An Obnoxious Tourist From Missouri

When I was a teenager, the world was under threat of nuclear annihilation as the Cold War was in full force and atomic bombs were being stockpiled by all the major powers in the world.  Life Magazine published an article about Mendoza, Argentina. The magazine declared Mendoza to be the city most likely to survive a global nuclear war.

My buddy Randy and I went to Mendoza when we visited Argentina in November 2012. 

We did not go to Mendoza because we were afraid of a nuclear holocaust.  We went there because it was in a desert, near the Andes, and the center of Argentina’s thriving wine industry, where the vineyards are irrigated by water from the Andes.  

Naturally we went on a winery tour while we were in Mendoza.

Each winery we visited mentioned that they used American oak for their barrels.  They mentioned that their vines grew on an American base.  I couldn’t help being an obnoxious tourist by pulling the winemakers aside and pointing out that those American oak barrels were really Missouri oak barrels.  And I pointed out that their American-based vines really grew on a Missouri base.

The French wine industry was in trouble in 1870 when an aphid started destroying roots and killing off vines.  Wine production fell off so much that some desperate French people actually switched to drinking whiskey.

Missouri to the rescue!   In 1870, it was the largest US wine producing state.  The state entomologist of Missouri took an interest in the French blight.  Yes, we have a state entomologist – today you can reach his office by phone at (573) 751-5505.

The entomologist in 1870 knew that Missouri vine roots were immune to this aphid, and he suggested that the French graft their vines onto Missouri roots.  This suggestion did not go over big with French pride. 

But the French had no alternative.  In 1872, Missouri sent 750,000 cuttings to France.  The wine industry stablized.  In the 1880's, Argentina started its wine industry, importing vines (with Missouri roots) from France.

There I was in Mendoza, pointing out to the Argentines that Missouri was the place from which the world wine industry rose again.

The Argentines were too polite to point out to me that, in case of nuclear holocaust, Mendoza is the place from which world civilization will rise again.

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ARGENTINA = TANGO.  Here is a YouTube video shot in the main shopping street of Mendoza (3 minutes):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTIZBGd6E0I

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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

Aida Should Not Have A Double Chin

I turned to the guy behind me in the ticket line and said: “We learned about this opera in sixth grade.”  He replied that he was impressed that I went to an elementary school where the kids learned about operas.

I had fully expected him to say, “Then why did you wait 58 years to see it?”

The opera was Aida, and the ticket I bought was for a Metropolitan Opera HD simulcast.  Because I had waited 58 years to see Aida, I wanted to see it in a special venue.  I crossed the Mississippi River to a little town with the oldest college in the state of Illinois.  Charles Dickens had visited this little town, and the town looks like it hasn’t changed much since his visit.

My main memories of learning about Aida 58 years ago: trumpets, slave girls, and how to translate “Giuseppe Verdi” into English. 

I settled into my seat in Illinois, and the conductor in New York lifted his baton.  The violins started playing the overture.  My mind immediately thought that this was all wrong.  Our sixth-grade music teacher did not play us violin music, she played us trumpet music.

Act two came to my rescue --- there was plenty of trumpet music.

But I was uncomfortable with the casting.  Aida was a slave girl in ancient Egypt.  In my mind, she should look emaciated and haggard.  The woman singing the role of Aida was well-fed and robust.  I know that you hire opera singers because of their voices, but surely, a woman with a double chin should not be singing the role of a slave girl.

Back in sixth grade, our music teacher, looking for a hook to get us interested in opera, told us that “Giuseppe Verdi” translates to “Joe Green”.

I was a volunteer in the school library at the time.  So was Steve Salorio.  One afternoon, Steve ran over to me and triumphantly announced that he had discovered someone checking out books using a false name.  A fifth-grader was using the name “Joe Green”.

To Steve and me, because we had just come from music class, it was obvious that the fifth-grader wasn't using his real name; instead he was playing off of Giuseppe Verdi’s fame.  Steve felt like he had unmasked an impostor.

The Metropolitan Opera HD simulcast lasted four hours. 

I got to hear trumpets.  I got to listen to a well-fed slave girl sing.  And I was reminded of the time when a fifth-grader was suspected of usurping the name of a famous Italian opera composer in order to check out books from an elementary school library.

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A YouTube video of the 1989 Triumphal March at the Metropolitan Opera (5 minutes).  Trumpets!!!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3w4I-KElxQ

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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

Yellow Blue Vase

On October 5, 1957, every newspaper in the country had a front page photograph of Sputnik.  The Soviets had launched the first satellite, and America was losing the Space Race.  This meant we were also losing the Cold War.

At night, we turned our eyes to the sky to catch a glimpse of Sputnik passing overhead.  During the day, we turned our eyes to the American education system to see how we could catch up to the Soviets.

At my high school, the students swung into action and asked the school to provide Russian language classes.  The school did.  They chose Mrs. Hunter, a local resident who grew up in Russia, to teach the classes; it proved to be a good choice.

The classes were held twice a week after school.  Mrs. Hunter was enthusiastic and optimistic as we navigated the language.  Russian has a cool alphabet (that’s a plus) and a strange idea of what is plural and what is singular (that’s a minus).

She brought a samovar to class and we got to try Russian tea (not a plus or a minus).  She invited the students to her house for a Russian Easter party.  The class visited the Russian Orthodox church across the harbor from our town.

It is fifty-three years since I took those classes.  I don’t remember much of the Russian language.  I do remember that Mrs. Hunter was delightful.  Most of all, I remember a story that Mrs. Hunter told us and a song that Mrs. Hunter taught us.

The story that Mrs. Hunter told us is how Edward Hunter, an American journalist, proposed to her.  She was sitting on a sofa when he got down on one knee, looked intensely into her eyes, and said, “Yellow Blue Vase.”  She had no idea what he meant.  He repeated, he continued to look intensely, and then showed her an engagement ring.  Then it dawned on her: he must have asked someone how to say “I love you” in Russian.  The phrase sounded like “Yellow Blue Vase” to Edward.  Once she figured out what he was saying, she said, “Yes”.

The song that Mrs. Hunter taught us was Подмосковные вечера ("Moscow Nights").  Here is a 3-minute version in English:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbZHzF-Av1I

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FOOTNOTE: Mrs. Hunter’s husband coined the word “brainwashing”:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Hunter_(U.S._journalist)

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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

Frankincense To Offer Have I

I have been in one and only one Christmas pageant.  I appeared on stage at Flower Hill Elementary School with two other guys.  We were the three kings.  I was destined to be king number two, the one who brought the frankincense.

When the music teacher chose me to be a king, I ran home to tell my mother.  Kings wear robes, and I expected my mother to sit down at her sewing machine and produce a kingly costume for me.  Instead, my mother pointed out that I already owned a robe.  Namely, a bathrobe.  That would be my costume…and my mother did not have to sit down at her sewing machine.

What about the frankincense I have to carry?  I expected my mother to go to her craft supplies and whip up something regal.  Instead, she handed me a music box she kept on the top of her dresser.  It held her powder puff and played Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms when you lifted the lid.  That would be my prop…and my mother did not have to use any of her craft supplies.

So, I had my costume and my prop.  I memorized the words to We Three Kings of Orient Are, and I was ready to sing in public. 

The three of us walked slowly on to the stage singing the chorus in unison.  The king with the gold stepped forward and sang his verse solo.  Then I stepped forward and sang my verse solo.  Then the third king, who was bearing myrrh, stepped forward and burst into tears.

We heard a big PSSSSST coming from the music teacher, and we exited the stage at that point while king number three was still blubbering.

The Bible is a bit hazy about the Three Kings, but king number two is believed to be named Balthazar, who lived in Africa.  When I did some genealogical research on my father’s side of the family, I discovered that my family tree has two Balthazar Schneiders:  one born in 1792 and one born in 1828.

I have lived in Africa, in Sokoto State in northeastern Nigeria.  I once discovered frankincense on a list of exports for Sokoto State.  Frankincense is a resin, and I got someone to point out a frankincense tree to me.  I touched the tree.

I am related to two Balthazars.  I have lived in Africa and I have touched a frankincense tree.  I am not shy about wearing my bathrobe in public.

Yes, I was destined to be king number two.

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Here is a 4-minute video of Trace Adkins singing We Three Kings:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yMbn3hb_6y4

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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

Don't Weep For Me, Buenos Aires

Just like Paris in the old days.

That’s what I expected when my buddy Randy and I arrived in Buenos Aires.  And, architecturally, it was like Paris about a century ago.  Wonderful turn-of-the–century buildings, none of them overshadowed by skyscrapers.  So impressive to walk around a human-sized city, each building standing proud. 

How Buenos Aires got frozen in time, I do not know.  Somehow the Argentines didn’t tear down their early 20^th Century buildings.  The city was so old-fashioned that I was happy when I spotted a Lady Gaga poster.  The poster reassured me that I was in the 21^st Century, even if this city kept on telling me otherwise.

Yes, the city’s buildings stood old and proud, but they also stood vulnerable. 

I had to keep my eyes at second story level or higher.  Buenos Aires has not found a way to control graffiti.  The facades on the upper floors looked fine, but the street level façades were all defaced with spray paint.  Building after defaced building, especially when you got away from the Plaza de la Republica:

Whle the city could not control graffiti, some individual buildings had found ways to protect themselves.  There was a physical approach: paint the fin de siècle stonework black:

There was an aesthetic approach.  Graffitists consider themselves artists; so, the assumption is that if your street-level façade is a work of art (preferably painted by a graffiti artist), then no other graffitist will deface it:

Or you can go a step beyond paint.  An optometrist glued old eyeglass frames to his building, creating portraits that were two stories tall:

Buenos Aires was reminiscent of Paris in the 1920’s, which impressed me.  Buenos Aires was also reminiscent of New York City subway cars in the 1970’s, which almost made me weep.

I did not weep because it is hard to weep for a city that knits sweaters for its trees:

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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

Politicians In Mortal Combat

Abraham Lincoln and his soon-to-be-wife Mary Todd had written some inflammatory letters to the editor defaming Illinois state auditor James Shields, mocking him and calling him “overly pompous.”

It was 1824, and Shields responded by challenging Lincoln to a duel, which was to take place in Missouri.

The Code Duello says that the person challenged gets to choose the weapon for the duel.  Lincoln did not choose the traditional pistol; he wisely chose broadswords.  Abe crossed the Mississippi River into West Alton, Missouri, ready for mortal combat.  James Shields took one look at the length of Abe’s arms, and called the duel off.  Abe won.

There was no winner in the 1831 duel between Thomas Biddle (brother of the head of the Bank of the United States) and Congressman Spencer Pettis.  At that time, Thomas Biddle owned a huge part of Valley Park, where my buddy Randy and I live now.  

Thomas Biddle was insensed when the Congressman insulted his brother.  Biddle took a cowhide whip into St. Louis and thrashed the Congressman, who later challenged Biddle to a duel.

This duel took place on St. Louis’ most popular dueling ground: a sandbar in the Mississippi River called Bloody Island.  Biddle chose pistols for the duel; since he was far-sighted, he chose five paces.

The outcome was predictable: both men died of gunshot wounds.

Bloody Island eventually disappeared when Robert E. Lee of the Army Corps of Engineers altered the channel of the Mississippi River.

Dueling, just like Bloody Island, eventually disappeared as a means of settling political disputes.

However, last night I watched the 2012 vice presidential debate.  In previous years, the opponents had stood at separate podiums.  But now they were seated at the same table.  The debate grew heated and intense.

I grew nervous when I saw that Joe Biden and Paul Ryan were within striking distance of each other.  The candidates no weapons, but I was waiting for them to punch each other with their fists or bop each other with microphones or grab a necktie and try to choke their opponent.

I wondered how far we have come from the day when Abraham Lincoln crossed into Missouri, with broadswords, ready for mortal combat.

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Here is a photo of a futile legislative attempt to stamp out dueling in 1822, one year after Missouri became a state:

http://www.sos.mo.gov/archives/education/dueling/1822Anit-DuelingStatute.pdf

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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

Bigger Than Texas

I walked into the auditorium with a friend from Austin, and he gasped, "This is bigger than Texas."

My friend was really saying that he found it hard to believe there is an auditorium outside of Texas bigger than any auditorium inside Texas.  He found it was especially hard to believe that a place like Minneapolis has such an auditorium.

We were at a free orchestra concert.  Northrup Auditorium was built in 1929 as the central ceremonial site of the University of Minnesota.  Northrup is vast: It has 4,800 seats --- 2,000 more seats than Carnegie Hall.

The next event I attended in Northrup cost two bucks.  It was a solo concert by an 82-year-old nurse.  This nurse had once been a successful blues singer in her younger days, touring all over Europe.  Her name was Alberta Hunter.

Alberta sang for us.  She did not show her age; instead, she showed humility on stage.  She was nearly overwhelmed by seeing all the people who came out to listen to her after she had been out of the limelight for decades.

My next concert at Northrup was Bonnie Raitt and it cost way more than two bucks.  

I approached the concert with a bit of trepidation: friends of mine had been ushers at a concert by The Animals the previous week.  My friends said the audience grew restless and resentful because The Animals refused to sing their old classics.  They only sang their new music, which irritated the the audience who had come to hear the old classics.

However, Bonnie Raitt's audience was not restless, much less resentful.  They were absorbed.

Bonnie showed humility on stage.  She told us, with a tone of awe in her voice, that Koerner, Ray, and Glover were in the audience.  As far as I knew, these guys were just an ordinary folk trio playing a few venues in Minneapolis.  

I had no idea they had been around for a long, long time.  Bonnie told us that Koerner, Ray, and Glover had inspired her, had encouraged her, and had helped launch her career.

Then Bonnie pointed to someone else in the audience: her father.  She invited him up on the Northrup Auditorium stage.  She didn't give us his name, she simply asked him to sing a song --- without a microphone.  I was astonished that she would ask someone to sing without a mike in a vast auditorium.  Was this a prank?

It soon became clear that it was not a prank.  Bonnie's father's voice was clear and sweet and strong.  Then I remembered that there had been a Broadway musical actor named John Raitt....was he Bonnie's father?  

My astonishment turned to amazement: an old man’s un-miked voice filled an auditorium bigger than Texas.  It must have been John Raitt.

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YouTube video of Bonnie Raitt and John Raitt singing Irving Berlin's "They Say It's Wonderful" (3-minute video)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pmyBA2xPN4g&feature=related

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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

Crushing The Orchid

In spite of all the planning that couples go through, the moments I remember best about weddings are the awkward moments.

Like the outdoor ceremony where the couple had tied their wedding bands on their dog’s collar.  When the minister asked for the rings, the groom’s brother released the dog.  The dog did not run up to the bride and groom.  Instead, it took off running in the opposite direction and had to be chased.

Like the couple that was seated in large high-backed chairs facing the altar, and had to constantly peep around their chairs to look at their wedding guests.

Like the couple that had a mass as a part of their ceremony, in spite of being a bit shaky on when to stand/sit/kneel during a mass.  They were constantly looking over their shoulders at the wedding guests to figure out what they should be doing.

Like the bride who was getting married in an outdoor ceremony and let out an ear-splitting I DO so that all the guests could hear her.

Like the child who said in a loud voice, “Look!  My parents are getting married!”

Or being served dinner at a wedding reception and having the lights turned off so that we ate by candlelight.  It was such a lovely touch, until I found out years later that we were not supposed to eat by candlelight --- there had been an electrical blackout in the building. 

Or the maid of honor who gave a speech and instead of telling the guests how lucky she was to be the sister of the bride, she told the guests how lucky the bride was to have a sister like her.

“Victoria, do you take Richard to be your lawfully wedded husband?”  At that point, I could hear a woman five rows away from me say in a very loud voice, “Richard?  I thought his name was Robert.”

I found it awkward when I went to my first Muslim wedding.  The groom was a student at the school where I taught in Nigeria.  At the wedding, I discovered that something was missing, namely, a bride.  In fact, there were no women at all --- the bride was having her own ceremony in another part of the city.  The groom’s ceremony consisted of listening to speeches while drinking orange soda.  I thought I was going to see some spectacle, but it seemed more like a business meeting.

The most awkward wedding moment was when I arrived at the church and greeted the mother of the groom.  I gave her a great big hug, thereby crushing the mother-of-the-groom orchid pinned on her mother-of-the-groom dress.  I tried to straighten out the petals, but it didn’t help.

I have been haunted by that moment ever since.  I am going to a wedding tonight and I plan to be very careful when I hug someone.

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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

I Need A Drink

                Doug's students at historic house in Kano

My elementary school teachers took us on field trips.

In 4th grade, we went to Lollipop Farm.  The “farm” had animals you could pet and even hand feed.  For us suburban kids, it was the first time we came face-to-face with a cow.

In 5^th grade, we went to the Saddle Rock Grist Mill, perhaps the oldest tidal grist mill in the country.  This was not the first time I had been to the mill.  The stables there had been converted into housing, and my parents were thinking of living in the stables, but we wound up in a suburban split-level house instead, much to my disappointment.

In 6^th grade, we went to the Museum of Natural History in New York City .  The focus of the trip was the fish exhibits.  After looking at models of fish, displays of fish, photographs of fish, and dioramas of fish, the class went to the museum cafeteria to eat the lunches that our mothers had packed.  I opened my lunch bag and found a tuna fish sandwich inside.  It was impossible to eat a fish after looking at fish.

I saw the other side of field trips when I became a teacher in Nigeria at a girls’ boarding school. 

We did a nice daytime field trip to a historic house.  The house was built around 1720, and had artifacts from everyday life.  I liked seeing the students light up when they recognized an object their grandmother had.

But I cut back on field trips after we went to a play at nighttime.

Nigerians are big fans of Shakespeare; a popular hobby is translating his plays into a local Nigerian language.  However, our field trip was not to a Shakespearian play; I took a busload of students to A Man for All Seasons.  Shakespeare’s plays are filled with activity and interesting characters and awkward situations.  A Man for All Seasons is a cerebral play.  The actors spent most of the time standing still on stage and talking. 

The Nigerian audience made a valiant effort to follow Sir Thomas More’s agonizing about his private conscience while doing battle with his public duties.  Most of the audience gave up and drifted into the dark recesses of the theater.  My students drifted there as well.

Uh oh.  I was supposed to be chaperoning these girls.  I had no idea what was happening in all that darkness, and I grew exceedingly uncomfortable.  I could no longer follow Henry VIII’s agonizing about the burdens of being a king.

Then I got an idea.

When lights came on at intermission, I chased the girls out of the recesses of the theater.  The girls were easy to spot because they were wearing their school uniforms.  I told them that the play was over.  It was time to get on the bus and go back to the dormitories.  Some girls tried to correct me and point out that the play was only half over, but I was adamant.

When the bus dropped them off back at the school, I heaved a sigh of relief.

I was so frazzled from the evening that all I could think was, “I need a drink.”  This was not just some trite line from a black-and-white movie --- I really did need a drink.  I headed for a bar.

I wonder if my 4^th grade teacher had headed for a bar on the day we went on a field trip to Lollipop Farm to hand feed the cow.

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2-minute YouTube home movie of Lollipop Farm, Syosset NY, complete with sound of 8mm projector:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8kbxkYKbVV0

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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