Good Neighbor

When did our concept of a “good neighbor” change?

When I was a kid, neighbors came over to our house, and we went over to their houses.  Neighbor women gave home permanents to Mom.  Neighbor men gave advice about lawn fertilizers to Dad.

Neighbors kept an eye out for our dog, which was free to roam wherever she wanted, and they probably kept an eye out for me, since I was also free to roam.

My favorite neighbors would invite us over for lunch.  They ate pancakes for lunch, something which seemed rather illicit to my young mind.

The concept of neighborliness once meant visiting your neighbors and doing favors for your neighbors. 

Nowadays, the neighborly thing to do is to not visit your neighbors and not do favors for them.  The definition has changed; a “good neighbor” is now defined as someone who does not bother you.

New Yorkers are well known for not bothering their neighbors.  But when the World Trade Center was attacked on SEP 11, 2001, New Yorkers started talking to their neighbors, started finding things in common with these people who were like strangers to them.

One New Yorker wanted to see if he could maintain this interaction among strangers.  He turned to the internet and created the Meetup system.

Through the Meetup system, which is free, people can find others in their locality with common interests.  There are Meetup groups all around the world.  In St. Louis alone, there is an urban farmers group, a Texas holdem group, an interior design group, an investment group, an atheists group, a hip mothers group, a web startup group, a nudist group, and dozens of others.

I became a member of the St. Louis Urban Experiences Meetup --- 450 people interested in St. Louis arts and culture.  The leader arranges an event, such as a tour of a historic building followed by a meal at a restaurant, you go to www.meetup.com, you RSVP, and then you can see all the names and photos of the other Urbanites who are planning to attend. 

Quite a handy system.

At Meetups, I have found people who want to go on my walking tours, I have arranged for someone to teach me WordPress, I have been invited to speak to a high school class.  This is not exactly the neighborliness that I knew as a kid, but it is nice to have this form of neighborliness in the Internet Age.

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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

Thirty Landscape Architects From West Virginia

I am a volunteer tourguide.  On Saturday mornings, I lead walking tours showing off the architecture of downtown St. Louis.

The tourguide coordinator emailed and said that I should expect a large group this Saturday: 30 landscape architecture students from West Virginia University.  WVU has one of the ten best landscape architecture programs in the nation, according to the Design Future Council.

My first thought: did these people get landscape architecture confused with building architecture?  When I lead a walking tour, I tell people who designed a building, what it is made of, when and why it was built.  I don’t say anything about landscape.

My second thought: these 30 West Virginians are coming on my tour anyway; so I had better figure out what to tell them about the landscape of St. Louis.

My brilliant third thought: St. Louis exists because of its landscape.

In 1763, Pierre Laclede sailed up the Mississippi from New Orleans, found the grand meeting of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers.  He turned around and travelled 25 miles southward to this spot.

Here he saw a small escarpment which stepped up to a medium escarpment, which stepped up to a final escarpment.  He ignored the first escarpment, envisioned a village on the second, and farming fields on the third escarpment, which was flat and fertile and stretched westward for miles.  All of this was uninhabited, and --- best of all --- it would never flood.

Laclede came back in February 1764 with 22 workers and started building.  Settlers poured into St. Louis, and by October, it had a population of 400 men, women, and children.  Instant village!

The village was laid out parallel to the Mississippi, only two blocks wide.

I plan to ask the West Virginia landscape architects why the village hugged the river.  They will probably answer: so it was a short walk to their supply of drinking water.  I will then surprise them: it was also a short walk to their supply of firewood.  After all, who would bother trek up to the third escarpment and chop down a tree when there were trees drifting down the river all the time…

So, the landscape made St. Louis a success.

Maybe I will stop there, because these folks are landscape architects.  I will skip the rest of the story. 

Back then, there was no priest in the village.  There was no governor.  There were no soldiers.  Land was free.  The nearby Indians were friendly and intermarried with the settlers. 

The landscape was beneficial, but the rest of the story says that people came here because St. Louis was a colonial utopia.  If they had a chamber of commerce in 1764, it would have proclaimed: “What happens in St. Louis, stays in St. Louis.”

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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

Three Symphony Concerts

When I lived in Brussels, Belgium, I grew tired of hearing foreigners complain.

A Frenchman told me, “Brussels is dull; it is not like Paris where I can buy elegant clothes in every neighborhood of the city.”  A Dutchman told me, “Brussels is dull; it is not like Amsterdam where I can dance all night because the clubs are open until dawn.”

I grew very tired of hearing complaints.

An Englishman told me, “Brussels is dull; it is not like London, where I can go to three symphony concerts in one night.”

Enough is enough.  I looked the Englishman in the eye and said, “Try as I might, I have never been able to attend more than one symphony concert in a single night.”

But when I left Brussels and moved back to the United States, I started to understand what the Englishman was talking about, because New York City was struggling.

It was the 1970’s. 

On a large scale, New York City was struggling with the possibility of bankruptcy.  On a medium scale, graffiti artists started to spray messages on subway cars.  On a small scale, the phone system was inadequate and it was hard to get a dial tone in the city.

In the midst of New York’s troubles, a reporter hit the streets and interviewed city residents.  “What makes you want to live in New York?”

The first resident responded, “Why, we have the Metropolitan Opera!”  “What is the last opera you saw there?”  “I have never seen an opera.”

Second resident, “Why, we have the Statue of Liberty!!”  “When is the last time you visited the Statue?”  “My parents took me there when I was six years old.”

Third resident, “Why, we have Central Park!!!”  “When is the last time you visited the park?”  “Oh, I don’t go there because it is too dangerous.”

After hearing these interviews, I started to realize that these New York City residents may not visit the opera, the statue, or the park --- but they have the option to do so.  They could visit these places if they wanted, and that fact gave them re-assurance that they were living in a worthwhile place.  They had options.

I then understood that the Englishman in Brussels did not have the option of choosing amongst three symphony concerts in one night.  By moving from London to Brussels, he had lost his options, and the Englishman felt deprived.

I started to regret that I had made a flip comment to him.

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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 Colorless Soldier With A Bedroll

I was sitting with a group of friends from New Hampshire, and they were talking about ghosts.

Actually, they were talking about their personal ghosts.  “My ghost follows me down the hallway, and I can feel a cold breath on the back of my neck”.  “My ghost makes a lot of clanging sounds”.  “My ghost is female and she lives in a trunk in the dining room.  Whenever she gets too annoying, I tell her to go back in her trunk and things settle down”.

My friends were certain that ghosts exist.

I am willing to believe that ghosts exist because I saw one in Alabama in 1968.

Mary Ann Smith was coming down from Michigan with her boyfriend to spend the weekend with her widowed mother in Grand Bay, in southwest Alabama.  I was in the Army at the time, stationed in Dothan, in southeast Alabama.  I hitchhiked across the state, met Mary Ann and her boyfriend in Mobile, and we traveled together to Mrs. Smith’s house.

I slept on the sofa.

In the middle of the Alabama night, I woke up to see an early 19^th-Century soldier standing in the center of Mrs. Smith’s living room.   He was tall and colorless.  He held a rifle, with a thin bayonet fixed.   On his back was a small knapsack with a bedroll on top of it.

He faded away when I screamed.

I immediately regretted that I had screamed.  Here I was, a guest in the house of someone I had never met before, and I woke everybody up with my scream.

“Are you OK”?  I quickly decided not to reveal what I saw.  Instead, my answer was a bland “Yes, I’m fine.  Everyone please go back to sleep”.

In the morning, I did not tell anyone about the early 19^th-Century soldier.  So, I did not find out if Mrs. Smith had ever seen the soldier.  I did not find out if he was Mrs. Smith’s resident ghost.

More likely, the soldier appeared to me because I was also a soldier.  He was dressed for the War of 1812; I was dressed for Vietnam.  The soldier probably was from the north, sent south by the US Army --- just like me.  He probably struggled with the Alabama climate --- just like me.  He probably counted the days until he could leave ---just like me.

Maybe he wasn’t Mrs. Smith’s ghost.  Maybe he was my personal ghost. 

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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 Ladies Of The Long Alaskan Night

I was surprised to find out that Alaska once had the world’s largest copper mine.  It produced $32,000,000 worth of copper in its prime.  And it was extremely isolated: surrounded by glaciers and the Wrangell Mountains, 200 miles from the nearest seaport.  The miners, all single men, lived in dormitories in a company town where they were forbidden to drink and to gamble.

I was surprised to find out that the largest city in Alaska sprang up almost overnight to take care of the needs of the copper miners.  The city was ten miles from the mine, and had 500 buildings.  It was called McCarthy.  McCarthy was thriving before Anchorage was even founded.

I was surprised to find out that one street in McCarthy, called The Row, consisted of houses where single ladies lived --- ready to take care of the needs of the copper miners.

Our tourgroup had been in Alaska for a week, and I had grown used to surprises.  I had seen wild ptarmigans walk across the path in front of me as if I did not exist; I had seen a Volvo graveyard where old Alaskan Volvos were lined up on the side of a mountain; I had seen tomato plants that were way taller than I am.

In 1938, the copper ran out.  The last miners got on the last train to the seaport.  The train tracks were torn up.

Seventy-three years after the mine had been abandoned, our tourgroup went to McCarthy.  McCarthy had not been abandoned, but it had shrunk dramatically.  Its year-round population is now forty-five people.

What do these forty-five people enjoy? 

They have a museum displaying photos of the ladies who lived on The Row.  They have an espresso truck.  They have a renovated boarding house.  They have an arts center in the old hardware store, with a sign announcing an upcoming poetry workshop.  They have a new general store.  They have a bar, and right next door to the bar is a 5-star restaurant with a James Beard Award-winning chef.

Now I was in hyper-surprise mode.  A 5-star restaurant in McCarthy --- that is 1 star for every 9 people in town.

Because I have lived near the Sahara Desert and I have lived in Minnesota, I know that harsh climates and harsh landscapes make individuals stand out. 

In the harsh climate and the harsh landscape of the Wrangell Mountains, it was one man who helped shape present-day McCarthy.  I got to meet him; his name is Neal.  It was easy to see his impact on the town.  He renovated the boarding house, renovated the bar, updated the general store, and brought in the 5-star chef.

In the past eleven years, Neal has only left McCarthy once.  He spent a winter as the assistant manager of the Whole Foods store on Union Square in Manhattan.  Yet another surprise.

When our tourgroup left Alaska, I felt that McCarthy was the most Alaskan of all the places we visited.

I may have to go back to McCarthy because I forgot to ask my history question.  In the lower Forty-Eight, we use the term “ladies of the night”.  What term did they use in McCarthy in its heyday?  Certainly they didn’t call the women on The Row “ladies of the night” when the Alaskan night is six months long.

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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 Opened Bag Of Cheez-Its

We flew deep into the Wrangell Mountains of Alaska on an 8-seater bush plane, built only 6 years after I was born.  It was the thirty-fifth DeHavilland DHC-2 Beaver ever to roll off the assembly line.  The plane was still in good flying condition and delivered us to the isolated Kennicott Glacier Lodge.

My buddy Randy and I were on a small-group guided tour, and the day’s activity was a hike.

The hike was to be 4 miles to the trail’s end, which offered a panoramic view, and 4 miles back.  The group headed out.  After a few miles, I not only started to fatigue, I started to freak out because we were walking over rocks and I imagined slipping off a rock and crushing my ankle.

When we stopped to eat our sack lunches, I announced that I was not going any further.  I would watch people’s backpacks while they continued the hike to the panoramic view.  The group went on, and I settled down on the most comfortable rock I could find.

I noticed that I was sitting next to an opened bag of Cheez-Its, left over from lunch.  I also noticed that I had a fine view of a glacier, and that I was enveloped in a rare silence: the dense silence of the Alaskan wilderness.

The silence was broken by four German hikers, eager to display a photo on their camera.  “Ein Bar”.  A brown bear?  Where?  “Dort.”  They pointed, and I thought they were pointing halfway up the mountain.  “Am links.”  I looked to the left and did not see anything up on the mountain.  “Er ist verschwundet.”  Dang, the bear on the mountain has disappeared.

The Germans continued their hike.  I settled back onto my rock, enjoying the glacier view, the solitude, and the dense silence.

This time the silence was broken by the sudden appearance of Randy, who was gasping for breath and shouted, “Doug, there is a bear behind you.”

I turned around, and there was a brown bear, staring at the opened bag of Cheez-Its.

I remembered what to do when confronted by a bear in the wild: I am supposed to stand tall and make a lot of noise.  However, I did not stand tall and I did not make noise.  Instead, I pulled out my camera and took a photo.

Apparently, the bear was camera shy.  It did not like the flash, and it lumbered away.

Randy filled me in on what happened. 

The four Germans caught up with my tourgroup, displayed the photo on their camera, and scolded them in English: “You should not leave your friend alone.  There is a bear 50 meters away from him.”  On hearing that number, Randy ran all the way back to where I was sitting amidst the backpacks and the remains of the sack lunches.

The Germans had not told me that the bear in their camera was 50 meters away from me.  When they were pointing to show me the bear's location, I thought they were pointing halfway up the mountain --- but they were pointing at the ridge right behind me.  By the time Randy appeared to save me from the animal, it was 20 meters away.

I learned my lesson.  Never sit by yourself next to an opened bag of Cheez-Its in Alaska.  I think that advice also holds for opened bags of potato chips and Fritos as well.

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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

Do Not Upstage The Earth Science Teacher

I took a course in earth science when I was in junior high school.

One day, the teacher held a “science bee”, which was similar to a spelling bee.  We all stood up, and were each asked an earth science question.  If you got the answer wrong, you had to sit down.  This continued until there was one person left standing.

My turn.  The teacher asked me, “When is the earth closest to the Sun?”  My mind started grinding away.  Equinox/solstice --- no, they’re not right.  Aphelion/perihelion --- I never could remember which one meant close and which one meant far.  Finally, I blurted out an answer:

“The earth is closest to the Sun on Sundays.”

As soon as the class started to roar with laughter, I knew I had made a big faux pas.  I had upstaged the earth science teacher. 

Now, instead of sitting down, I had to bend over.  I knew the routine: I stood at the sink in the front of the classroom, put one hand on the cold water faucet and one hand on the hot water faucet, and bent over.  Mr. Shapiro then whacked my derriere with a blackboard pointer.

It did not hurt; the goal was humiliation, not harshness.  It was the equivalent of the hook used to yank unpopular acts off of a vaudeville stage.  After all, it was earth science class, and Mr. Shapiro wanted to be the source of all humor.

We graduated from junior high school that year, and many people signed my copy of the yearbook: “Doug, have fun on Sundays!”

Thirty-four years later, I went to my high school reunion. Our old teachers had been invited, and Mr. Shapiro showed up.  He was carrying his copy of the yearbook. 

I greeted him, asked him for his yearbook and his pen, and sat down.  I turned to the page where I had written some drivel in his yearbook: “Mr. Shapiro, thank you for the interesting earth science classes.”

It was time to rectify things. It was time to write what I was too timid to write when I was fourteen years old: “Mr. Shapiro, the earth really is closest to the Sun on Sundays!”

Now I am helping plan our fiftieth high school reunion, and I sent out an email to everyone on our distribution list.  I was surprised at how many people responded to my email:  “Hey, Doug, good to hear from you.  Are you still having fun on Sundays?”

Fifty-four years after that science bee, some of my classmates still remember me as the person who dared to upstage the earth science teacher.

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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