The Naked Man And Naked Woman In Front Of The Station

St. Louis’ Union Station, built in 1892, is the largest nineteenth century railroad station in the world.  Nowadays, when someone walks out of the station they are greeted by a twentieth century addition: A naked man and a naked woman.  The naked people stand in their bronze glory in a fountain in front of the station.

The naked man represents the Mississippi River; the naked woman represents the Missouri River.  They are joined by a bunch of mythical figures representing the rivers’ tributaries.  The fountain is called the “Wedding of the Rivers.”  When it was unveiled in 1940, the citizens of St. Louis were shocked.

The citizenry was not surprised that the people in the fountain were naked because the sculptor was Swedish, and they knew that Swedes are not shy about portraying the human body.  However, the citizenry was uncomfortable because they did not like the idea of a naked groom marrying a naked bride.

The solution?  Instead of installing bronze fig leaves, the city of St. Louis renamed the fountain.  It is now the “Meeting of the Waters.”

The sculptor’s name is Carl Milles.  I am a big fan of his because I have been to his studio. 

When visiting Stockholm in 1974, I had never heard of Carl Milles.  His studio, called the Millesgarden, is open to the public.  An American friend took me to the studio, which nestles on a terraced hillside sloping down to the harbor in a suburb of Stockholm. 

We looked at sculptures and flowers and walked paths and investigated greenhouses.  It was a sunny Swedish afternoon and peacefulness was in the air.  It was a highlight of my visit to Stockholm.

I have been promoting Carl Milles ever since. 

When I lived in Minnesota, I took people to the City Hall in St. Paul, Minnesota, where a large onyx Indian dramatically greets people in the lobby.  In St. Louis, I have promoted Carl Milles by talking about the “Meeting of the Waters” on my walking tours.

Last year a friend told me she was going to Stockholm and spending the summer with a family there; I promoted Carl Milles by insisting that she visit his studio.

Word came back from her telling me that the studio was a highlight.  The Swedish family she was visiting especially enjoyed it.  Although they lived in Stockholm, the family had never heard of the studio. 

Looks like my promoting had some far-reaching effects, reaching right to the city that Carl Milles called home.

----------

Website for the Millesgarden -  
http://www.millesgarden.se/?languageID=5  

- . - .- . - . - . 

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

Imprisoned Across The River From Boston

I lived for five years in Middlesex County in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

Someone in the county had playfully put the names of her husband, her dog, and herself on their doorbell.  Alert Middlesex County authorities made note of the names on the doorbell, and summoned one of the names to jury duty.  It was the dog. 

The dog, however, was excused from serving on a jury once Middlesex County found out it could not speak English. 

Since the county jury pool had been reduced by one, it was inevitable that Middlesex County would summon me. They did.

I had never been called for jury duty before.  I was ready to perform my sacred duty as a citizen.

The court, in those days, was located in a tall building in Cambridge.  All potential jurors were shown a video about jury duty.  We all swore to uphold the constitution of the Commonwealth.  We were divided into groups.  The court officials said that not every group would be seated at a trial.  Then we were told to wait.

As we waited, I looked out the windows and saw that we were directly across the river from downtown Boston. 

I could hear downtown Boston beckoning me, “Hey, come over here for lunch.”  I worked twelve miles from Boston and never had the chance to eat lunch downtown on a weekday.  This was a rare opportunity.  

I stopped thinking about my sacred duty as a citizen and started wishing for our group to be dismissed so I could have lunch downtown.

The court officials began calling group numbers. 

I watched the faces of the first group called; they were to be seated for a trial.  They were glum, sad, downcast as they walked toward the elevator.  They looked like they had been sentenced to be executed.  

The second group called was dismissed.  As they walked toward the elevator, they looked jubilant, happy, relieved.

It struck me: We, the jurors, were imprisoned in the courthouse.  There were only two ways out.  We could be seated at a trial or we could be released out on the street.

Our group waited a long time before we were dismissed.  When I walked out of the courthouse, my stomach told me that it could not wait for me to drive over the river to Boston for lunch.  I walked across the street to a sandwich shop.

I enjoyed my lunch; I was a free man.

- . - .- . - . - . 

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

Floating Up Through The Roof Of The Lodge

I worked for banks for many years, earning my living as a wire transfer programmer. Wire transfer was my bread-and-butter.

In 1995, I was working in Minneapolis for a bank which announced that it was changing its wire transfer software, and moving all its wire operations to Colorado.  I began to worry about my future; I thought I might have to find a new job.

I saw a flier for a weekend retreat called "Find the Perfect Job".  It was being offered in an old lodge out in a forest.  In my mind, I pictured a lodge that had a large common room with timbered ceiling beams and a big stone fireplace. 

I signed up for the retreat.  The lodge turned out to be just as I had pictured it.

The organizers of the retreat used many approaches to help the participants discover their selves, their interests, and what they were hoping to get out of employment. We took the Myers-Briggs test; we did role playing; we gave little talks. Most intriguing: There was a visualization session.

This was intriguing because it was my first visualization experience.  The lights were dimmed.  The fire in the fireplace continued to crackle while the visualization leader spoke softly and reassuringly:

    You are now wrapped in warmth…
    You are floating up through the roof of the lodge…
    You are warm even though it is February.
   
    You are moving now; moving along in years... 
    It is now ten years in the future…
    Descend and look around…
    Remember what ten years from now looks like.
   
    You are floating up; moving further along in years…
    It is now twenty years in the future…
    Descend and look around…
    Remember what twenty years from now looks like.

I did remember.

I remember ten years in the future.  Wrapped in a blanket of warmth, I saw myself sitting in a cubicle in an office where everyone had chairs with wheels. When my ten-years-in-the-future coworkers wanted to speak to someone, they did not walk to that person's cubicle.  Instead, they rolled to the cubicle in their chairs, propelling themselves backwards. Ten years in the future there was a nearby room --- a former computer room with a raised floor and a little ramp.

Two years after that weekend retreat, I moved from Minneapolis to St. Louis.

A. G. Edwards was one of my St. Louis employers.  I was given a cubicle in the Sherwood Building. This building had nice wide aisles, and I noticed that my co-workers did not walk from one cubicle to another. They rolled there in their chairs, propelling themselves backwards.

Rolling chairs was a connect with my visualization. I noticed that around the corner from our area in the Sherwood Building was an old computer room with a raised floor --- another connect with my visualization for ten years in the future.

It was seven years after the retreat, but that seemed close enough to say that my visualization had predicted my future.

And I remember twenty years in the future. Wrapped in a blanket of warmth, I descended to earth. I was not sitting in a cubicle.  I saw myself sitting in the desert next to a saguaro.

I can't help thinking that there is some Arizona in my future.

- . - .- . - . - . 

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 Blood District

I was fascinated to learn that St. Louis has the largest vampire population of any city in the United States.

This fact makes sense because of the famous court case, Addison vs. Clark, when vampires earned the same legal rights as humans: vampires can sue in St. Louis city courts and vampires can vote in St. Louis city elections.

Because of the large vampire population it also makes sense that the federal government opened a RIP-IT office (Regional Preternatural Investigative Team) in St. Louis.

Most St. Louis vampires like to hang out in the Blood District because of its old buildings and cobblestone streets.  This section of the riverfront managed to escape the wrecking balls of the twentieth century.  All the buildings in the District are at least one hundred years old, many of them going back to Civil War days, and some of them having Underground Railroad holding rooms.

I am a St. Louis walking tour guide.  At the end of March, I will be taking people on a walking tour of the Blood District.  My tour will be in the daytime; so, unfortunately, we will miss out on the vampire strip clubs which, obviously, can only operate after dark.

Vampire life in St. Louis is described in detail by author Laurell K. Hamilton, whose books about Anita Blake, America’s foremost vampire hunter, have sold over 6,000,000 copies so far.

Last week, I went to Barnes & Noble to buy a Laurell K. Hamilton book.  I wanted to find out more about St. Louis' vampires and the Blood District.

I stepped up to the information desk.  The young lady working at the desk asked me if I was looking for a book.  “Yes,” I said, “I am looking for Guilty Pleasures.”

As soon as she heard me utter the title of the book, the young lady gasped slightly and stopped dead in her tracks.  She nervously inquired: “Sir, are you buying this book for yourself?”

“Yes, I am buying it for myself.”

“Then, Sir, I need to warn you --- this book is very explicit.”

Oh, dear, she saw me as a 68-year-old who must have been raised on books like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.  She saw me as a 68-year-old who would have a coronary if he read about what really goes on in vampire strip clubs.

I realized that I needed to reassure the young woman.  I looked her in the eye and said, “Don’t worry; I have a lot of mileage on my odometer.”

She went to a nearby shelf and found a copy of Guilty Pleasures for me to buy.

- . - .- . - . - . 

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

Enticed At The US Embassy Garden Party

The photo above shows a traffic jam in Lagos, Nigeria, one of the most chaotic cities in the world.  So chaotic that the Nigerian federal government abandoned Lagos and moved 450 miles away.

When I visited Lagos for Christmas in 1972 it was still the federal capital.  A friend of mine who worked at the US Embassy got me invited to a garden party at US Ambassador’s home.  The party was not a diplomatic affair; it was a Christmas gathering for the Embassy staff.

When I arrived at the party, I started mingling with the other guests.

I was in a group of five standing by the swimming pool, when the Ambassador’s wife came up to us and started talking.  She talked about the Kennedys.  She got a wistful look in her eye as she mentioned that whenever the Kennedys had garden parties, fully-clothed people would get pushed into the Kennedys’ pool.

I looked around.  All of her party guests were fully-clothed.  Five of her guests were standing by the pool.  Was she hoping to achieve some glamour by mimicking the Kennedys?  Did she think that the success of her party would be measured by the number of guests that got drenched in the pool?  Was she inciting us?

A little later, I was by myself when the Ambassador’s wife came up to me and started talking.  She repeated her wistful-eyed spiel about fully-clothed people getting thrown into the Kennedys’ pool.  I realized that I was the only non-Embassy employee at the party.  I was the only person who would not jeopardize his job by throwing someone in the Ambassador’s swimming pool.

Did she want to be thrown in?  Was she inciting me?

I wavered between granting her wish and behaving decorously.

Decorum won out.  The Ambassador’s wife stayed dry.  Everyone stayed dry.

But the Ambassador’s wife may not have been looking for glamour.  She may have been looking for levity.  She knew that the newest Embassy official and his wife would soon arrive at the garden party.

The new official had recently finished his training at the Foreign Service Institute, apparently an honor graduate with a promising career ahead of him.  His first assignment: Lagos, Nigeria.  He and his wife had just flown from Washington DC to Lagos a few days before the garden party.  

An Embassy van met them at the airport and drove them to their new home.  On this short drive through the streets of Lagos, the new official’s wife flipped out.  The chaos was too much for her.

The new official and his heavily-sedated wife arrived at the party.  The tone of the party turned somber.

People stared at the woman who could not bear the chaos of Lagos, a chaos everyone else had adapted to.  People stared at the man who, because of his wife, could no longer look forward to a promising foreign service career.  We all felt sorry for the unfortunate couple.

Maybe we should have pushed people into the swimming pool.  We would be standing around in our wet clothing, joking about being drenched.  

The Ambassador’s wife knew that would have been a lot nicer party than a group of people in dry clothing staring somberly at an unfortunate couple.

- . - .- . - . - . 

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

Last Reindeer Sitting

Our company Christmas party attracts about 800 people each year: employees and their families. The company asked me to run one of the events at the party: musical chairs.

Musical chairs sounded delightful, innocent, so much like the grand days when I was a kid and got invited to birthday parties.

It also sounded simple: all I needed was some chairs and something that plays music.  A co-worker recorded Christmas music for me: standards like Santa Claus Is Coming to Town and new stuff like Leroy the Redneck Reindeer.

Party time came, and I set out 8 chairs and corralled 9 people at a time.  9 people because Santa has 8 reindeer plus Rudolf. 

Each participant in my game had to wear antlers.  The participants ranged in age from toddlers to adults.  Some adult men did not want to make fools of themselves in public. Some adult women thought the antlers would ruin their hair.  Some toddlers had no concept of what they were supposed to do.  Some kids refused to play.  Some kids refused to stop playing.

The adults who did play were good sports, managing to miss a chair in the first couple of rounds so that just the kids could continue playing.

I spiced it up, making people walk forward, or walk backward, or hop on one foot.   At the final round, with 1 chair and 2 people left, the participants had to take off their antlers and put Christmas shopping bags over their heads.

Every participant got a prize: a cheap kaleidoscope. The Last Reindeer Sitting got a prize plus a paper tag with the number one on it, to hang around their neck on a blue ribbon.

I counted on seeing lots of smiles. I had not counted on seeing lots of tears.

As the party progressed, I started to realize that each round started with 9 participants and finished with 1 winner and 8 losers.  That’s where the tears came from.

Then a lady in a mink coat and pearls entered the room, put on some antlers, and said she wanted to play.  OK, I got 8 other participants, and started up a game.  I waited for the lady in the mink coat to miss a chair on round two or round three…but she kept on playing, playing with intensity.  She wound up in the final round with a shopping bag over her head, competing against a 9-year-old boy.

When the music stopped for the final round, the lady in the mink coat knocked the 9-year-old to the floor, and sat down on the chair.  As the Last Reindeer Sitting, she was awarded a cheap kaleidoscope and a paper number-one tag on a blue ribbon, which joined the pearls around her neck.

I sighed.  I saw how cruel musical chairs can be.  Mentally cruel because it created so many losers --- physically cruel because players got knocked to the ground by an adult who was much richer than they would ever be.

That was the last time we played Last Reindeer Sitting at the company Christmas party.

- . - .- . - . - . 

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 Color Of Death

As a teacher in Nigeria, the tools of my trade were chalk and red ball-point pens.

The red ball-points were for grading papers. One day, I sat down to write a letter to someone in another part of Nigeria.  There were no blue ball-point pens nearby, so I used a red ball-point pen. I mailed the letter, and got a response back.

“Please do not write letters in red.  Red is the color of death.”

I had never thought about the color of death.   As an American, I probably would have chosen black as the color of death. 

After getting a scolding about colors, I made a point of carrying both a red pen and a blue pen in my pocket.  Red in case I needed to grade a student homework assignment; blue in case I needed to write anything else.

Nigeria underwent a Civil War from 1967 to 1970.  Before 1967, there were basically no guns in Nigeria and it was a peaceful place.  The Civil War changed that.

After the War there were a lot of weapons floating around.  Suddenly, Nigeria had to face an unheard-of crime: armed robbery with guns.  The Nigerian public was scared and outraged.  Laws were passed: if you committed a crime with a gun, you were to be executed.  The country was so outraged that they decided to bring back public executions.

One day, I was in the Principal’s office, when he said: “Mr. Schneider, here is a wasifa.”

The word wasifa does not translate handily into English.  Wasifa means “misfortune”, wasifa means “this is what we are up against”, wasifa means “this is our suffering.”

He handed me an envelope.  Inside was an invitation to a public execution.  My Principal was clearly upset.

I could not tell if he was upset about guns, or upset about armed robbery, or upset about public executions, or upset about being considered important enough to sit in the VIP section to view an execution.

I looked at the invitation; it was printed on nice paper with nice script.  Nigeria was not used to inviting people to executions.  It was clear that the government had used a printing company that printed wedding invitations.

This, however, was not an engraved invitation to witness someone’s wedding.  It was an engraved invitation to witness someone’s death.  

It was printed in red.

- . - .- . - . - . 

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