Doing It Myself

When I was a teenager, I had saved up enough money to make the transition.  This was the transition from listening to music on my parents' phonograph to listening to music on my very own hi-fi system.  

My parents' phonograph was an all-in-one unit.  The hi-fi system I was dreaming of would consist of separate components, each of which had knobs and buttons and lights and shiny faceplates.  I was sure the sound would be dazzling.

My hi-fi system would be stereophonic, of course.  Stereo was new; only five years had passed since the first commercial stereo record had been released (which was recorded by The Dukes Of Dixieland).

My first step toward my dream was to buy an amplifier, the heart of a hi-fi system.  

I scoured recent issues of audio magazines, and decided on a Harman-Kardon.  The audio magazines told me that Harman-Kardon had designed the Citation II amplifier with the highest possible bandwidth, including sounds that went beyond the range of the human ear.  I was impressed.

But once deciding on a Citation II, I still had a choice.  

I could save $20.00 if I purchased a do-it-yourself kit instead of buying the amplifier factory-assembled.  $20.00 was a lot of money to me, but when I realized that I would have to do some soldering, I definitely went for the do-it-yourself kit.  I had never soldered before, and the thought of holding a gun that was hot enough to melt something was very intriguing.

The do-it-yourself amplifier came in a nice box, every piece was labeled, and the instruction manual was clear.  Step-by-step, I put the amplifier together --- after reading up on how to solder.

The final step was complete.  I plugged in my newly-assembled Citation II, and it made a loud buzzing sound.

Something was wrong.  I was defeated.

The only recourse: take my amplifier to the Harman-Kardon factory, which was only ten miles from my parents’ house.  They fixed the amplifier.  When I went to pick it up, the factory told me they had to fix all the bad soldering joints.  They presented me with a repair bill for $19.95.

My do-it-yourself adventure had saved me a nickel.

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Vacuum tube amplifier enthusiasts drool over the Harman-Kardon Citation II, even today.  Here is what can only be called someone's tribute of love to his amplifier - a 30-second video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W-QupUJxHfM  

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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 Seeds Of Architecture

I arrived at university facing two mandatory requirements for freshmen: we had to be able to swim twenty-five yards and we had to write English to the faculty's satisfaction.

Swimming twenty-five yards was not a problem for me. Convincing an English professor that I could write, however, was a challenge.  

The challenge was intensified by the fact that if you didn't get a B in Freshman Composition the first semester, you had to take another semester of it.  The heat was on, and the heat was turned up when the English professor failed nearly everyone's first composition.

The professor chose architecture as the theme for the class, and we had to read a book of architecture essays.  It was the first time I had to think about architecture in my life.

The first assignment was to write an essay about Lever House in New York.  The guy who wrote the book thought it was a marvelous building, so my essay praised Lever House.  

The guy who wrote the book thought that the Seagram Building was uninspired, so my next essay degraded the Seagram Building.

We were given an assignment to choose a building on campus and write about it.  Some buildings were bland; a few campus buildings were exuberant - in a style that a friend nicknamed "nosebleed Gothic".  My essay mocked one of the exuberant buildings.

I climbed from an “F” to a “D” to a “C” to a “B”.  I had convinced the professor that I knew how to write.

When sophomore year rolled around, it was time to choose a college major.  I was torn; I enjoyed both liberal arts and science.  To help me choose, I took an aptitude test.  I was hoping the test would point me in one direction or the other.

The test figured me out, and suggested a career that combined both liberal arts and science: architecture.  You needed liberal arts to design buildings that please the eyes; you needed science to make sure those buildings don't fall down.

Choosing architecture as a career was problematical: my university did not teach architecture.  The nearby art college did teach architecture, but it was a five-year course.  

At that art college all the painting, ceramics, and sculpture students dressed as if they were beatniks who spent endless hours in coffeehouses discussing philosophy; the architecture students, however, dressed differently.  They dressed as if they were were going to an important business meeting.

I did not want to attend an art college; I did not want to spend five years studying one single subject; I did not want to figure out how to dress differently. 

I did not become an architect.  But the seeds had been planted.

Thirty-four years after graduating from college, I was at an outdoor music festival where they announced a short architectural walking tour of the neighborhood.  I went on the tour.  I noticed that the person leading the tour was reading from note cards.  These were the kind of note cards you can buy at Walgreens.

So, I decided that I would go to Walgreens, buy some note cards, and volunteer to be a St. Louis walking tour guide. I went; I bought; I volunteered.  I have been leading tours for thirteen years now.  

The seeds had finally sprouted, not into an architect, but into an architectural tour guide.

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Why do architects insist on dressing differently from everyone else? A 5 minute Pandemonium video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qh3-YsS6GNU

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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

There Are No Mongrels Here

When I was visiting Santa Fe, New Mexico, a friend and I were walking along a road on the outskirts of the city and a van stopped and offered us a ride.  We hopped in the van, and I turned to the dog sitting in the back, and said: “Hello, Ralph”.

The dog wagged its tail and the driver expressed his amazement: “How did you know my dog’s name is Ralph?”

I said: “All dogs are named Ralph.  Just ask a dog what its name is, and it will say ‘Ralph! Ralph!’”. 

I did not go on to explain that I learned this fact when I was a teenager and a big fan of Pogo, the comic strip.  In the strip, all the dogs said “Ralph! Ralph!” instead of “Woof! Woof!”

I have always wanted to name a dog Ralph, so that I could get a chuckle out of asking my dog “What is your name?” and hearing it respond with “Ralph!”

I moved to Nigeria in 1975 to teach at the Advanced Teachers College in Sokoto.  I got a puppy and named him Ralph.

The name became problematical.  Nigerians had difficulty pronouncing Ralph --- it came out as “Raouf”.  OK, so I switched the puppy’s name to Raouf, the same name as the cheerful pot-bellied Arabic teacher at the college where I worked.

Now the name became even more problematical.  I found out that Raouf is one of the names of Allah.  It  (الرؤوف) means God The Kind One.  It is definitely uncool, if not blasphemous, to give a dog one of Allah’s names.

I was at a loss, and mentioned to some Belgian friends that I had a problem and needed a name for my puppy.  “What kind of dog is it?”  “Oh, he’s the typical Nigerian mongrel.”  I got scolded.  “Oh, no – no, no, no – the dogs here are not mongrels; they are sloughis.”

To drive their point home, the Belgians got out their illustrated French dictionary and showed me a picture of a sloughi.  I came to two quick realizations:

    1. Sloughi must be the French word for saluki.

    2. My puppy looked nothing like the dog in the illustrated French dictionary.

I wondered if the Belgians were playing a prank on me.  But, never mind, my problem had been solved.  

I anglicized the French word, and called my puppy “Slouggy”.  Nigerians could pronounce the name, the name had no connection to the Muslim religion, and I always got a chuckle out of knowing that my mongrel dog had a pedigreed name.

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Here is a 2-minute video of a saluki singing along with Eva Cassidy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d0h25RVd5LI

Here is a 7-minute video of Eva Cassidy (solo) at the Blues Alley.  Four years after her death, this woman, virtually unknown outside Washington DC, climbed to the top of the charts in Britain and has sold over 10,000,000 CDs worldwide.  A history of her career is at the end of the video:

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

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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

A Cobra Flew Over Our House

I was out in the backyard when a Cobra flew over our house in Valley Park, Missouri.  Instinctively, I cringed and hunched over, to make myself a smaller target.

The incident made me remember a class when I was a soldier at the United States Army Aviation School.  The class taught me that there are three types of military helicopters:

1.     Helicopters designed to observe

2.     Helicopters designed to transport

3.     Helicopters designed to kill people

I am comfortable with observation helicopters because they are used by television stations for traffic reports. 

I am comfortable with transportation helicopters because the Army trained me to repair UH-1’s.  These were better known as Hueys, and they were the workhorse of the Vietnam War.  Today they are used by air medical services to transport people to hospitals.

Because I cringed and hunched over, I am obviously not comfortable with helicopters designed to kill people.  The Cobra (an Army attack helicopter) that flew over me was being transported in the flyway from a large Army base to the west of our house to a large Air Force base to the east of our house.

After the Cobra passed over our house without strafing the backyard, I straightened up.  I was surprised that 40 years after I was in the Army, the sight of an attack helicopter could shake me up.

Shortly after the Cobra incident, the Marine Corps announced that they would be setting up helicopters on display at the Gateway Arch as part of Marine Week in St. Louis.

I was curious to see how helicopters had improved in the 40 years since I was in the Army.  

I went down to the Arch and walked up to the first display.  I stood still.  Really?  Were the Marines playing a joke on me?  With the exception of the radio mounts on the front, this helicopter looked exactly like a UH-1.

I was incredulous and turned to a Marine standing by the display.  “This helicopter looks just like the UH-1’s I was trained to repair 40 years ago.”  The Marine responded with politeness: “Yes, Sir, this is a UH-1, and it hasn’t changed in 40 years because if something works, you shouldn’t tamper with it.”

My incredulity turned to a bit of pride.  In 40 years, no one could improve the helicopter that was the workhorse of the Vietnam War, the helicopter I was trained to repair.

I walked to the next Marine helicopter.  It was a Cayuse, an observation helicopter, and it looked like it was unchanged in 40 years.  

Then I walked to the centerpiece helicopter --- a Chinook, a troop carrying helicopter, which looked like it was unchanged.

I realized I should not be surprised that I cringed when a Cobra flew over our house.  That Cobra, whose purpose was to kill people during the Vietnam War, also looked like it was unchanged in 40 years.

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To evoke the Vietnam era, the Rolling Stones sing Gimme Shelter while Hueys fill the sky in Southeast Asia.  A 4.5 minute video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-QNlebUDb8U

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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

Quick, Get In The Lorry

I taught at The School For Arabic Studies in Kano, Nigeria, for four years.  Of all those years, there was nothing quite like the third day on the job.

My first two days on the job were focused on learning who my students were.  Not only did I have to figure how well they knew mathematics, I had to figure out their names.  The names were Muslim, from the Koran, and there wasn't much variety.  Since the custom was to take your father's first name as your last name, there was even less variety.

So, in one class, I could have a Kabiru Yahaya, a Yahaya Musa, and a Musa Kabiru.  Plus a Hamidu Yusuf and a Yusuf Hamidu.  And even two students both named Danladi Mohammed. 

A seating chart was my only way of telling who my students were.

On my third day at the school, the Principal walked into the staff room, and said: "Quick, get in the lorry.  A second-year student has died."

The lorry was the school truck, and was used to transport supplies - but it had some benches and could transport people.  It was transporting the school's teachers to the home of the deceased student's parents.

The United States Peace Corps had trained me for living in Nigeria.  They taught me the Nigerian currency system; they taught me how to treat a snakebite; they taught me which cuts of camel meat made the best hamburgers.  But no one had taught me what to say to console grieving Nigerian parents.

The teachers got off the lorry and stood before the parents.  I stayed in the back, trying to be inconspicuous, having no idea what to say or what to do.

One teacher, an Englishman, stepped forward and said, "We are sorry to hear that your son has died."  It was translated into Hausa for the parents, and they nodded in acknowledgement.  

The body was lying on a stretcher, wrapped in a white sheet.  The stretcher was lifted and the funeral procession began.  The teachers did not join in the procession, but we could hear it as it wound through the streets with mourners chanting the Hausa prayer for the dead: Allah ya ji kansa; Allah ya ji kan rai --- May God have mercy upon him; may God have mercy upon us, the living.

The body was taken to a burial field, where it was buried on its side, facing Mecca, to await Resurrection Day.

The lorry took us back to the school.  There was no teaching that day.  I sat at my desk and thought back to what the Englishman had said to the parents.  I realized that sympathy is universal; all you have to do is express it.

I took out my second-year seating chart, and found the name of the student who had died.  He had been in my class on the first day, and he had been in my class on the second day, and now he had just been buried on the third day.

I lifted my pen.  Should I cross out his name or should I draw a big X through his name?  

I hesitated, and then wrote R.I.P. on the seating chart.


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Sympathy is universal, and here is a 4-minute video in Japanese anime style about the death of a daughter, who was being treated for cancer at St. Jude's Childrens Hospital in Memphis.  The singer is James Otto, and the song is Where Angels Hang Around:

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

And, if you have a box of Kleenex handy, here is a girl dying of cancer who is helping her little sister learn the lyrics to Where Angels Hang Around so her little sister can sing it at her funeral:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fl0FtKpSIsY

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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

Tweaking The Tree

Sometimes when I walk from the living room to the dining room, I tweak the Christmas tree.

I see a bare spot and move an ornament to fill it, or I see too many red ornaments together and move some of them, or I see that Santa is looking into the tree again and I turn him around so he is looking out the tree.

But most times when I walk from the living room to the dining room, I see an ornament and it gets me thinking.

I look at the paraffin drum major, and I wonder how old he is and guess that he goes back to the 1940’s.

Spuds MacKenzie reminds me that yard sales are good sources of cheap and sometimes historic ornaments.

The ornaments we bought on vacation make me re-live the days in Aruba or the time we took a cable car to the top of a mountain in the Tetons.

I check out the dried starfish from Galveston and make sure they are out of the dogs’ reach.  The starfish may be dried and old, but they are organic and, in the dog’s eyes, very edible.

I look at the cream-colored ornaments and remember when I went to a yard sale and told the woman there that I was looking for Christmas ornaments.  “Oh, my mother just died and I will sell you her ornaments.”  I proudly display these ornaments on our tree, thinking that I am continuing some other family’s tradition.

I see all the candy canes and think about the time Randy and I got our first tree and candy canes were the cheapest way to fill up all the bare spots.

The pretzel man from Czechoslovakia makes me remember when I used to work for the May Department Stores headquarters here in St. Louis.  Salesmen from ornament companies would come to headquarters and leave samples, in hopes that the May Company would place big orders for their ornaments.  Once a year, May Company employees would get to purchase the samples, and that’s how I got the pretzel man.

The merman says New Orleans to me.

I look at the Empire State Building ornament and think about the New York friend who sent it to us soon after he had witnessed 9/11.

I realize that I have a personal relationship with most of the ornaments on our tree.  So, maybe I am not tweaking the Christmas tree --- the Christmas tree is tweaking me.

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Here is a 1950 Christmas song (Everybody’s Waiting For) The Man With The Bag that has been updated by Black Prairie.  The song video, complete with a yule fire in the fireplace, is 4 minutes long:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IVjzPQTQI1Y

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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 Good, The Bad, And The Sad

On the same day, I got a good Facebook message about a bookstore and I got a sad Facebook message about a bookstore.

The good Facebook message came from France: “Thank you, Douglas E. Schneider for the wonderful suggestion.”  My friends, before they left on vacation, had asked me what they should see in Paris. 

They were thanking me because I had suggested a bookstore: Shakespeare And Company at 37 Rue de la Bucherie.  I assumed that the bookstore had not changed since I had a good experience visiting it forty years ago --- and I was correct.

 

I had described Shakespeare And Company to my friends as a bookstore filled with the aura of the Beat Generation that hung out there.  When you step inside, you can almost believe that you are breathing the same air that William S. Burroughs breathed.

However, not all my bookstore experiences have been good.

When I lived in Seattle, there was a bookstore one block from where I worked.  On lunch break, I went over there to buy a book.  I stepped into the bookstore and saw a chill sweep over the staff.  A man had just entered their feminist bookstore.  I could feel the disdain as a clerk reluctantly sold me a book.  I thanked my lucky stars that the book I purchased was written by a woman.

When I visited Hong Kong, I entered a bookstore and was immediately entranced by the music they were playing: serene songs sung by an angelic choir of Chinese children.  I could swear that one of the songs was a subdued version of Oh, Susannah.

I pointed to the speakers in the ceiling and told the Hong Kong clerk that I wanted to buy the music that was playing.  He had no idea what I was talking about.  I tried charade mode; I tried speaking slowing; I tried speaking in elementary words.  Finally, the clerk understood and I got my music.  However ,the notes are in Chinese, so I cannot tell if that really was Oh, Susannah or not.

When I moved to London, I was excited to visit the world’s largest bookstore, called Foyle’s.  My excitement dissipated once I entered the store and found out that the entire bookstore was arranged by publisher.  I had no idea how to find a book.

There was a woman in one room who looked like she might be on the staff, but I wasn’t sure.  “Excuse me, are you a customer or do you work here?”

The woman turned her British eyes on me and replied, “What does it look like?”

I almost had a meltdown.  I almost said, “Lady, I am a foreigner here in your country and I am learning how to find my way around and now I am in a bookstore and I need help and I have no idea how to ask for help.”

I forgot what I really said to her.  I did get the book I wanted, but I never went back to Foyle’s.

The sad Facebook message came from St. Louis.  The Archive Bookstore announced: “We have reached the last page of our story. It was interesting, it was exciting, it was enriching, it was heartbreaking, and now it is over. Farewell to the good times, the good books, the good people who shared our story.”

The Archive was a used bookstore, which even had a resident Labrador retriever.  I once did a reading there from my book Puppy Out Of Breath. 

I am sad that The Archive closed.  But I know that the format of our reading material is changing and the way we purchase our reading material is changing.  Someday, saying ‘I went into a bookstore to buy a book’ will sound as quaint as saying ‘I went into a Western Union office to send a telegram’.

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Here is a 4-minute YouTube description of Shakespeare And Company:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUpSR9fhQDM

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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