junction may come from the confluence of the White and Connecticut Rivers." He then looked at the map the others were studying and they began to talk in low tones.

I sensed it was time for me to move along.

"Thank-you, " I said and joined claudette back at our table. After paying our check we went across the way for a closer look at the train.

The cold rain was coming down in a light drizzle reminding me of Edinburgh.

We crossed the railroad tracks and walked to the Amtrak station.  Adjacent to the station is an old steam locomotive.  According to the signage it is was manufactured in Manchester, NH, in 1892.

 Engine number 494 is a 4-4-0* of the Boston and Maine Railroad. Attached to it is a coal tender and a caboose. I climbed aboard the engine with the intent of going inside the cab but it was not to be. Access was denied but I could see all the instruments and controls. I had been inside a modern diesel-

electric and noticed how the old engine had many more instruments and controls. I was surprised to find that the cab of the engine was made of wood like a traction engine, not iron like everything else. I dismounted and walked to the front of the engine and was surprised that the cow catcher, the plow like front of the engine, was made of wood also. Something tells me this was not OEM, Original Equipment Manufacture.

I had taken a number of pictures and Claudette says, "Let's  get a cup of coffee and get to the hotel before the snow comes!"

We walked back across to Maine Street and got a couple of steaming hot decaf mochas at a coffee shop on the corner which did not allow dogs. I know this because there was a perky little pooch of various and sundry ancestry on a leash tied to a lamp post. The coffee shop was a nice place crowded with people doing what people do in such places. Drinking coffee, eating veggie wraps, typing on their laptops and, of course, using their cells. It warm and cozy and the coffee was good plus free wifi.

As we left the little village of White River junction in the town of Hartford I thought of things we had not seen.  Looking at the tourist information brochure I noticed that we had not taken the time to visit the art galleries and a museum.

"Claudette," I said, "You know what we missed seeing in White River Junction?"

"What?" she asked with her eyes glued to the road.

"In the museum there they have Elvis' gallstones." I announced.

She failed to respond to my proclamation and White River Junction faded into the past.

*Under the Whyte notation for the classification of steam locomotives by wheel arrangement, 4-4-0 represents the arrangement of four leading wheels on two axles, usually in a leading bogie, four powered and coupled driving wheels on two axles, and no trailing wheels

Looking Back

We were driving west toward higher ground. Behind us were the marshes, the live oaks, the smell of  pluff mud, and white birds with long legs. The trees: red oaks, poplars, and sweet gums with colors of crimson and gold flash by.  Once off the federally mandated superhighway system originally designed for the rapid deployment of troops, we entered a small town. We stopped at McDonald's for a mocha and entered the town of Edgefield, known as the birthplace of ten South Carolina governors.  We passed through the town square with its Robert Mills designed courthouse and followed US highway 25 north, before turning west on US 378 and on to McCormick County. Here in South Carolina's youngest county we followed a dirt road through much national forest land to the land of my forefathers. The road was deeply rutted on the way to what remains of my grandfather's homestead.

"We'll have to walk from here.  The road is washed out too much, and I think the car would drag.  We don't need a hole in the oil pan here in the boondocks, " I announced.

"That's fine.  We need to get some exercise anyway.  We didn't make it to the gym today," she said.

The road leads down a slight grade, curves to the left,  and is flanked by a forest of pines and colorful hardwoods. We locked the car and began our walk. The quiet was almost eerie. You don't notice how much ambient sound there is in the city until you don't hear it. The call of a crow in the distance broke the silence. About a hundred yards down the road there was a steel cable barring entry to vehicles. "No Trespassing" signs are nailed to some of the trees.

"Can we go through?" asks Claudette.

"Sure we can.  This is our property.  The hunt club we lease it to put up these signs.  When Daddy was alive the managers of the property decided  that people were going to hunt on it without authorization, so we might as well lease it to them.  And so we did, and that provides enough income to pay the taxes and such," I said.

"Oh!"

"I'll hold up the cable so you can get under," I said.

"Then I'll return the favor," Claudette said.

After we were on the other side of the cable there was a clearing  on the left and a newer appearing road to the right.

"This little road goes to Long Cane Creek.  It was the border between the Cherokee Indians and the British in the  eighteenth century. You know cotton was the main crop in grandpa's day. He paid his rent in cotton. His landlord was his daddy, and the old Confederate veteran never gave any of his land to his children.  He rented it to them. That's why almost all of his land is intact today.  I think this little road made by the deer hunters will take us to the house Daddy grew up in," I said.

"But you haven't been here since the eighties..." she said.

I thought I detected a note of doubt in her voice. After about a few feet on the deer hunters' road I saw a structure amongst the shrubs and trees.  It was one  of the old barns, and it was partially collapsed.  The wood was weathered and the tin roof rusted. I remembered how Daddy had told me how the lower timbers on the walls that touched the ground were of red cedar, because cedar was less likely to rot on the wet ground. I had Claudette take a "you were there" photo and we continued to search for the old farm house.

"Look, there it is!" Claudette said.

Sure enough, through the trees I could see the old dilapidated farmhouse. Whenever I visit old homesites my imagination tends to take me back to the time when they were active.  Here I could imagine looking slightly uphill from the barn to the house. There would have been no shrubs around it but some tall trees shading the yard of hard red clay. This was where my father grew up.  We walked through the fallen leaves and undergrowth to the back of the house. I climbed over some brick to peer into the kitchen from where the chimney once was.

"What do you see?" Claudette asked. I was blocking her view.

"Not much, just an old rusted cookstove laying on its side," I answered her.

"Can you imagine how many meals she cooked for her husband and eleven children?"

I moved from the kitchen to the back of the house on my left.  Through the brush and blood thirsty briars I could see a collapsed porch from the addition which attached the main house to the kitchen. Like most houses of this era the kitchen was detached. Although, in event of fire, I don't believe a three-foot gap between buildings would have afforded much fire protection. About halfway down the back of the house was a door.  I fought my way through the briars with quarter inch barbs to get to this entrance to the house. Sunlight blazed into the interior from the door opposite. To the right of the entrance nearest me was a stairway to the loft. It had no bannister, and the steps were painted sky blue. I was about to step inside when I heard a voice behind me.

"You better not do that,"  she warned.

"Why?" I wanted to know.

"You might fall through the floor!"

"Oh...well, okay," I answered slowly. I thought she may have had a point. I may have been asking too much of this one hundred year old floor to support my two hundred plus pounds.  We continued to walk around to the front of the house, peering in windows and noting architectural details.  There were some old bed frames and debris, as well as a ladies white pump.  The house was last inhabited in the early 1940s.  The front of the house had a long porch with one end attached to a room extending out about eight feet. This extended room's wall had two windows, one above the other.  The upper allowed light into the attic space. At the far right of the porch was the main entryway. This door had small single panes on either side from ceiling to waist level. I think this would have been the fashion of houses built about 1900, although I believe this one was build a few years before the turn of that century. The were two doors on the front of the house. Claudette and I navigated of the rubble of the fallen porch to the door on the left, and I entered it.

"Hey, its pretty solid," I said as I inched my way around in the interior.

"Be careful!" she said.

Inside the room to my right was the fireplace and beside it a doorway to the adjoining room. Flanking the fireplace on the right was an empty wall, but on the left was the doorway and a stairway to the attic. I walked toward the stairway and into the next room. There was a closet under the stairs. Houses built when this one was built usually did not have closets. I returned to the room I had entered and called to Claudette.

"I'd really like to have a look in the attic.  What do you think?"

I did not get a response. Sunlight was streaming through the window at the end of the house. Sticking my head out I could see her.  She was digging in the earth a few yards away.

"Hey! Whatcha doing?" I queried.

"I've found this little holly tree.  I'm taking it home with me!" she said.  I guess you can take the a girl out of the garden, but you can't take the garden out of the girl.

"I was thinking about going upstairs, but I guess that's not a good idea," I mused.

"Not a good idea," she said and added, "You've probably spent enough time in there anyway."

I exited through the door I had entered earlier and joined her beside the house.  From there you could see how the kitchen was originally detached. Over the years an addition had been added to the house to extend it closer to the kitchen.  The final three feet appeared to be the last modification to

the structure. I took a photo.  I had taken quite a few photos of the interior and exterior of the house.
I pulled out a copy  of an old photo. It had been taken when my dad was a boy and included his entire family at this house. I wanted to determine the location of the picture. We speculated, but only decided where the picture was not taken. I had been working on a sketch of the house in my sketchbook while we were there as well as a floor plan, and I put the finishing touches on both.  I thought we were  ready to leave when Claudette announced, "I need to find a brick from here to put in my garden."  And so were sought the perfect brick from the rubble. She found it of course and also found in her purse a plastic shopping bag from Walmart to carry it in. Occasionally you can find an old brick with a handprint in it, but it was not to be on that day.

It had been an enjoyable day in the woods in and around the house where my father had been born and raised.  We were both delighted that the cool weather had acted as a deterrent to snakes and insects. From Daddy's home place we visited the site of the Long Cane Massacre, where in 1760 the Cherokee Indians killed twenty-three settlers during the Cherokee War.

BTW  My dad was the little guy in the front on the far right.

Musty Odors and Ancient Objects

"Lady, you need to get you son out of there!" the docent said to my mother. When I was a young boy

California Automotive Museum

(about five-years-old) my mom took me to the oldest museum in the United States, the Charleston Museum. Although only the classical Greek columns of the building remain today, I can still remember that musty smell of antiquity. I also remember being apprehended by museum personnel that day.  It seems I had managed to get inside some ancient piece of armor. Was this a detriment to my quest of old stuff? Not a bit!

Museums are of all kinds, and many specialize.  As an artist I find art museums extremely interesting. The Mona Lisa, Sunflowers, Guernica, or The Third of May.  Just to be so close to the genius of da Vinci, Van Gogh, Picasso or Goya is inspiring. The  photographs in art books don't do them justice.

The Tate Modern, London.

Reproductions of art somehow always miss something. Perhaps it's the dimensional aspect of the art. With oil paintings you can see the dimensional quality of brushstrokes better and just maybe smell the hint of oil in the air. There is something awe inspiring about seeing the actual works.

Aviation museums are no doubt my favorite.  There is something about these machines that break the bounds of gravity and join the realm of birds that have always fascinated me.  In our travels I
have seen many types of aircraft, some famous and some infamous. Of course the most common historic aircraft is the Wright Flyer, or rather a replica.  The original first American airplane to make controlled powered flight was destroyed. The Spirit of St. Louis, which first was flown solo across the Atlantic, and the huge NC4 flying boat of the U.S. Navy, which was the first to fly across the Atlantic, claim aviation fame. The Messerschmitt Me-262 was the first jet aircraft flown in combat and was a marvel of German technology.  The Glamorous Glynnis was the X-15 rocket plane which Chuck Yeager flew faster than the speed of sound. Actually, Gen. Yeager named all the planes he flew after his wife. The Enola Gay dropped the first atomic bomb, which ushered in the nuclear age, and the fastest airplane to ever fly was the SR-71, Blackbird. I've been fortunate enough to see these famous aircraft and many more.

The Chicago Museum of Science and Industry

To me, the British Museum is the creme de la creme of museums.  There you will find the Rosetta Stone. Discovered in 1801, this seventeen hundred pound piece of black granite has inscriptions in three languages.  These inscriptions in three languages allow linguists to translate the hieroglyphics of the ancient Egyptians. Also in this museum are many Egyptian mummies and the mummified remains of one of the first humans.  There are the ruins from Greek temples on display as well as Roman artifacts.  It was said that the sun never set on British soil.  During this period treasures of many civilizations were collected by the British Museum.

The Museum of Anatolian Civilizations, Ankara, Turkey

Once upon a time I was an enlisted man in the U. S. Navy and therefore have an affinity for things naval other than oranges. I must say that the Spanish Naval Museum in Madrid is another favorite of mine, although I've been aboard a number of the American warships which are now museums. The Spanish National Naval Museum houses a map produced by the cartographer who sailed with Christopher Columbus to the Americas. A map shows some of the coastline of the new world. The museum follows Spanish naval history from early colonial days through World War One.  It was interesting to see a scale model of the battleship U.S.S. Maine, the ship whose sinking started the Spanish-American War and whose capstan is in White Point Gardens in Charleston, South Carolina. Another Spanish museum I favor is the museum at the Spanish Artillery School in Segovia. Spanish weaponry is traced from the crossbow and spear to the rifled and breech loading cannon. Chicago's Museum of Science and Industry, The British Museum of Science, and the Museo della Scienza e della Tecnologia Leonardo da Vinci in Milan are great science and technology museums as well. One of the most popular exhibits in Chicago is the German submarine captured during WWII. The Milan museum does a great job tracing technology from Leonardo da Vinci's machines to modern computers. The mammoth steam engines are unforgettable in the British Science museum.

The National WWII Museum, New Orleans, 

As a childhood fan of B-Western movies, I would be remiss not to mention my fondness for cowboys. The one museum that depicts cowboy life well is the Buffalo Bill Historical Center in Cody, Wyoming. There is a reason your ticket will allow you entrance for two days.  It's that big! And, to appease the artist in me, it has Frederic Remington's studio reproduced. Remington is one of my all-time favorite painters and sculptors. Throughout this country museums abound on almost any subject.  Whether it is a museum about teapots or Winchester rifles I'm sure everyone can find one that suits their fancy. That includes the Crawford W. Long Museum in Jefferson, GA, which commemorates the birthplace of anesthesia.

Perhaps one of the greatest advantages of visiting museums is the opportunity to learn. Sometimes just to see an object as opposed to reading about it or seeing pictures of it can offer a completely

The Heard Museum, Phoenix, AZ

different explanation to its operation.  Nowhere is this more evident than in  science and industry museums. They show how stuff works. And musical instruments, which are machines of a different nature, are better understood when held in your hand. The Musical Instrument Museum in Phoenix, AZ, is great for this.  How do you play a gong anyway?

I will continue to immerse myself in the next museum I find, but I don't think I can get my torso into a piece of Greek armor anymore.

The Spanish Naval Museum, Madrid

Well, If I gotta!

Dear Tony,

You know what happened to me?  Darlene got me to go on this river cruise in Europe. One of the places we stopped at was in Austria. She said we were going to some kind of special event on shore. You know she made me take off  my NRA cap and I had to put on a button-up shirt over my Jimmie Johnson t-shirt!

"I don't know why I have to do this," I complained as we boarded the bus at the pier.

"Because this is Vienna and Vienna is famous for classical music," She reminded me.

"Maybe on our next trip?"

"Nope, today! We're seeing The Vienna Residence Orchestra!" I was detecting a threat in her voice.

We boarded the big fifty foot Mercedes-Benz bus and were soon on our way through the rain drenched streets of Vienna. It is a beautiful city but did look better freshly washed. Soon we were getting off the bus at the Auersperg Palace.

There was two  stairways leading up from the foyer. Columns of marble abound with banisters of carved stone.  I believe that all of Europe sits on one huge rock that is constantly mined for building material.  Most everywhere you go from Ireland to the Med has stone buildings.We opted for the elevator on the left of the stairs. (There was a bunch of stairs!)  After we got out of  the elevator we entered a large room. You could have put a dozen city busses in there or more. It was big! There was a small stage and about two hundred chairs in front of it.      The room had very high ceiling with big curtains of shiny cloth. There was fancy wallpaper and, of course, more marble columns.  I hadn't never seen nothin' like it before. We all set down. The chairs were really close together. It was very cozy. Then the band came out onto the stage. Darlene said it was an orchestra.  She had taken me to see an orchestra before at the Sottile Theatre and it had about a hundred people in it. Don't guess you get but about ten people for sixty-five euros.  That's sixty-five each. I had complained to Darlene about the price but she said we had to hear some classical music in Vienna. 

Everybody got real quiet and they started playing. It looked like them fiddle players was trying to cut them fiddles up with them bows the way they was a sawing on 'em. A fellow told me one time 'bout how the fiddle makes that sound.  It seems that the bow has hair from a horses tail on it and they put tree sap on that hair. That hair with the sap on it kinda sticks to the strangs as the fiddler moves the bow.  And that is how the sound is made. Oh, yeah, one other thing.  If the fiddle don't play bluegrass or country music it's called a violin, I reckon.  They had violins, little bass fiddles some horns and a drum in the orchestra (band). There was a big piano too beside the stage with a lady in a long dress playing it. I whispered to Darlene, " When they gonna play the theme from the Long Ranger?  They say that's classical music."

"That's from the opera William Tell by Rossini.  This concert is the music of Mozart and Strauss," she said as she shushed me.  

I don't like to be shushed. 

The orchestra continued to play.  After a while some dancers come out onto the little stage. They was ballet dancers.  I have never been fond of men and women dancing around on their does although them girls do have some nice lookin' legs. I would not be caught dead wearing tights like them men wore. I mean what if you got hit by a car crossing the street. That would be worse than havin' on dirty underwear. They gotta be in pretty good shape like jocks.  They do jump really high.  After they danced a while the band, orchestra, took a break.  We all got up and stretched  and they gave us either champagne or orange juice. Champagne always tickles my nose. At least it was not as strong as that stuff they called schnapps  we had at the horse show.  It was real fire-water! We set back down again and the band, orchestra, played some more.  I recognized the second song they played. It was from the Stanley Kubrik movie, 2001, A Space Odyssey.  I was excited.  I had recognized a song. I whispered my discovery to Darlene. But she said it was written by somebody named Strauss. After a while, some men and women come out and sung. There was two of each. I don't know what they were saying in the songs. It was in German or something. Darlene said it was opera. There were some people in front of us kinda giggling as the large lady was singing.

And then the concert was over.  I guess it's true what they say, " It ain't over 'til the fat lady sangs!"

Claudette enjoyed the concert and I got another dose of culture. By the way, she said she thought the people were giggling because they thought the big lady singer might experience some kind of "wardrobe malfunction".

We got back to the ship in time for supper. I ain't seen any of them vienna sausages 'round here,

Latter, buddy,

Bubba

Sunday Morning, Cigars and A.R.P.s (Flashback to my youth)

It was the last Sunday in September.  I was with my best friend Jimbo Dillashaw, and we were at the Sunday morning church services at Lower Long Cane Associated Reformed Presbyterian Church. The old church was organized in 1771.  My great grandaddy’s daughter carried lunch to the workman who built the current structure in 1856. That was a long time ago.  The event described here happened in the early 1950s.  

The morning church service had started.  Jimbo and I were supposed to be inside.  We were feeling about grown-up and didn’t want sit with our parents. Momma had given in to our plan, but I knew that her keen eyes would be scanning the back pews for me and Jimbo. I believed that it was a matter of time before she would realize that we were missing and come get us.  It would not be one of our better days when we were found out.

In the front of that church with its four Greek columns reaching skyward beneath a gnarled cedar tree was a tombstone. That tombstone sat on a rectangle of granite. And on that granite were the objects of our desires.

“Let’s do it!” Jimbo said.

“Yeah!” I said. We had long awaited the opportunity to partake of this particular sin. Because, you see, at the base of that tombstone were three cigar stubbies. My daddy, Jimbo’s daddy, and Uncle J. C. left the stubs of their cigars by that tombstone when they went into the church for services. Afterwards they’d light ‘em up again. This was the chance Jimbo and I had waited for.

“I’m gonna get Daddy’s Hav-A-Tampa,” I said.

“I’ll get my daddy’s too,” Jimbo said.

We picked  them up. They were wet from our daddys’ saliva and about to fall apart. We stuck ‘em in our mouths.

“Yuk!” I said.

“They’ll taste better when they’re lit,” Jimbo said.

“Gotta match?” I asked.

“Ain’t gotta match.  What we gonna do?” Jimbo added.

“Bet there’s one in the car!” I said.

“What if the car’s locked?” Jimbo was worried.

“Don’t nobody lock their cars at church, Jimbo!” I said. “ We’d better hurry! Momma will be looking for us anytime now!”

So we ran to the back of the church where the cars were parked. There Chevrolets, Fords, one Plymouth, and a couple of pickup trucks parked under the shade of giant oak trees.  The leaves were just beginning to change color.

“Tell you what.  You start at one end of the row and I’ll start at the other. We’ll find some matches or a lighter or something. Let’s do it!” I said enthusiastically.

I was quick about it. But Jimbo seemed to be having trouble. I had gone through a bunch of cars by the time I got to him.  He had only searched two!

“What’s wrong with you, Jimbo? I’ve done looked in a dozen cars and you only looked into two!” I was what LeRoy Collins called p-oed!

“B-b-but,” Jimbo stuttered, “You gotta see what I found!” He was sitting in Darwin MacQueen’s rusty and bent up old faded green Chevy pickup truck. Darwin was an old bachelor farmer who lived over in Winterseat. Momma said Darwin couldn’t help it ‘cause he was ugly, and that he probably had a good heart.

“It better be matches! We gotta hurry!” I said. What my grandma called my Irish temper had flared up.

“I found matches but lookie  here!” he said with a kind of excitement I had not heard before. He was holding what looked like a tattered and torn magazine. He held it up for me to see. On the page of that magazine was a picture of a young woman. She was a-layin’ on a blanket on her belly. She was propped up on her elbows. She had a big smile on her face. And that was the only thing she had on! We h’ain’t never seen nothin’ like that before.

“Lordy mercy!”  I said. And, although I had to tear my eyes off the picture, I added, “ Jimbo put that back.  We gotta hurry, Momma will be looking for us!”

He stuffed the battered up magazine back under the pickup truck’s seat and we went for the cigars. They were kind of hard to get lit and there were only five matches in the matchbook. We got the stogies lit up on that fifth match. Jimbo started coughing on his first puff and I quickly did the same. This taste of sin lasted only a few minutes.  I got to feeling sorta dizzy and Jimbo was staggering too.  We put the little used cigars of our fathers back at the base of the tombstone and went inside the church.  I saw Momma cut her eyes around at us as we sneaked into the back row.  During the next Bible song I wasn’t feeling too good, and JImbo looked like his face was turning green. As my mouth filled with the taste of bile I jumped from my seat and sprang for the door. Jimbo was right behind me.

We had passed the tombstone and were across the old road before I emptied the contents of my stomach onto the ground. Jimbo did likewise.  Momma had followed us out of the church, having heard the commotion at the back.

“What’s wrong, Son?” she asked sympathetically.

“I must have ate something that disagreed with me,” I said.

“And Jimbo ate it too?” she wanted to know.

“I donno,” I answered.

She didn’t ask anything else.  Made us wipe our mouths real good with our handkerchiefs before escorting us back into church.  I didn’t feel too good the rest of the day but was okay to go to school on Monday.  Nobody ever mentioned our getting sick at church again.  Over the years I’ve smoked  other things, but I’ve never developed an affinity for cigars!

Miltenberg and free beer!

"I knew a guy named Milton once," I said.

"Was he German?" she asked.

"Redneck, I think," I answered.

"From your childhood, no doubt," Claudette said.

"So...I don't reckon Miltenburg, Germany, was named for him," I surmised.

We were on the Grand European River Cruise, three rivers and five countries. Claudette and I had left our Viking ship docked on the Main River and were navigating the cobblestone streets of a town that had survived the Middle Ages.   There was a mist in the air and it was a slippery uphill walk, not always easy for  man with CHF. I had an umbrella from the ship. It had become my habit to pick up one as we left the ship. They were nice and big and red.  At the ship they divided us up into tour groups.  One of the groups was "less strenuous", but we didn't join that one. In such situations, I'm always reminded of a line from "Dirty Harry".  "A man's got to know his limitations." At the top of the hill, or rather almost to the top, we saw the ancient walls of the town with guard tower.  The houses along the wall used the wall for the back wall of their houses. They were small and cottage-like with colorful gardens. I stopped  before reaching the top of the hill.  Claudette continued on for about seventy-five feet to see a Jewish cemetery. (For some reason all our tour guides pointed out Jewish cemeteries.)  We followed our guide along the wall for a few hundred feet before returning to nearer the river.

Our guide, Eva, said, " Much of Miltenberg was destroyed by warfare but not in the usual way. During the Thirty Years War between the Protestants and Catholics the occupying armies had destroyed most of the housing. They tore down the houses to burn for firewood. That was in the seventeenth century."

"Maybe that's why most of the houses here are of half-timber construction," I said.

"Like we saw in Rouen, France?" said Claudette.

"And England too," I added.

"But not in Spain, Turkey, Italy, or Morocco?" She queried.

"I didn't see any there," I said.

Miltenberg is renowned for its half-timbered houses.  When I think of Bavaria I always think of half timbered houses. This very old construction method consists of building a framework of timber and filling in the empty spaces with other material.  Virtually anything can be used. The facades of the gabled buildings appear to be a patchwork. Several of the buildings had lettering on the outside with verse, and some depicted the number of children in the family. Many of the buildings had statues of the Virgin Mary or the Holy Family. They were brilliantly painted and many wee gilded. I was under the impression that Germany was predominantly Protestant  since the Protestant Reformation began there. But, alas, my thinking was in error.   We visited the city hall, which was a stone structure with a fountain that seemed to operate intermittently. It was mildly fascinating to watch. One of the most interesting things I saw was the old water well. It was a rectangular opening in the street with steps leading down from either end. A villager would walk down the steps and dip the water from the well. The town square should appear on every postcard from Miltenberg. It is picture perfect with a large fountain surrounded by half-timber buildings and a church with a spire and the far end of the cobblestone street.

After the tour was over we met with our friends in a restaurant for beer. It was cool and dark with very few customers. The ship's Activities Director, Chantal, was there as well. She said that our departure was delayed.  We had gotten off the ship in Miltenberg but would board it in Wertheim after our tour.  Chantal decided to treat us to free beer.  There must have been over one hundred fifty in the combined tour groups.  Not only was the beer free but it was served at Zum Riesen, one the oldest if not the oldest inn in Germany. The beer was dark and smooth, but before I reached the bottom of the one litre mug it was time to go.  We would catch the Viking ship, Kara, in Wertheim. It had been an enjoyable visit to the Bavarian town of Miltenberg.

Eva's humorous recitation:

There once was a very wealthy man in Miltenberg named Werner who had an attractive but not very smart servant girl. This servant girl had to be given exact instructions about everything. One day when the rich man was very busy, she kept asking him, "What do you want me to do?  What do you want me to do?   What do you want me to do? 

He became very upset and said, "Just go and stick you rear end out the window!" 

 And so she did! Later, he realized what he had told her to do and asked, "What did people say when they saw your rear end sticking out of the window"   

With a smile she said, "Good morning, Herr Werner!"

Millers, but no Flour.

"You know how I've been looking forward to this," I said to Claudette as we got off the Viking ship, Kara, in Kinderdijk, the Netherlands.

"Yes, I know how excited you get about mills.  I think it goes back to when you read Geoffrey Chaucer's tale about the millers in The Canterbury Tales in high school," was her response.

"I'm not sure about that.  These are windmills. I think it's a testament to mankind's ingenuity to use wind power to grind wheat into flour for bread," I said.  I have always been fascinated by mechanical contraptions, especially those of the eighteenth century.

We were on a river cruise upon which we would navigate three rivers and visit five countries. Having begun in Amsterdam, Kinderdijk was our first stop in Holland. Kinderdijk is a UNESCO World Heritage Site with nineteen windmills, many of which are operational. I experienced quite an odd sensation there.  I found it quite unusual to disembark a ship then walk down hill. But that is the way Holland is.  Much of the land is below sea level and indeed river level. Our guide was Hans, a handsome lad, who was a college student and who, by his own admission, had taken a tour guide job to improve his English language skills. His field of study in college was international commerce.


"Did you notice his name?" I asked Claudette as we followed Hans on the road beside the river.

"So?" was her curt response.

"Hans Brinker or the Silver Skates.  You know, the little Dutch boy who saved his country by plugging up the hole in the dyke with his finger! Didn't your Mom read you that story?  I queried.

"I don't remember.  But probably," she answered with a slightly bored tone.

Before us appeared almost a postcard view. Stretching in front of us was a flat landscape punctuated by what appeared to be rectangular shaped bodies of water. And beside these bodies of water were those curious appearing windmills, their blades reminiscent of a flower blossom on its stem.  Hans led us a few hundred feet down to the water and a stone building which was like a windmill maintenance shop. There he gave a lecture about the history of the windmills, their construction and operation. During this lecture I found that his reference to millers was not the same as mine. He referred to windmill operators as millers.  But the term miller to me meant someone who ground wheat or other grains into flour or meal.  I was not to see windmills making flour from wheat.* The purpose for the windmills is for water control.  Much of the Netherlands is below sea level and consequently is often flooded. The windmills pump the water from these flooded areas. The dutch have been practicing flood control with windmills for over three hundred years!

As we walked along the path toward a windmill there were people fishing  and an artist selling his wares. Claudette was very interested in the fishermen but did not see them catch a fish. There were a few wildflowers scattered along the path. We came to a narrow drawbridge across the water to a windmill.

"Wow! they're much larger than I thought!" Claudette exclaimed.

I used the measure application on my phone to determine the height to be about 51 meters  as we gathered at the base of the windmill. Hans, the guide, was saying, "...and the miller's family lived here. A miller's family was usually large, sometimes as many as 15 children. Kinderdijk is named for children.  They looked around one day and saw so many children playing that they named it Kinderdijk. Kinder means children in Dutch. While we wait for the other group to leave the mill, I will ask you this question.  Do you know why so many Dutch people are blonde? It is because in the old days people shaved their heads because they had lice. Then they found out that bleach would kill the lice! And there you have it!  We can go in now."

We entered the mill. To the left was a narrow stairway up to the top of the mill. Being in the midst of recovery from a bout with severe bronchitis I did not attempt the climb.  But my dear wife did.  Inside

the windmill was very compact as you might imagine. It had never occurred to me that people lived in them.  The rooms were small and very compact and on several levels. The giant gears, water wheel, and mechanisms of the mill received the priority of space.  Almost all of the mechanical parts of the mill are made of wood. Different types of wood are used for specific parts.  The wooden shoes made famous by the Dutch were a necessity for the millers to keep their feet dry. The miller received compensation from the government for operating the mill.  Outside the mill, Hans demonstrated how to aim the huge windmill fan blades into the wind. It was quite a time consuming method to rotate the top of the mill to which the fabric covered blades were attached.

As we walked back to the ship we passed the giant Archimedean screws which now move water from the lower level into the river above. There was also a gift shop where those souvenirs could be purchased.  A wooden shoe was outside the shop large enough for a tourist to sit in for a Kodak moment!

*There were windmills used fro grinding grain in Holland but that was the most common use for a windmill.

After thought:   The positions of the blades of the windmills were used to signal such events as births, deaths, approaching armies and other.

from my sketchbook