Everybody, Stop Breathing

The sign on the wall said: “Maximum capacity 14 people”.  In the silence of a stuck elevator, someone read the sign out loud, then counted the number of people on the elevator: “-12-13-14-15-16”.  Since we were over the maximum, that person issued a command: “Everybody, stop breathing.”

It was 1962, and we were in the control tower at JFK Airport, and the elevator was supposed to take us up to the observation deck.  Nobody stopped breathing, but the elevator suddenly started moving again.

The next time I was trapped on an elevator was at Wells Fargo Advisors here in St. Louis in 2004.  I was the only person on the elevator when it shuddered to a stop.  

I pushed the button to tell Security what had happened.  Over the speaker, Security told me that help was on the way, and then asked me what I thought about last night’s Cardinals baseball game.

The Security person was extremely chatty; he wouldn’t shut up.  Then I realized that he had been told not to shut up.  Security was afraid that I would freak out being trapped by myself on an elevator.  Actually, it was much freakier to talk baseball with a voice that was coming to me remotely via a speaker.  Eventually, the elevator doors opened, and I stepped out.

Last month, I was leading a walking tour in downtown St. Louis with eight tourpeople: two Canadians and six Americans. 

Halfway through the tour, I took them into the Security Building, which has a splendid lobby built in 1890.  As I was showing off the lobby, Steve Smith walked into the building. 

Steve Smith is the CEO of the Lawrence Group, a major company that rehabs historic buildings.  They have branches in Austin, Charlotte, and New York; their headquarters are on the tenth floor of the Security Building in St. Louis.

Steve asked the tourpeople if they would like to see the tenth floor.  In the early Twentieth Century, that was the location of the Noonday Club, a gentleman’s club where Charles Lindbergh went to ask for money to finance his solo flight across the Atlantic.

Oh, yes, we would definitely like to see the tenth floor.

We piled into the elevator.  Steve Smith pressed the button that said "10".  Nothing happened.  Steve Smith then pressed the button that said "Open Door".  Nothing happened.

But Steve Smith’s cellphone did work when he dialed 9-1-1 from inside an elevator inside an elevator shaft inside a building built in 1890. 

As we stood trapped in a hot and humid elevator, I was convinced that my tourpeople were getting angry, and I envisioned them going home and telling their friends what an ordeal the tour was.  After 25 minutes, the elevator doors flew open.  Cool air gushed in, and we saw eight St. Louis City Firemen smiling at us.

The firemen were more than smiling, they were beaming at us.  They were dressed just like the firemen on TV: rubber coats and pants, big boots, and a helmet.  One guy was even holding an axe.  The firemen were beaming because they had rescued us. 

I announced to the tourpeople that I was willing to refund the cost of the tour, but they were not listening to me.  They were all busy taking selfies with the firemen.

I led the tourpeople outside, and announced that I would cut the tour short and take people back to the start point, but they were all busy taking photos of the three fire engines that had come to rescue us.

I envisioned the tourpeople going home and showing their friends photos of the firemen and the fire engines who rescued them.  And maybe a photo of the fireman who was holding an axe.

- . - .- . - . - . 

A 3-minute video showing Nicholas White trapped in an elevator (Car 30) in the McGraw-Hill Building in New York City for an excruciating 41 hours...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p_bMhNI_TY8

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  Send an email to ParadiseDouglas at gmail.com to find out how to purchase a copy by mail.

One Year Of Fishing, And Then You Die

Otto von Bismarck looked at the typical German working man, and decided that Germans who worked hard all their life should be rewarded.  The reward would be retirement.  In 1889,  Germany became the first government to provide a pension so that a working man could spend his golden years relaxing and fishing.

Actually, it was to be one golden year of relaxing and fishing.  At the time, German life expectancy was 66 years.  So, Otto von Bismarck figured that Germans would work until they were 65, and retirement would give them one year of fishing before death.

Nowadays, people who stop working at 65 can look forward to many years of retirement.

I used to envision retirement as being immersed in free time.  

Free time would be abundant, and I could do all the projects I did not have time for when I was working: filing papers and organizing drawers and cleaning out cupboards.  

Free time would be unbounded, and I would be able to read lots of books and bake lots of cookies and travel to my heart’s content.

Two months ago, I retired.  Yes, free time is different now --- free time is elusive.

I wake up with a to-do list in my head, and at the end of the day, the list is about the same length as it was in the morning, in spite of my not having to drive 18 miles to an office, put in 8 hours at a desk, and drive 18 miles back home.

Is my to-do list too ambitious?  Is there too much on my plate?  Am I dawdling instead of being focused?  Are tasks expanding to fill the time allotted for their completion? 

Why is it hard to feel like I have accomplished much?

I am puzzled that retirement is not what I expected.  But I am not alone.  When I talk to other people who are retired, they have the same situation---their free time is elusive, it is not abundant and unbounded. They also have unfiled papers, disorganized drawers, messy cabinets, and buy their cookies at the supermarket. 

So, when people ask me “How is retirement going?” my answer depends on the person who is asking the question.  If that person is still working, I say that retirement is wonderful and I am enjoying my free time.  If that person is retired, I say that I am still adjusting to being retired.

But maybe I am living my retirement the wrong way.  Maybe what I should really do is heed Otto von Bismarck, and go out and buy a fishing pole.

- . - .- . - . - . 

Here is a QuickHistory video about Otto von Bismarck.  
(2 minutes).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FRcNoegrINk

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  Send an email to ParadiseDouglas at gmail.com to find out how to purchase a copy by mail.

Big Things, And They Are Far Apart

I got off a Delta Airline flight at the Detroit Airport, and was greeted by a sign: "To get to the center of the terminal, take the train".

The Delta terminal is so big that it has a train inside it.  No, not like the Dallas or Atlanta Airports, where trains take you from one terminal to another.  The train in Detroit took me on a half-mile journey from the north end of the terminal to the middle of the terminal ---- and there is a second train that takes you the remaining half mile from the middle to the south end of the terminal.  Yes, a mile-long Delta terminal.

I had been invited to Detroit to teach a Scottish country dance workshop.  I arrived on a Friday, and the workshop was on a Saturday.  When my host and hostess met me at the airport, they asked me what I would like to see.

First on my list: Elmwood Cemetery.  As my hosts headed down the Interstate, we passed an enormous tire.  It had to be a Guinness Book Of World Records tire.  

After I oohed and aahed at the big tire, my hosts gave me the sad news: Detroit once had the world’s largest stove, but it had been dismantled.

At Elmwood Cemetery, someone in the office directed us to Lewis Cass' grave.  I wanted to visit his grave because I have impersonated Lewis Cass for my employer, Cass Information Systems. 

Approaching the gravesite, I expected a gravestone.  Instead of a gravestone, there was a towering monument.  I figured that there had been an outpouring of public grief at Lewis Cass’ death in 1866, and the grief was expressed in this big monument.

Next stop was Cranbrook, an art school with a 319-acre campus – a mighty big campus for an art school that only accepts graduate students.

I wanted to see Cranbrook because its campus is dotted with sculptures by Carl Milles.  I walked around snapping photos of his sculptures, including Jonah And The Whale, which featured a big Jonah, who was half the size of the whale that swallowed him.

I decided to go into the Cranbrook Art Museum, but it was not easy to do: the museum’s big doors, in all their art-deco splendor, were cast of bronze and weighed a couple hundred pounds each.

Once inside, I chatted with the museum’s receptionist, who turned out to be from Missouri.  She asked me what I thought of Detroit.

I said, “Detroit has big things.”

She added, “And they are far apart.”

Now I had a mantra: Detroit has big things, and they are far apart.

Whenever a local asked me what I thought of Detroit, I would use my mantra.  But the locals would then look disturbed.  I realized that the locals were disturbed because they thought I had said “Detroit has big things, and they are falling apart.”

I may never be invited to Detroit again.

- . - .- . - . - . 

Take a tour of Detroit's urban landscape, with this rap video called "Detroit Vs. Everybody", produced by Eminem.  (6 minutes).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hCdgDxQbW_U

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  Send an email to ParadiseDouglas at gmail.com to find out how to purchase a copy by mail.

Four Footprints In The Sand

When I was a kid, I was self-conscious about my feet.  Everybody else had normal feet, but I had feet with high arches. 

My unusual feet were evident whenever our family went to the beach and I walked on the sand at low tide. Everybody else who walked on the sand had two footprints.  I had four footprints --- each time I took a step, the front of my foot did not connect to the back of my foot.

My feet not only have high arches, they are wide.  

So wide that whenever my mother took me on shoe-shopping excursions, she would have big consultations with the shoe salesman.  However, I did not mind these shoe store excursions because I got to stand on a wooden box filled with radioactive material and watch my toe bones wiggle. 

These boxes were called Foot-O-Meters, and were supposed to show if shoes fit properly.  They had periscope tubes for Mom and the shoe salesman to peer into and see the bones in my feet glowing green from the radium below them. 

Back in those days, radioactivity was nothing to worry about.

When I was old enough to buy shoes on my own, I did not have big consultations with the shoe salesmen.  The widest any shoe came in was an E width.  E width was not wide enough for me, so I simply bought shoes that were too sizes too long so that my wide feet could fit in them.

This meant I walked around in shoes with a couple of inches of empty space in the front.  I walked around expecting that someone would ask me why the front of my shoes never looked worn down. 

Then the running shoe burst upon the scene, and athletic shoe stores started popping up all over.  

I went into one of these stores.  The salesman saw how wide my feet were, and brought me a pair of shoes with a width greater than E.  The shoes were E-E-E-E-E-E.   They were white athletic shoes made by New Balance, the company which had broken the width barrier.

At age 40, I finally could buy shoes that fit me perfectly.  And I could wear my white athletic shoes without being self-conscious about wasting space in the front of the shoes.  Life was good.

Well, life was good until I turned 70 years old. 

I was watching a basketball game on TV, and noticed that none of the players were wearing white athletic shoes; they were wearing colorful athletic shoes.  

Then I went to a barbell class at Gold’s Gym, and looked around at people’s feet.  No one else in class was wearing white shoes – their shoes were so colorful that they sometimes matched the color of their shorts or t-shirts.

I can’t go colorful, because New Balance shoes with width E-E-E-E-E-E only come in white.  Now I feel self-conscious about my feet again, just like I did when I was a kid walking on the sand at low tide. 

- . - .- . - . - . 

The US Surgeon General in 1927 produced a hygiene movie showing you how to buy good-fitting shoes, with the help of a Foot-O-Meter (1 minute):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jN7oqMw6ipo



A pair of colorful shoes take a tour of Miami (1 minute):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vOEcgadlRf8

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  Send an email to ParadiseDouglas at gmail.com to find out how to purchase a copy by mail.

Get Your Ticks On Route 66

St. Louis Community College asked me to write up a proposal for a bus tour of Route 66 this summer.

I am up for the task.  Route 66 passes through the town we live in; so, I went exploring the route as it goes west into central Missouri.

I found Route 66 ruins: buildings that barely stand and are no longer in use.  

Surely people on a Route 66 bus tour will want to see ruins, such as John's Modern Cabins, which were modern in 1941. Some of John's wooden cabins still stand.  Some lean.  Some lean further, and the rest are just piles of timber now.

Surely people on a Route 66 bus tour will want to see the ruins of the Stony Dell Resort, a place where Mae West once stayed.  

These ruins do not lean, because they are made of stone.

In central Missouri, Route 66 follows the Cherokee Trail of Tears for many miles, and people on a bus tour will want to see Larry Baggett's Memorial, which is now slowly turning into ruins because Larry passed away in 2003.

Many years ago, Larry built a retaining wall in his yard.  After he built the wall, he started hearing people knock on his door in the middle of the night.  He would open the door, and find no one there.  Oddly, his dogs, who slept near the door, did not notice the knocking.

Then Larry was visited by an old man.  According to Larry, this man looked like he was 150 years old.  He informed Larry that the retaining wall was built across the Trail of Tears.  Because so many Cherokee died on the Trail, the spirits still walk the Trail at night.  However, the spirits cannot get over Larry’s wall and they are knocking on his door to complain.

Larry built a set of steps over his wall, and the knocking stopped.  Larry was so impressed, that he went on to build a Trail of Tears monument at the end of his driveway:  

People on the bus tour will want to see these Route 66 ruins, and they will clamor to get off the bus and photograph them.  I cannot let this happen.

The main reason to keep people on the bus is timing.  

The tour will be eight hours long as it is.  If I let people get off the bus to photograph everything of interest on Route 66 --- not only ruins, but a giant rock in the shape of a frog, the Wagon Wheel Motel which is still in business, the bridge over the Big Piney which had so many accidents that the route earned the nickname of Bloody 66, the cafe where Jack Kerouac had lunch --- then the tour will be eighteen hours long.

Somehow I must convince people that they do not want to get off the bus.

I have a plan, based on summertime in central Missouri.  I will canvas the people on the bus: 

How many people would like to get a painful poison ivy rash?  

How many people would like to have parasitic chigger larvae feeding on their skin?  

How many people would like to get bitten by a snake when the bus is an unknown number of miles from the nearest anti-venom?  

How many people would like to have ticks crawling all over them?

Aha, that should do the trick.  People will be glad to stay put and take photos out the bus windows.

- . - .- . - . - . 

Pixar's animated tribute to Route 66 is called Cars.  The Cheetah Girls are on the soundtrack of the movie, and here is the Cheetah Girl's video showing that they know how to get their kicks. (3.5 minutes):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8R8SOuusFc4

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  Send an email to ParadiseDouglas at gmail.com to find out how to purchase a copy by mail.

The Hat That Brought Lewis Cass Back From The Grave

I spotted the hat and was about to try it on, when a guy walked into the hat shop, pointed at the hat and said: "That hat was made for you."  I hadn't quite put the hat on, and a complete stranger had given me a compliment.

So, I bought it.  I was at "Hats, Hides, and Heirlooms" in Eureka Springs, Arkansas; I had always wanted a top hat.

However, a top hat is lonely by itself.  It wants a cloak and a cane. 

Google took me on a tour of Internet cloaks, which showed me that a cloak would be inappropriate since it seems to be for people who read fantasy novels. Google pointed out that the top hat really needs a cape.   I finally zeroed on a cape that came straight out of the 19th Century. 

I took a tour of Internet canes.  Google quickly pointed out that canes are for people who have trouble walking --- and that the top hat really needs is a walking stick.  I found a walking stick with an eagle on the knob.

I already had a vest and a bow tie in my wardrobe.  I was ready to morph.  But should I morph into a generic 19th Century gentleman or a specific 19th Century gentleman?

My problem was solved when my employer, Cass Information Systems, announced a Halloween costume contest. It was clear that the top hat, cape, and walking stick belonged to Lewis Cass, because Cass Information Systems bears his name.

Lewis Cass (1782-1866) had a long career of public service.  When I put on the top hat and cape, and grab the walking stick, I wonder how Lewis Cass from the 19th Century should introduce himself to people from the 20th Century.

Perhaps: “Hello, I am Lewis Cass, congressman from Ohio.”  Or “I am Lewis Cass, territorial governor of Michigan and also twice Senator from Michigan.”

Or “Brigadier General Lewis Cass”.

Or should I wait until I see a twenty-dollar bill, and tell people: “Hey, that's my friend Andy Jackson and I was his Secretary of War.”

Or maybe if I hear someone speaking French, I could introduce myself as Lewis Cass, the ambassador to France.

I decided to introduce myself dramatically: “I am Lewis Cass, and I have come back from the grave.”

Then people can ask me who I was, and I can talk about how I lost the Presidential election of 1848 to Zachary Taylor, blaming my loss, of course, on Martin Van Buren, who split our party and thereby handed the election to Zachary.

I can reveal how I could have prevented the Civil War when I was James’ Buchanan’s Secretary of State.  I told the President to reinforce Fort Sumter, and he refused; so, I resigned.

I always tell people how popular I was. Although I never lived in the state, Missouri named Cassville after me

And Missouri named Cass County after me.  

And St. Louis named Cass Avenue after me, and Cass Information Systems is named after Cass Avenue.

I had a great time telling people that I had come back from the grave, until someone did not ask me who I was.  She asked me what it was like being in the grave.

Uh oh. I was unprepared for that question.  I told her that cellphone reception is pretty poor in the grave, but I don’t think that was the answer she was looking for.

So, now, I am no longer sure how to introduce myself.  The top hat brought Lewis Cass back from the grave, but Lewis Cass does not want to talk about being in the grave.

- . - .- . - . - . 


Since Lewis was a Would-Be President, he has caught the attention of the Worsh Ahts, Steve Lorobec's experimental post-punk indie music project in Pittsburgh.  Here is the Worsh Ahts 2-minute Lewis Cass Song!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKvzjgyoEFo

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  Send an email to ParadiseDouglas at gmail.com to find out how to purchase a copy by mail.

The Forks Were Wired To The Table

When I moved to London to live on the GI Bill, I wasn’t quite prepared for the class divisions in Britain.

I knew that the best way to experience local life was to visit a pub. 

When I visited my first pub, I had a dilemma: the pub had two doors.  One door was marked LOUNGE, and the other door was marked PUBLIC.  I wasn’t sure which door I should enter; I decided to go in the PUBLIC door since I was a member of the public.  Once inside, I ordered a pint and noticed that the floor was uncarpeted and the chairs had no cushions.  I could peek into the LOUNGE side of the pub: over there, it looked cozy, with carpets and cushions.

I learned that the PUBLIC side was designed for the working class --- blue collar workers who had just gotten off of work, wearing grimy work clothes and dirty boots.  Hence, no carpets and no cushions.  But a pint on the PUBLIC side of the pub cost less than the same pint on the LOUNGE side of the pub --- so I often drank on the PUBLIC side to help my GI Bill go further.

I also noticed that all pubs closed at 11 PM. 

For transportation, I took the London Underground, where the last trains left around midnight.

These hours seemed restrictive for a major city like London.  

Then I heard a theory: these hours were designed to get the working class back home and in bed at a reasonable hour.  The middle-class and upper-class did not depend on public transit; they had cars, and also had private drinking clubs which stayed open into the wee hours of the morning.

Made sense to me, but it was only a theory.

During my time in Britain, nothing said class division like my visit to Longleat House, a stately home in Horningsham, Wiltshire.  Longleat was the seat of the Marquess of Bath.

Longleat was an enormous house with an enormous lawn.  I liked the way the nearby woods created a dark backdrop that intensified the grandeur of the house's exterior.  I paid the entrance fee, and stepped into the interior of Longleat House; I felt like I was stepping back in time.

This was the first stately home in Britain ever to be opened to the public.  Apparently the Marquess of Bath could not afford the upkeep.  

This made me wonder about the flock of sheep I had seen cropping the enormous lawn.  I could not tell if the sheep were a recent economic measure, or if sheep had been maintaining the lawn since 1579.

Inside Longleat, I walked through rooms full of elegant furniture; I looked at lots of paintings on the walls; I gazed up at intriguing ceilings.

The dining room slowed me down because the table was set.  I imagined being invited to dinner by the Marquess of Bath.  The elegant place settings glinted at me.  I looked closely: the knives, forks, and spoons were gold.  Looking closer, I could see that they were wired to the table.

Ah, yes, you don’t want the entrance-fee-paying public to pocket your expensive silverware.  I was digesting this thought when I overheard two women next to me discussing the china pattern.

“This china is not as colorful as Lady Caroline’s china.”

“I know, but I like this pattern better than Lady Elizabeth’s china.”

I realized that I was standing next to two women who were in the nobility, peeresses of the realm.  

The general public comes to Longleet House to marvel at the elegant building and to be impressed by its glorious interior.  These two peeresses had come to Longleet House to get some home decorating ideas.

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A 2-minute video of a trip through Longleat's hedge maze, said to be the most difficult in the world.  The goal is to get to the tower...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZzMV-piZPk

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  Send an email to ParadiseDouglas at gmail.com to find out how to purchase a copy by mail.