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

- . - .- . - . - . 

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

- . - .- . - . - . 

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.

- . - .- . - . - . 

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

- . - .- . - . - . 

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.

In Search Of A Roll Like Mabel's Roll

Even though Missouri is in the middle of the continent, I was hoping for a roll just like Mabel's roll on my 71st birthday.

Mabel is the namesake of  Mabel's Lobster Claw restaurant at 124 Ocean Avenue in Kennebunkport, Maine.

My history with lobster rolls goes back to the time I moved to New England, and I was in a seafood restaurant with some New England friends.  My friends asked me if I was going to order lobster---actually, my friends asked me if I was going to order lobsta.

I said, "No, it is too arduous to get the meat out of a lobster." 

  

(My history with lobsters goes back to my childhood when my mother ordered a lobster in a New York restaurant.  Much fanfare ensued.  The waiter put a plastic bib on my mother; then brought her a bunch of tools to attack the lobster with.  The whole lobster was served and Mom attacked.  It seemed like a lot of fuss.)

My New England friends immediately suggested that I get a lobster roll.  No plastic bib, no extra tools, no attacking, no fuss.  To make a lobster roll, someone in the kitchen takes the meat out of the lobster shell, adds a touch of mayo, and puts it in a split-top white-bread bun.  The waiter brings you the roll; all you do is pick it up and eat.

I ordered a lobster roll that night, and enjoyed it.  During my years in New England, I decided my favorite lobster roll was at Mabel's in Kennebunkport.

I now live 1,300 miles from Maine, but I have lobster roll dreams.  I dream of finding someplace in St. Louis that can replicate Mabel's roll.

I first went across the Missouri River to a restaurant that served me a lobster roll where the lobster had been doused in mayo (thumbs down), and celery was added (thumbs down), and it was served in a split-side hoagie roll (thumbs way down).

Then I tried a restaurant on this side of the Missouri River.  They served me a lobster roll where the lobster had a touch of mayo (thumbs up), and celery was added (thumbs down), and corn kernels were added (ditto).

But it was served on a split-top bun (thumbs up).  In fact, the bun was like the ones in Maine: it resembled a hot dog bun except it had flat sides, so it could be toasted on a griddle before the lobster meat was added.

For my 71st birthday, we tried the new seafood restaurant run by one of St. Louis' celebrity chefs.  The chef had gone to Maine and had made friends with lobstermen there.  Photos of the lobstermen are displayed on the restaurant walls.  The restaurant is designed to look rustic, almost as if you were at a seafood shack in New England: exposed cement floor, stressed wood on the walls, metal furniture that makes noise when it scrapes against the floor.

I ordered a lobster roll.  The waiter served me my 71st-birthday lobster roll.  The lobster had a touch of mayo (thumbs up), no celery had been added (another thumbs up), no corn kernels had been added (thumbs up again), and it was served on a flat-sided split-top bun (thumbs up).  But wait - it was a brioche bun!

Definitely not a tradtional roll like Mabel makes.  I wonder if Mabel can even pronounce or spell brioche.

So, I have not found a roll in St. Louis that matches Mabel’s.  

This means I need to travel 1,300 miles to Kennebunkport to get the real deal.  But I am worried.  What if I go all the way to Kennebunkport, order a lobster roll and find celery in my roll?  What if I get to Kennebunkport, and my lobster roll is slathered with mayo?  What if the lobster roll comes, heaven forbid, in a brioche bun? 

Nah, Mabel would serve me the same lobster roll she served me many years ago.

- . - .- . - . - . 

A 3-minute tour of Mabel's lobster claw:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3O-XyifV16k

- . - .- . - . - . 

NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  Find out more at http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

The Advantage Of Turkey In Winter

I did not go to Turkey because it was winter; I went to Turkey because the government had just devalued the currency --- and my dollars were suddenly worth twice as much as they used to be.

When I arrived in Turkey, I discovered the advantage of Turkey in winter: no other tourists.  I did not have to wait in line to get into any of the big tourist attractions.  I did not have to fight for a seat on a train or a bus, or for a berth on an overnight ferry.  It was delightful.

I was the only tourist in Denizli, in southwestern Turkey.  Denizli was my jumping off point for one of the highlights of my time in Turkey: Pamukkale.

I went to Pamukkale by minibus and was dropped off at the bottom of a hillside, and I immediately looked up: travertine cliffs loomed above me, formed by centuries of deposits of calcium carbonate from the water that cascaded down from a hot spring at the top of the hill.  The calcium carbonate had formed lacy terraces; many of which were filled with brilliant blue water.

I walked up the hill, past one terrace after another.  As I approached the top of the hill, I saw ruins off to my left.  The Turks call this hill Pamukkale, but it used to be called Hierapolis, back in Roman times.  The Romans had built a city here because of the hot spring.  Most of Hierapolis was gone, but its amphitheater was amazingly intact --- it once sat 12,000 spectators.

My goal at Pamukkale was off to my right, at the top of the hill: the Roman bathing pool.  The pool was abandoned; it had even become a dumping ground for broken Roman columns.  When I reached the pool, I saw the columns down at the bottom.  The water was clear.  I dipped my hand in it.  The water was clear and warm --- very warm.

I yearned to swim where the ancient Romans swam.

But there was a problem: I had not brought a bathing suit with me.

Wait, that’s not a problem --- it was winter, and there were no other tourists.  I piled my shoes and my clothes next to a tree and entered the pool.  I proceeded to swim where the ancient Romans swam.  I went underwater, and felt the texture of the columns.

I felt like I owned this pool. 

And I felt close.  I felt close to the Romans who bathed here.  I felt close to the Romans who once filled a 12,000 seat amphitheater.  I felt close to the Romans who built a city so they could be near this hot spring.

I put my clothes and shoes back on and picked my way down the travertine hillside to flag down a minibus to take me back to Denizli. 

On the bus, my first thought was that I needed to take a shower at my hotel to wash off the calcium carbonate.  But then I started to think about my experience at the Roman bathing pool.  This never could have happened in summer; it happened in winter in Turkey, when there were no other tourists.

- . - .- . - . - . 

Here is a 4-minute YouTube video about Roman bath houses:     http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GC1K_ulow7U

- . - .- . - . - . 

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

White Man, Where Do You Live?

I had been living in Kano, Nigeria, for three years and I thought it was time to go see what traditional African boxing was like.

I went to Kano City Stadium, which was used for soccer, prayer gatherings, and boxing.  The stadium consisted of a large grass-less field with a single cement grandstand.  The field was grass-less because it was the height of the dry season, and it had not rained in Kano for the last seven months.

I bought a ticket at the window and gave it to the ticket-taker to enter the stadium.  I was surprised when he asked, "White Man, where do you live?"

"I live in Tudun Wada."

The ticket-taker told me that I had to sit at the far end of the cement grandstand.  I did what he said, even though I did not see any difference between one end of the grandstand and the other.

I sat down.  A couple dozen boxers took the field.  Each boxer had one fist tightly wrapped up in cloth strips.   

There was no ring, no ropes.

I turned to the people sitting near me for some help.  First question, of course, was why did the ticket-taker make me sit at this end of the grandstand when I told him I lived in Tudun Wada?

I found out that Kano was divided into north and south.  I was not sure where the dividing line was, but Tudun Wada was definitely north.  All the north city people sat at this end of the grandstand while all the south city people sat at the other end of the grandstand.

The boxers on the field were also divided: north city boxers would be fighting south city boxers.

There was no schedule of matches.  The boxers themselves determine the schedule.  Someone challenges an opponent by tapping him on the chest with his wrapped fist.  If the opponent thinks the match is fair, he returns the tap, and they start to box.

A match ends when a boxer touches the ground: knee or hand or shoulder or body.  The match would also ends if one boxer decides to call it off.

I was impressed.  Traditional African boxing seemed less brutal than American boxing where they try to knock each other unconscious, and where boxers are paired by promoters, without regard to the fairness of the match.

A sudden gasp rose from the grandstand.  The primo hot-shot south city boxer had just tapped a north city boxer on the chest.  The crowd knew that the north city boxer was clearly outclassed, but he tapped back.

The lopsided match was on.  Punch; Punch; Stagger; Fall.  It was the hot-shot south city boxer who had touched the ground. 

The match was over in about two minutes, and everyone around me stood up and cheered. 

Then people stopped cheering and started leaving.  What?  Why are they leaving?  There are two dozen boxers on the field; surely there are more matches to come?

Someone explained it for me: The north had triumphed, and nothing can be sweeter than having an ordinary north city guy defeating the primo south city guy.

 

I lingered there while the grandstand emptied out.  Instead of feeling triumphant, I felt a little bit cheated.  I had come all the way from Tudun Wada to Kano City Stadium, and only got to watch two minutes of boxing.

- . - .- . - . - . 

A 2-minute video of traditional boxing in Argungu, a much smaller city than Kano.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bUp1D81kLW8

- . - .- . - . - . 

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