Blindsided By Milk At The Library

Until the night I got blindsided by milk at the library, I had heard nothing but good things about breast feeding.

My mother spoke fondly about breast feeding; she would almost lapse into reverie.  When she was a 1940’s housewife, she liked nursing time because she could take a break from housework, sit down, and enjoy the only peace and quiet of the day.

When I went to visit a friend in Houston, she was an advocate for breast feeding. She spoke glowingly about its health benefits and its naturalness.  She told me all this when we were sitting in the café at the Houston Museum of Fine Arts; her baby was nursing while we were talking.

Film director Juzo Itami knew another benefit of breast feeding.  He directed a delightful film called Tampopo, a spoof of John Wayne westerns set in a small family-run noodle shop in Japan.  Itami wanted the movie audience to stick around and read the credits.  So, at the end of the movie, he filled the screen with a breast, had a baby nurse at that breast, and rolled the credits.  When I saw Tampopo, not a single person left their seat until the credits had finished rolling.

So, I knew that breast feeding was a form of relief for a housewife; I knew it was healthy; I knew it could keep a movie audience riveted in their seats. 

But then I found out more about breast feeding than I wanted to know.  I was moderating the writers’ group at the Grand Glaize Library, when Maggie Singleton announced that she was going to read from her upcoming book: Milt’s Diary.

A surge of anticipation ran through the group.  I was looking forward to finding out who this Milt guy was, and what Milt was writing about in his diary.

Maggie began to read: “I remember being hooked up to the breast pump and sitting in the rocking chair in the nursery.”

Wait a minute --- what is a guy named Milt doing hooked up to a breast pump?

Maggie:  “I listened to the pump do its thing and anxiously awaited a single drop of colostrum in the attached bottle.” 

What the hell is colostrum?  It sounds nauseating.

Maggie:  “It was an emotionally painful experience coupled with raging hormones.  The tears flowed rather quickly.”

I had misheard Maggie.  She was not reading from Milt's Diary; she was reading from Milk Diaries.  I started to squirm.

Maggie:  "This wasn't at all what I envisioned my nursing and bonding experience to be.  I felt like a complete failure and I didn't know how to fix it.  All I kept thinking was: what was wrong with me?"

Then I scanned the writers’ group --- I was the only male there.  I was convinced that everyone had stopped listening to Maggie read; instead, they were all watching me squirm.

Finally, Maggie finished reading. 

Milk Diaries, a book of breastfeeding experiences that Maggie collected from thirty-four mothers, has been published.  And I have decided that I will remember my mother’s fondness for breastfeeding, and I will forget all the lurid details that made me squirm the night that I got blindsided by milk at the library.

  

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YouTube song: If You Ain’t Gonna Breastfeed, Take Your Broke Ass Home, performed by the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine (4 minutes):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1axxj3J9Ig

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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

Mrs. Brown, You've Got A Lovely Daughter

My friends are incredulous when I tell them that I want to visit Protem, a small dot on the map of Missouri, ten miles north of the Arkansas line.

“Why would anyone want to visit Protem, Missouri?”  How the town got its name would be a good reason to go.   Founded in 1870, the residents at that time could not decide on a name.  They turned to Latin and called the town “Pro Tempore”.  Temporary became permanent; hence: Protem.

But I want to visit Protem is because it is the birthplace of Sharon, whose maiden name is Brown.  I met Sharon when the Army sent me and thirteen other Helicopter School graduates to Fort Lewis in the state of Washington.

Being stationed at Fort Lewis meant living in a constricted world.  There were no children.  There were no females, unless you counted the fort librarian or the ticket taker at the fort’s main movie theater or the WAC’s, who were sequestered in a distant part of the fort.  There were hardly any civilians unless you counted the bus drivers or the people working at the dry cleaners.

One of my buddies from Helicopter School was allowed to live off-post because he was married.  Sharon was his wife.  They had an apartment in Steilacoom, Washington, a town built around a ferry dock on Puget Sound.

This apartment was a short distance from Fort Lewis and became our refuge.  It was a chance to get away from the Army barracks.  Sharon took on the role of mother hen to her husband’s Helicopter School buddies.  She was gracious and welcoming.  For us, she was the female presence that we lacked at Fort Lewis. 

And we appreciated her.  We would sing Mrs. Brown You Have A Lovely Daughter to make her smile.  Although sometimes we would arrive at the apartment when she was lounging on the Murphy bed and we would fold her up into the wall, which would make her mad.

One weekend, four Army guys and Sharon drove 45 miles up to Seattle to see the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey.  At a restaurant before the movie, the waitress looked at our table, pointed to Sharon sitting amidst four soldiers, and called her “a rose among thorns”.  I expanded on the waitress's comment, and said that Sharon would even be "a rose among roses”.

Her husband was shipped to Vietnam.  After he came back, the Army stationed them in Oklahoma.  When her husband left the Army, he did helicopter repair as a civilian and they moved to Bolivia.  He worked on helicopters all over South America, including Patagonia, where inquisitive penguins would watch over his shoulder while he did his repair work.

After Bolivia, came Oregon.  Their last move was to Los Angeles, where Sharon’s husband repairs helicopters that take crews out to offshore oil rigs. 

Sharon told me that when she was growing up in the 1950's, Protem consisted of two buildings: a post office and the Brown family's house.  

Sometimes I wonder if little Sharon Brown gazed at the Post Office, which was the town's connection to the outside world.  I wonder if she dreamed that she would get to see a lot of that outside world: the plains of Oklahoma, the deep forests of Oregon, the exoticness of Bolivia, the busyness of Los Angeles, and the calmness of a ferry town on Puget Sound where the quiet was broken only by a bunch of soldiers who would fold her up into the wall.

This month I am going to visit Protem, Missouri, as a tribute to Sharon, the rose among roses.  Wikipedia tells me that Protem is no longer just two buildings.  I can look forward to seeing a post office, a fire station, and a few houses.

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YouTube video of Herman's Hermits singing Mrs. Brown, You've Got A Lovely Daughter (3 minutes):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lv8k0VI9tBc

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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 Nice Lady On The Postage Stamps

I started a stamp collection when I was nine years old.  At that time, it was clear that most countries had men on their postage stamps. 

The French, however, had Marianne, the national symbol, dressed in classic garb.  Great Britain had the Queen.  The United States had a few historic women on stamps, dressed in unflattering historic costume.

Only one country had a contemporary woman on its postage stamps:  a woman wearing modern clothing with her hair pulled back in a bun.  She looked like a nice lady. 

The stamps were from Argentina.  The nice lady was Eva Peron. She was known as Evita and she died the year I started collecting stamps.

I got to visit Argentina exactly sixty years after Eva Peron’s death.  Except for a Broadway musical and a Madonna film, I expected to find very few traces of her.  Instead, I found that although Evita is dead, she has never left Argentina.

Evita appears on Argentine currency, the 100 peso note.  Her profile appears many stories tall on the top of a building.  The word “Peronista” appears on political campaign posters.  When you walk into the giant Plaza de la Republica, your eyes automatically seek out the balcony where Evita stood to give her speeches.  Or, in my case, the balcony where Madonna stood to sing Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina.

 When we were in Buenos Aires, we asked other tourists what the highlight of the city was.  Everyone said we must visit the Cemetery.

We went.  It was more like a city of the dead than a cemetery.  4,700 grand mausoleums lining narrow lanes, with street signs at the intersections.  Grieving statuary.  Monuments.

Evita is buried there now.  Sixty years after her death people are still putting fresh flowers on her tomb.  

This woman, who I first saw on some postage stamps, had an enormous impact on her country.

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A YouTube video, produced by Ned Nickerson, of newsreel footage while Karen Carpenter sings a stunning version of Don't Cry For Me, Argentina.  Make sure you watch from the 4 min 40 sec mark, where you can see Evita's remarkable funeral procession through Buenos Aires --- at that time the third largest city in the Western Hemisphere (6 minutes):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nnufQVpiE70

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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

Big Tex Went Up In Flames

I have been to the Texas State Fair three times, and each time I was greeted by Big Tex: “Hooowwwdddeee!”

He was a grotesque 52-foot-tall talking cowboy statue.  He was badly proportioned and looked like he had been built by a junior high school shop class.  But Texans overlooked all this, and made Big Tex into an icon of the State Fair.  However, last year the poor guy was lost to an electrical fire that started in his jaw.

Of all my visits, one Texas State Fair incident stands out in my mind. It took place in the Livestock Judging Pavilion. 

I sat down in the bleachers to watch cattle judging.  I noticed a guy in his twenties sitting two rows in front of me, wearing jeans and a cowboy hat.  Something about him told me that he was for real.  He was not a city dweller who had just bought a hat at the State Fair Market Place.  He was a real cowboy, someone who worked with cattle for a living.

I followed his gaze.  He was focused on one heifer in the ring. It looked like his younger sister was showing this heifer.

The guy gestured: bring the cow’s chin up.  The girl brought the chin up.  Angle the cow’s head to the right.  The girl angled the head.  Move the cow’s rump a bit.  She moved the rump.

She followed everything her cowboy brother suggested.

The judge appeared.  She walked, impassive and stern, up and down the line of heifers.  When the judge made her final decision, she stood still.  She called out three of the heifers.

The judge did not call out little sister’s heifer.  Little sister stared straight at older brother, in shock, in disbelief.  I recognized this moment.  It is the universal moment that says: “I trusted in you.  I followed your instructions.  You let me down.”

I was transported from the bleachers in the largest state fair in America to a movie theater in my hometown.  I was six years old and my brother John, who was thirteen, had recruited me to help him win the movie theater's Halloween Costume Contest.  He got a bedsheet from Mom, and we were to be a horse.  He would be the front end and little brother, of course, would be the rear end.

Being the rear end of a horse required grace and concentration.  I could not see where I was going, but I had to walk up a set of steps, walk across a stage, and walk down a set of steps, synchronizing my speed to my brother’s speed while not stepping on his feet.

My brother and I got back to our movie theater seats.  I fully expected us to win.  We did not.  This was the moment when I thought: “I trusted in my older brother.  I followed his instructions.  He let me down.”

The Texas State Fair has three million visitors a year. 

If I were to go back to the Fair for the fourth time, I would not miss being greeted by Big Tex and his booming “Hooowwwdddeee!”  I would be in too big a hurry to get to the Judging Pavilion, to see if I can catch some real human drama amidst the livestock.

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R.I.P.  Big Tex  1952-2012 (video is 1 minute long):
YouTube Video - Big Tex Talks

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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 Africa Moment In The Book Of Mormon

I had doubts as I settled into my seat at the Fox Theater for The Book of Mormon (the play, not the book).  I have never watched an episode of “South Park”; was I really going to enjoy an entire musical written by the South Park guys?

I expected a show filled with raunchy mocking of the Mormon religion.  

The first act delivered plenty of mockery: pointing out that Mormons believe that President Thomas Monson speaks directly to God, they believe that ancient Jews built boats and sailed to America, they believe that the Garden of Eden was in Jackson County, Missouri.  This last belief elicited a lot of guffaws from the St. Louis audience, most of whom have been to Jackson County.

In the play, two young American men are sent to Uganda by the Mormon Church with a mission: to teach about The Book of Mormon.  They are clearly out of their element in Uganda.  More mockery ensues.  Then the curtain falls for intermission.

I was dissatisfied.  I saw that something was missing from the play: the Africa Moment.

I knew what was missing because I was a young American man, sent to Nigeria by the United State Peace Corps, with a mission to teach mathematics and to show Nigeria what America and Americans were like.

I remember my Africa Moment.  I arrived in Nigeria with weeks of training behind me.    But then I stepped into an African classroom for the first time.  I was unsure of what these students needed.  I was unaware of what they knew already. I was overwhelmed by the fact all the students had black skin and wore identical white school uniforms. And I was uncomfortable by the fact that they all had Muslim names and I didn’t know how to pronounce their names correctly.

I stood there in my white skin in front of the blackboard, 36 pairs of eyes looking at me, waiting for me to teach them mathematics.  That was the Moment: I was face-to-face with Africa.

Africa always wins.  I had to adjust, scramble, experiment, until I finally hit my stride.

When I hit my stride, there came another moment.  I began to identify with my students.  We were all part of the same school, working toward a common goal of getting everyone to graduate.  And I knew how to pronounce all the students' names correctly.

The curtain at the Fox Theater rose for the second act.  Those South Park guys must have known what I was waiting for. 

Elder Cunningham is preaching about The Book of Mormon.  This is his Africa Moment: the Ugandans are not interested.  Africa wins --- Elder Cunningham starts making things up and pretending they are in the book to get the interest of the Ugandans.  Elder Price goes to confront a warlord.  This is his Africa moment: his religious teachings have no effect.  Africa wins --- he must find some other way to influence the warlord.

As the second act goes into full swing, the play focuses on how the missionaries adapt and have some success.  The missionaries, to show that they now identify with the Africans, sing a song called “I Am Africa”.

I was amazed.  The South Park guys somehow knew what I went through, and they replicated here on stage. 

Towards the end of the second act, there is no more mockery.  Things become so warm-hearted that the finale is actually a tribute to The Book of Mormon (the book, not the play).

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In this YouTube video you can listen to “I Am Africa” from the Broadway show soundtrack (2 minutes long)

I Am Africa

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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 Temperature Of The Air On The Bow Of The Kaleetan

I have led downtown St. Louis architecture walking tours for many years now.  A favorite stopping point is the corner of 12^th and Olive.  Across the street is the Central Library, built with funds gifted to St. Louis by  Andrew Carnegie.

Carnegie announced his gift of half a million dollars in a letter.  This letter had a typo --- however, the wealthy steel magnate was unwilling to spend money to have a secretary re-type the letter, so the typo was fixed by hand.

Carnegie’s gift to St. Louis was appropriate.  Twelve blocks east of the Central Library is the Eads Bridge, the first steel alloy bridge in the world.  That bridge was Carnegie’s first major steel contract.

St. Louis knew that great cultural institutions require great architecture.  It added one million dollars to Carnegie’s gift, hired Cass Gilbert, and proceeded to build a library taking up an entire city block.  Finished in 1912, the Central Library was so lavish that Andrew Carnegie got upset.  The man who would not pay to re-type a letter continued to donate money for libraries, but he put restrictions on his gifts so that no other city could go hog wild like St. Louis.

When my tour groups stand on the corner of 12^th and Olive, I point out that the Central Library looks like it is in the shape of a square.  However, it is actually an oval with a square frame around it.  The oval is connected to the frame by four bridges.

I then take the tour group up the steps of the Library, through the bronze gates by Gorham and Sons, and into the Baths of Caracalla in Rome.  We then cross a bridge into the Great Hall, where the marbled floor is patterned after the floor of the Pantheon.  Every room in the Central Library is inspired by a room in Europe.

Because I lead architecture tours, I coax the fine arts librarian into opening a special room, built in Tudor style with a banquet table fit for Henry VIII --- except the table does not hold haunches of venison, it holds rare architecture books.

But in the touring through the building, some things were amiss: fluorescent lights cut into a carved ceiling, fake balconies to create extra work space, layers of grime, and the persistence of the old 1912 system to get a book.  The stacks were closed: you had to fill out a slip of paper, and hand it to someone at the main desk, and wait for your book to be retrieved for you.

The Library faced its hundredth anniversary, and made the decision to restore and renew.

This time the Library needed $70,000,000 in donations.  I helped reach this goal be buying a raffle ticket.  If I had won the raffle, John Grisham would name a character in his next novel after me. 

The $70,000,000 restoration was a success.  When I entered the Library after the restoration was finished, the building was so sparkling and glorious that I felt like I had never been in it before.  The carved ceilings are restored, the fake balconies are gone, there is no more grime, and the stacks are open.

In fact, the Central Library has now become a tourist attraction; just like it was when it was built one hundred years ago.

Click below (and then click on the Play icon) for a five-minute exploration of the building, with glorious music by Chris Zabriskie: The Temperature of the Air on the Bow of the Kaleetan.  (The Bow is the bow of a ship: the MV Kaleetan - a Puget Sound ferry):

Tour of Central Library

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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

When The Moon Hits Your Eye

There were a lot of kids in my junior high school with names like Salorio, Fasano, Marino, Salerno, Lamberti, and Subbiando.  

So many people had Italian names, that it did not surprise me that our town had a bunch of pizzarias.  Some were in people's homes where they put dining tables out in the backyard.  As a teenager, friends would get together, pool their coins, and share a pizza pie sitting next to a grape arbor.

It did not surprise me that my junior high German teacher had an Italian name.  He was named Mr. Pascucci.  Or, as we called him, Herr Pascucci.

Mr. Pascucci told us many stories, including the story about when he was drafted into the Army and the Army sent him to Italy.  When he arrived in Italy, he was shocked.  Mr. Pascucci wanted to try pizza in Italy. However, he searched but there were no pizzerias to be found.  

I read Sophia Loren's first cookbook, and I remember her comment about pizza.  Sophia said that in Italy, pizza was food for the poverty-stricken.  

About the time that the Army sent Mr. Pascucci to Italy, a movie studio sent Sophia Loren to the United States.  When she arrived in the United States, she was shocked.  She expected to see evidence that America was a rich country; instead she saw lots of pizzerias.  She felt sorry for us poverty-stricken Americans.

I have been to Italy twice.  When I went to Italy in 1967, I did not see a single pizzeria.  My experience matched Mr. Pascucci's experience.

However, when I went back to Italy in 2010, there were pizzerias all over the place.  Something had happened in the forty-three year interim.

So, I combined Herr Pascucci with Sophia Loren and came up with my history of pizza:

The Italians who immigrated to the United States in the late 19th/early 20th centuries were poverty-stricken.  They were used to eating a baked piece of flat dough with some tomato sauce and cheese on top.  They opened up pizzerias when they arrived in the USA.

My guess is that pizzerias survived in Italy until World War Two.  As Italy recovered from the war, the country prospered and people were ashamed of eating pizza because it was a sign of poverty.  So the pizzerias were shuttered.

Then along came Mr. Pascucci the soldier seeking out pizza.  Then jet airplanes were invented and they flooded Italy with American tourists, all of them seeking out pizza.  When the Italians realized that Americans were willing to pay good money for a baked piece of flat dough with some toppings, they started opening up pizzerias to feed the tourists.  

When the Italians realized that Americans were willing to pay a lot of money for a “gourmet” pizza, they opened up more pizza shops.  Pizza no longer had a stigma, and Italians started eating pizza again.

So, I conclude that that pizza died off in Italy in the 1940's and picked up in the 1950's and has snowballed ever since.  Maybe, just maybe, the snowball was started by Mr. Pascucci, my junior high school German teacher, walking around in an army uniform asking Italians where he could find a pizza.   

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On YouTube, Dean Martin sings about the moon hitting your eye like a big pizza pie (3 minutes):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q22UBqZcB9g

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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