Look At This Quiver

When I lived in Boston, I arranged my work schedule so that I could attend the monthly African Arts Seminar at Boston University.  The attendees were all Americans, and they were all academics except for me and a woman named Nancy, who was a collector of African art. 

I asked Nancy if I could see her African art collection.  She agreed.

I went to her home.  Nancy and her husband owned a three-story commercial building near Harvard Square.  They rented the first floor to a business, and they lived on the upper two floors.

Actually, they lived in a small corner of the second floor, where they had a living room, kitchen, and bedroom.  The rest of the place, somewhere around 8,000 square feet, was devoted to Nancy’s African art collection.

She liked big art made of wood: masks and statues. 

She walked me through the second floor, full of masks hanging on walls and pillars, hanging on wires from the ceiling, displayed on tables.  There were lots of wooden statues standing on the floor.

I oohed and aahed.  It was like an art jungle.  She definitely needed the 8,000 square feet.  I tried to imagine her husband willingly buying a large building so his wife could live with her acquisitions.  Given Boston real estate prices, the building must have cost a fortune.

We went up to the third floor. Again, wooden masks on display everywhere.  Plus wooden statues.  My mind was boggled.  This collection was bigger than a museum.  Nancy must have spent a fortune.

Then Nancy stopped at a table, and became animated.  She wanted to show me her favorite piece of art.

“Here, Doug, look at this quiver.”  

The quiver still had its crude hand-made arrows in it.  It was covered in leather, dyed a red color very common in Africa, with a simple black ink design on it.  A few small seashells were glued to it for decoration.

“Just look at the patina on the quiver.”  She ran her hand over the quiver to emphasize the patina.  This quiver could not have cost her more than five dollars; yet, it was her favorite object amongst two floors of African art.

I understood why it was her favorite.  It had a patina.  Someone had used this quiver.  That person had hunted, and had brought home meat for his family. 

The patina connected Nancy to a person.  Not the person who made the quiver.  Not the person who had sold it to her.  The patina connected Nancy to the hunter who had used this quiver.

8,000 square feet of masks and statues did not give her such a personal connection.

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Found on a Beach on Long Island, 1946

The topic of the presentation at the library was: “Architecture in France”.

At one point during the presentation, the speaker told the audience how he felt about his decision, while on vacation in France, to drive to Ronchamp near the Swiss border.  The drive took many hours.  He is a fan of architecture, and he began to wonder if it was worth spending all this time on French highways just to see one building.

When he finally reached his destination, and saw Notre-Dame-du-Haut, he realized it really was worth driving all those hours.

The chapel, designed by Le Corbusier, was built in 1954, on a hilltop that has been sacred ever since the days of pagan sun worship.

The speaker then showed the audience a slide of the chapel, which caught my eye.  I remember seeing a photo of the chapel in Life Magazine when I was a kid.

Then the speaker said something that caught my ear: “The inspiration for the roof is said to be a crab shell that Le Corbusier found on a beach when he was visiting Long Island in 1946.  Le Corbusier liked the crab shell so much he kept it on his desk.”

Long Island!  I grew up there!!  Our family went to the beach about four times a week during the summer.

Now I was intrigued.  This shell was found three years after I was born. What kind of crab could have inspired that roof?  The crabs I knew from my Long Island childhood were horseshoe crabs --- definitely not an inspiring kind of crab.

When I got home after the library presentation, I enlisted the help of the Internet.  I found the email address of the archivist at Fondation Le Corbusier in Paris.  Her name was Isabelle, and I asked if she could email me a photo of the crab shell.

Isabelle did:

The photo pleased me. 

This crab shell was found on a Long Island beach.  I spent many happy childhood hours on Long Island beaches.  The photo has personally connected me to one of the finest works of twentieth century French architecture: Notre-Dame-du-Haut, Ronchamp, in France, somewhere near the Swiss border.

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Once A Prankster

My brothers, who were older than me, had a Johnson Smith mail order catalog.  I couldn’t wait to be old enough to order items from Johnson Smith.

Exploding cigars, itching powder, dribble glasses, squirt lapel flowers, fake plastic bugs in clear plastic ice cubes.  Not to mention cold cream jars that didn’t hold cold cream --- they held coiled snakes that would spring out of the jars when they were opened by unsuspecting women.

My young imagination sizzled with all the fun I would have playing pranks on people. 

But, somehow, I never got around to ordering from the catalog when I got older.  Instead, I created my own pranks.

Some high school friends had never tried white chocolate.  I proceeded to buy some white chocolate from a candy store and broke it into little pieces.  Then I took a small bar of white hand soap, and broke it into little pieces.  I mixed everything in a brown paper bag.

The next time my friends and I got together, I brought along the bag.  “Here, reach in and try a piece of white chocolate.”  I couldn’t wait for someone to nibble on soap instead of candy.

I was sixteen years old when Hawaii joined the Union.  I decided that my high school friends should get exotic Christmas cards that year. 

I bought a bunch of plain postcards from our local post office.  On the front of each postcard I typed a friend’s address, on the back I adjusted the typewriter ribbon to red and typed: “Hope your Christmas is a red-letter day!” and added a typewritten signature: Hester Prynne (the main character in The Scarlet Letter.)

I put all the postcards in a large envelope, along with a letter asking the Honolulu postmaster to mail them.  I put the envelope in the mail, and crossed my fingers.

Lo and behold, the Honolulu postmaster did as I asked.  

I was certain because I had addressed one of the postcards to myself.  My puzzled high school friends asked me if I knew who sent them a postcard from Hawaii signed by Hester Prynne.  I took my postcard out of my pocket and said, “I have no idea; I got one, too!”

I had established my credentials as a prankster --- firmly established.

Many years after high school, I was visiting a friend in Oregon.  We drove by a motel and I was suddenly asked: "How did you do that, Doug?”  I looked at the motel, which seemed rather ordinary.  “How did I do what?”  “You know!  That sign.”  I looked at the motel sign.

The sign said “Welcome, National Pygmy Goat Association.”  My friend had assumed that I had talked the manager into putting this message on the motel sign.

I realized there was no way to convince my friend that I had not invented the NPGA.  Once a prankster; always a prankster.

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FOOTNOTE:  Pranksters will be glad to know that Johnson Smith is still in business, and you can still get fake plastic bugs in clear plastic ice cubes ---  http://www.johnsonsmith.com

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

The Effect Of Stairways

Near our home, there is a fitness center located on the first floor of a modest two-story office block. 

One of the personal trainers told me about the time the center decided to expand, and rented a room on the second floor.  They discovered that their clients were not enthusiastic about climbing up a stairway to get to a fitness class.  So, they moved their expansion room to the first floor of a small building behind the two-story office block.

The personal trainer’s story inspired me.  I decided to give a presentation for the Society of Architectural Historians on the effect of stairways.  Specifically: the effect of the stairways in Lewis Hall in Glasgow, Missouri.

Glasgow, on the Missouri River, was a thriving hemp and tobacco port in the mid-nineteenth century.  It was the site of a Civil War battle in October 1864, when Glasgow was attacked by Confederate troops under the command of Sterling Price.  Sterling Price was a former Missouri governor. 

Before the Union troops surrendered, they torched Glasgow City Hall, where their munitions were stored.  The mural at the top of this blog post portrays the burning of City Hall.

After the War, Lewis College was founded in Glasgow, in a lovely two-story building.

Finished in 1867, the first floor of Lewis Hall was used for lectures; the second floor was the library.  The college moved out of the building in 1891, and the city took over.  The first floor was used as a town meeting hall; the second floor was the town library.

As time went by, the librarian noticed that library attendance was dwindling.  The cause: patrons were not enthusiastic about climbing up a stairway to get to a library. 

So, Glasgow decided that they really did not need a town meeting hall, and the first floor became the library.  They did not move the library from the second floor down to the first floor; they simply created a new library on the first floor.  The old library remained --- intact --- on the second floor.

I had a chance to visit Lewis Hall in Glasgow last year.  The library on the first floor was perfectly modern: fluorescent lights, computers, teenagers doing homework or socializing.  I asked the librarian to take me upstairs. 

When I got upstairs, I stood awe-struck.  All the nineteenth-century books were there, sitting in nineteenth-century bookcases with glass doors.  There was a balcony with more bookcases.  The tables were from 1867.  The chairs were also from 1867, and I could barely squeeze into them.  I was in a time capsule 

There was an ironic note.  When Missouri held a convention to decide whether to secede from the Union, the ladies of Glasgow cut up some satin gowns to sew an American flag because they wanted Missouri to stay in the Union.  They went to the convention and presented the flag to none other than the chairman of the convention, former governor Sterling Price.

The flag did not discourage secession; it did not keep war away from Glasgow.  It is displayed in a frame now, and silently looks down on an intact nineteenth-century library. The library is empty of patrons, but it is full of books that once entertained and educated the people of Glasgow.

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

The Shiny Piston Inserted In My Skull

I always thought that the bones in my inner ear had cute names and would be easy to remember for a high school biology test: hammer, anvil, stirrup.

However, on Monday my ear changed.  A surgeon inserted a piston in my skull.  Now, my inner ear consists of a hammer, an anvil, and a shiny piston.

Over the years since high school biology, the stirrup in my right ear became calcified.  My hearing was diminished.  When I got my first hearing aid in 1992, I was told about “The Operation.”  This meant replacing the stirrup bone with a plastic bone, which would vibrate and help my hearing.

Time went by, and I decided to investigate having “The Operation”.  By then “The Operation” had advanced medically and meant replacing the stirrup bone with a spring.  I set up a date for the surgery.

Then I was at lunch with someone from the Human Resources Department where I work.  I mentioned my upcoming ear surgery, and she said there was an employee in California who had the same surgery, and I should get in touch with him.

Good thing I got in touch.  The fellow in California emailed back: the operation improved his hearing but damaged his sense of balance.

Hmm…it did not take long to decide which is better: improved hearing or a good sense of balance. Good balance enables you to carry on everyday life.

I went back to the ear surgeon and said I was cancelling my surgery because I did not want to risk losing my sense of balance.  The surgeon’s response: “Oh, it’s not a big deal; only six of my patients have ever lost their sense of balance.”

Really?  Six patients unable to carry on everyday life?  I didn’t care if it was six out of a hundred or six out of a thousand, this surgeon never mentioned it to me.  Surgery cancelled.

Time went by some more, and I decided to investigate again.  This time I looked for an ear surgeon who specialized in balance.  I met with him, and he told me about the results of the surgery.  96% of people gain improved hearing; 3% have no change; 1% have a loss.

I decided to go with it.  This surgeon was upfront about the risks, and if there was a balance problem he would be the one to fix it.

But now “The Operation” means replacing the stirrup bone with a piston.

The piston was inserted five days ago.  At the moment, I am not sure if it has improved my hearing because I have to wear a wad of cotton taped in my right ear to keep medicine from leaking out.

However, my balance is not a problem.

My main problem now is my friends' comments:  "Don’t blow a gasket!"  "You must be high octane now!"  "How many miles per gallon are you getting with a shiny piston in your skull?"

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

I Have Never Been A P.O.W. In North Korea

I have never been a Prisoner Of War in North Korea, but I did have a small glimpse into the ordeal that a P.O.W. endured.  We bought a new Honda recently.

At the Honda dealership, the salesman was jolly, the receptionist was friendly, the guy from the maintenance department said hello, the person who arranged the test drive was congenial, the woman I spoke to on the phone was pleasant.  They all did their best to make our purchase a happy one.

When arrangements were almost complete, my buddy Randy had to leave. 

This meant I had to face the finance officer by myself.  All alone behind closed doors, with a man who fully intended to break my will and convince me to buy an extended warranty.

The finance officer said he was a former mathematics teacher, and wanted to show me some numbers.  I hid the fact that I am also a former mathematics teacher; instead, I said I was a literary type of person.  I wanted to show him some letters: the letter “N” and the letter “O”.

So, instead of showing me some numbers, the finance officer told some facts.  2012 is different --- our new car had so many components that it was bound to have problems.  Did I need proof?  Just come to the dealership on Monday morning and look at all the cars lined up outside the maintenance department waiting to be repaired.

No, I do not want an extended warranty.  I have taken very good care of my cars; one of them reached a quarter of a million miles.

The finance officer told me my previous experience with maintaining cars was meaningless.  2012 is different --- cars are so complicated that there is no comparison with older cars.

Our new car was belittled.  My proud ownership experience was belittled.  I began to wonder if the United States has some sort of trade agreement with North Korea, arranging to send extended warranty salesmen to Pyongyang for training.

Somehow I managed to leave the room without breaking down and getting a warranty.

When I drove away from the dealership in the new car, I thought about all the new cars I have purchased in my life.  I used to drive away from the dealership feeling satisfied and happy.  But this time, I drove away feeling angry. 

The finance officer was right --- 2012 is different.

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

More Important Than Human Life

I reached a big milestone when I was two months into my Information Technology career.  My employer, a bank, issued me a beeper.

Only certain types of people carried beepers, mainly physicians and drug dealers.  I had joined their elite ranks.

I wore my beeper proudly.  I was an honor to be considered competent enough to fix the bank’s production problems at night on my own.

People would spot my beeper and ask me if I was a doctor.  My response: “No, I am not a doctor. I deal with something more important than human life.”  Most people then figured out that I must deal with money.

I carried a beeper for many years. To my disappointment, not once did someone spot my beeper and ask me if I was a drug dealer.

With a beeper on my belt, I had to make decisions about my social life.  

It was a crap shoot.  If I went out to a movie, and my beeper went off, I would miss a big chunk of the movie while I responded to a production problem.  However, if I stayed home out of fear that my beeper would go off in the middle of a movie, I would never get to see a movie.

Once my beeper went off during a party right when we finished singing “Happy Birthday to You” and the cake was about to be cut. I had to leave the party, and I still feel deprived that I never got any birthday cake. That was thirty-three years ago.

Usually there is a primary beeper and a backup beeper.

One night, when I was on backup, my beeper went off at 4 AM. The woman on primary needed help figuring out a problem.  Since she lived two miles from my home, I drove over to her house so we could look at the problem together.

She greeted me at the door wearing her bathrobe and fuzzy pink bunny slippers. We sat at her home computer in the dining room. We had the problem fixed in an hour --- but not before her husband woke up and groggily looked into the room.

Nowadays, my current employer does not make us carry beepers.  Production problems that occur at night are fixed the following morning.

So, never again will I be interrupted in the middle of a movie.  Never again will I miss out on birthday cake.

However, never again will I get to see the expression on a drowsy husband’s face when he peeks in his dining room at five in the morning and sees a strange man talking to his wife who is wearing her bathrobe and fuzzy pink bunny slippers.

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com