Scottish assumptions

Never assume! This has been a very hard lesson for me to learn.

A couple of weeks ago, I was awarded a small but attractive prize for delivering the “Immortal Memory” speech at a Robert Burns Night. I could go on and on about the fun we had at this party that our friend Donna hosted, not to mention how much I learned about Burns in preparing the speech, which I should have known before. But that’s not the point.

The prize is the point just now.

My prize was a small tankard to which were affixed a bottle of Celtic beer and a tiny bottle of amber liquor which was labeled “Red Stag.” Since this had been a Scottish evening from start to finish (kilts were nearly involved, but I am glad to report that this particular goal was out of reach for me), it stood to reason that the alcohol would be Celtic as well, that is to say, that it would be Scotch whiskey. After all, I did bring a part of a bottle of Johnny Walker Black to the party to share, and this particular spirit was much in evidence during this party.

For two or three weeks now, this prize, with another to match it, has been occupying a prominent place on the table to the right of our front door. From said place of prominence the small bottle of liquor has been beckoning me for days and days, but I awaited a propitious moment.

Today came that moment. Finally, after 30 or 36 inches of snow (depending on your source), after a day of sun, a day of rain and a day of fog, the city snowplows ground their way into our neighborhood. After an exciting interval in which one of the dump trucks became nearly permanently involved with a snowbank and had to be pulled out with a cable that might have hauled the Queen Mary off a sandbank, the street was finally cleared.

Then we had to shovel our way from the sidewalk at the end of our driveway to the pavement through snow which had experienced a day of brilliant sun, a day of rain and a third of fog. It took a substantial stint of work, but we were aided by the neighbor from across the street (we helped shovel him out after our drive was finished and it became quite a fine neighborhood help-fest by the time all was done.

Hence, by the time the sun fell below the yardarm, I was more than ready for that Scotch, which I decided was now utterly and unarguably fitted to be consumed.

I poured Lois a sherry, broke the seal on my liquor and emptied it into my glass. We lifted our glasses, clinked and sipped.

Black Cherry. That’s what it was. Black Cherry Bourbon, to be more exact.

I’ve nothing against Black Cherry and noting against Bourbon. But when, in the expectation of tasting the ancient flavor of peaty Scotch whiskey, one tastes Black Cherry Bourbon, one has a right to be surprised. Somewhat!

Did I drink it? Of course. Gift horse and all that. But the other wee bottle is indeed labeled Scotch, and it is calling to me with a mighty voice to which I feel obliged to listen. Burns would approve, I feel.

Before that, however, once again it must be driven into my brain: Never Assume.

Tale for a Trail

Somehow we acquired a recording of Great Expectations. Complete in 14 CDs, I imported the story into my laptop and then exported it onto my iPod. For the last couple of weeks I have listened to the whole thing, mostly while taking my morning walk on the Quinnipiac Gorge Linear Trail.

I loved the story.

This is a bit to my surprise, since I didn’t expect to like it at all.

How I wish my father were around to discuss this book with me. He was a great Dickens admirer. He loved A Christmas Carol, of course, and would describe how that tale had been retold by Choate’s headmaster – in a specially redacted version – while he was a student. We made it a Church family tradition to watch the Alistair Sim version each Christmas, once it became available in remastered video tape and then DVD. Its memorable lines – “are there no prisons, are there no workhouses?”are etched in our collective consciousness.

Dad didn’t limit his Dickens to the familiar works, though. I think he loved Chuzzlewit, Drood, Twist, and others, as well as the films based on these novels.

As a kid, I had difficulty getting into Dickens. I read Tale of Two Cities – largely because my cousin Roger Squire came home from prep school able to recite its first and last two paragraphs. This was a feat I felt challenged to duplicate, and one I can still perform, almost. While I read and enjoyed the tale, my comprehension was a bit shallow at that period of my education.

Dad read David Copperfield aloud. I loved that and loved listening to him emote. He was superlative in his furious scorn when he got to the wonderful scene when Aunt Betsy chases Mr. and Miss Murdstone off her front lawn with a broom when they come to try to retrieve David. We stopped at that point. I thought it was the end.

Several years later at prep school myself, I decided to read David Copperfield as one of my elective books for English. It required a short book report upon completion and I thought this would be an easy choice, seeing as I’d already read the book. As was my wont, I waited until the last week to reread the volume. When I came to the end and read of that tremendously satisfying scene with Aunt Betsy, I was dismayed to read, at the end of the text, “David Copperfield continues in volume two and three.”

Frantically I called home to have these hitherto unsuspected volumes parcel posted a.s.a.p. and I did manage to get through the remainder of the novel. But Dickens suffered as a result. I decided that the author really should have ended Copperfield with Aunt Betsy.

Dad had tried to read Great Expectations to me, but at an age when I could hardly appreciate Pip and the convict, much less the relationship with Miss Haviasham (what in the world was she about?) and Estella. I gave it up. The same thing happened years later when I tried again.

So it was much to my surprise that I found this reading of Great Expectations to be vastly entertaining, not to mention moving and suspenseful and half a dozen other positive adjectives. It was pretty satisfying from beginning to end, and Dickens was a master of pathos. He loved to read his works aloud to audiences. He loved to make people cry. And I did.

The only unsatisfying aspect is that, having finally read this book, Dad isn’t around to share it with. So, I guess, this is my way of saying, as perhaps Dickens repeatedly had Joe Gargery say to Pip, “Dear Boy, I finally saw the light and realized, too late, old man, what you were trying to show me.”

Back to the Bank

The Bank was iconic in my childhood.

It was where my father and his father worked

It was a place of decorum, of mystery and of quiet.

The Bank was not exactly child-friendly, even by the standards of the 1940s. By contrast, when I went into the Squire Company, where my other grandfather and his brother were found, a welcome noise was generally generated to greet me. The women who worked there knew me on sight and greeted me with smiles. There was cold bottled water with little paper cone cups, and they’d help me to them. (These always leaked through before I could drink the water, threatening to puddle.) My Grandfather Squire generally interrupted whatever he was doing to talk to me. Once, he even took me outside to climb up into the cab of the last scheduled steam engine going along the Springfield Line, just behind the office.

The Bank was something else. No travel brochures or giveaway calendars: just silent corridors, quiet offices. Other employees, who clearly knew who I was, nodded respectfully but continued working. Occasionally my father took me to the area of the bank holding the vault. The Meriden Trust & Safe Deposit Company itself did not maintain a vault, since it was not a commercial bank, but had occasional business with safety deposit boxes in the vault of the Meriden Savings Bank, which occupied the other half of the building. These were the days of interlocking directorates, so much mutual business took place between the Meriden Trust and Meriden Savings, with overlap among their boards and those of the other half-dozen local banks.

It always seemed momentous when the guardian of the railing around the vault pushed a concealed button, allowing my father and me inside the sacred area giving access to the vault. Vaults actually held cash in those days, and on one occasion I was permitted to gaze at and even hold some prodigious amount of money.

But The Bank held other attractions, even for a child. First and foremost was the adding machine. I had no idea what it did, but it was electric: when I was permitted to switch it on, punch the buttons and pull the enormous handle on its right side, large bundles of inky fingerlike patens erupted from the machine and marked numbers on the roll of white paper coiled at its neck.

Naturally, since I had no idea of this machine’s function, I regularly entered numbers beyond its capacity, causing it to jam and obliging my father to come and unsnarl it. He was not amused.

Less accessible than the adding machine was the air conditioner. It resided in Grandfather Church’s office – naturally, since he was the president of The Bank. I wanted to turn the cool on, as it was so much more effective than any fan (especially in the winter). He didn’t much care for this idea. Nor did he really want me fussing with his Dictaphone, which I thought was extremely attractive.

But Grandfather Church’s office held the ultimate toy, which drew me like a firebug to arson. He was a pipe smoker. Both his office and his home were redolent with the scent of his tobacco, carefully stored in airtight canisters. I delighted to watch him select a pipe, knock out the dottle, ream the bowl, open the canister and stuff the bowl with Prince Albert (“Hey, do you have Prince Albert in a can? Then let him out!”)

And then, bringing over the standing ashtray, he slid the box of wooden matches out of its holder, opened it, selected one, and struck it against the abrasive on the side. Then he drew fire into the tobacco with that particular puffing sound only a smoker makes, and the distinctive smoke erupted from his mouth and from the pipe.

I didn’t want to smoke. I didn’t mind the tobacco, either the smoke or the scent of the raw, moist mixture in the canister. What I really wanted to do was strike those matches.

And of course my grandfather, a prudent man, was not about to permit me to mess with fire, not by any stretch. I never tired of matches to play with – but of course, I never was permitted to play with them.

All these elements came back to me in mid-June when Justin Piccirillo, one of the cartoonists I worked with at the Record-Journal, held an exhibit of his work. He does photography as well as political cartoons, and the show was mounted – in both senses of the word – at a place called the Sandman Gallery and Frame Shoppe (the business which now occupies the quarters where The Bank was).

Lois and I went to chiefly to support Justin, who’s a friend. But once inside I recognized the space. Ghosts indeed lingered, for only me to see. Grampa’s office was locked, but the vault, now a useless but very secure room, was open for viewing.

 Being within this space again after many years gave me double vision. We enjoyed Justin’s show, ate some of the cheese and crackers on offer with a glass of punch. Before I left, though, I had to have a quiet word with some of those ghosts.

Depredations along the Trail

This morning, in brilliant sunshine, it was time for a walk. I took one of my favorite jaunts. From one of the parking spaces along the Chamberlain Highway – Route CT 71, from Meriden to Berlin – it is possible to trek up to the level of Elmere Reservoir (constructed in 1893), following a blue blazed trail.

It is very pleasant to step out of the forest into the cleared area near the reservoir and its nearby holding tank (though most of the colorful graffiti has been painted over, ready for a new generation of spray artists). The earthen dam is very peaceful; the four-acre lake rippled with cats paws.

Once across the dam, a hiker must choose between the blue blazed trail, going straight across South Mountain and continuing down to Lake Merimere and then up to Castle Craig trail, turning left and following the rising escarpment which towers over the Chamberlain Highway. I chose the red trail. After about a mile, the trail, which runs until that point well out of sight of the cliff, I emerged at the precipice. I looked out over Meriden, in general, and Westfield Mall and Target in particular. The cliff, according to Google Earth, is 270 vertical feet. Target’s parking lot is at El. 280 ft., while the outcrop where I stood is El. 550, give or take a few.

I hate retracing my steps, so I rejoined the red trail and headed on toward the highest portion of South Mountain, overlooking Hubbard Park. Blazes in this area are newly painted and easy to follow.

The summit of South Mountain is about 700 feet offers a respectable view. Two red hawks flew out from around the curve of the mountain at below my level so I could see them soaring from above, which allows a good view of their red tails.

On the way downhill, I chose to follow a different path farther to the west than the red trail. At its lower end it meets the blue blazed trail which runs back to Elmere. This route forms an elongated triangle.

It was along this path that the damage caused by ATVs was clear. This trail used to be wide enough for only a single person to pass silently along on hard-packed earth. Grass grew   tall along both sides.

Now, thanks to muggings by numerous ATVs, this trail is wide enough for two to walk abreast with ease – but the tumble of rocks and exposed roots cause people to stumble and curse. Grass along the verge has been flattened and destroyed. This trail has become a peril for those prone to twisting of ankles or knees. Since this ATV-widened trail is also lower than the surrounding part of the hill, the path has become an occasional water course, making navigation – literally – also a required skill.

ATVs are a serious problem. Nowhere in Connecticut are they street legal – or park legal either. This South Mountain property, purchased by Meriden with state help as a watershed protection, is public land. Short of fencing the whole mountain off, which is ridiculous, there seems no way to protect trails on this property (and those along the other trap rock ridges in Meriden and elsewhere). We pretend to rely on the good citizenship of ATV fans. Unfortunately, this citizenship is little in evidence. The vehicles ruin the paths for those who would walk or hike them.

It must be said in fairness that hikers and walkers probably ruin the paths for ATV users. Therein is a problem: a half-dozen years ago, an effort was made to create a compromise between hiking types and ATV types. The idea was to find public land to dedicate solely to the uses of each. A prospective agreement fell apart because it turned out that no one could speak with authority for either the hiking or the ATV community.

The conflict of uses continues. No one is very happy about it.

In any case, my round trip was completed. The walk was around two and a half miles, (plus the change in altitude): a good workout. At least for today, even the depredations of All Terrain Vehicles could not spoil it for me.

Weather -- or not

Everyone always talks about the weather, but no one ever does anything about it, goes the old complaint.
Problem: the statement isn’t true. We have done something about it.
I am not referring to global warming; we’ve done something there and we’re still figuring out what.
I refer to our constant hyping of weather and our dreadful refinement of its quirks and wiles. In the winter, for instance, it is hardly possible to turn on a TV without the dubious pleasure of watching a bundled up news person standing outside somewhere under a streetlight with a few snowflakes sifting down. The burden of the reporter’s message generally involves catastrophic estimates of possible snowfall accompanied by magma-chilling blasts of cold air pushing wind-chill levels well below zero.
Then there’s the hurricane alert: warnings of category four and five storms which might develop and which might strike coastal regions sometime soon.
This hyperventilation even afflicts the National Weather Service (weather.gov). This week, when it has become excessively hot and sticky in New England, the NWS has used a tiny drawing featuring a malevolent yellow sun in a coppery-orange sky. Keeping company with the familiar wind-chill scale is a dire and diabolical heat index. You’d think Hell was breaking out in the forecast!
Warnings are being posted about keeping hydrated, about engines overheating, about staying out of the sun.
The result of reading all these dire warnings is that we feel a whole lot hotter than we felt when we merely experienced hot weather. Knowing that the heat index is 104 is a burden: if we don’t suffer heat prostration perhaps there is something physiologically amiss, or worse. We may be suffering that direful prostration and don’t know it, a real signal of trouble!
But that’s not the worst result of hype. Whether it’s heat or cold or wet or dry, predictions of extreme conditions frequently don’t come true. How many times can we evacuate coastlines in advance of a storm that doesn’t show up, before we just blow off the next warnings?
Yes, yes, I know: given today’s serious concern with liability and safety there’s never any choice but to activate the emergency plans, just in case. A cover-our-asses policy is necessary, particularly after the fact. This I know, after all, as an editorial writer (job description: to analyze the scene of a disaster and begin punishing survivors).
Today is hot. I can perceive this without assistance from forecasters, however much I appreciate the science of meteorology. I’d like to be able to enjoy this weather – or not, depending on my inclination – and be able to wish you a nice day. I would definitely not do so, were I not concerned that today might turn out less than nice, in which case you as a consumer might bring a legal action against me for violation of an express warranty of the suitability of the day.

What is a Hum?

My risky business on the “Hum” happened couple of weeks ago now. It was an excursion on the last remaining wooden operating steam-powered vessel in the United States in the company of about 60 other gents of approximately my age whose express purpose was to sing choruses in public.

As promised (or threatened), I obtained further information about the origins of this fairly unusual expedition from Bob Hall, who has been organizing them annually in recent decades. His information, in turn, comes from a three-page epistle called “A Short Sketch of the Hummers” by Bryant Tolles, written in February of 1983.

Per Tolles, Hums began in December 1936 when a large number of Yale alumni couldn’t fit into the Hartford Club to attend an appearance by the football team captain.  They wound up in larger rooms downstairs and began singing Yale songs, which Tolles says they did for “several hours,” enthusiastically. “This is some hum,” some wit remarked, and the name stuck.

For many years this activity continued with a varying group of about sixty, led by a core group. They met in people’s homes and in clubs and other venues. Hums were not limited to Yalies but welcomed college singers from many places. Tolles’ described energetic singing:

One of these non-Yale singers was Ted Hansen who stood up at the start of the Hum and sang the Norwegian National Anthem in Norwegian while he also directed the Hummers while accompanying him by one-third singing ‘Boo-a, Boo-a,’ another part ‘Lit-em, Lit-em,’ and the last third singing repetitively ‘Ile-Buscum.’ Each third sang in a different pitch.

This singing was done without music, since the repertoire was apparently commonly known, perhaps the way most people today know Happy Birthday to You or the Star Spangled Banner. Actually, I bet they knew their music better than folks today. Most birthday groups now make a terrifying cacaphony even on Happy Birthday. Many cannot carry a tune at all much less match someone else’s pitch.

I digress.

The Hummers never had regular meetings, getting together apparently on impulse yet still drawing good ad hoc crowds. They did a broadcast on a Hartford radio station (this was before the advent of TV) and filled the Bushnell Hall in that city with a crowd to hear the Yale Glee Club.

By the early 1970s, though, many original members had died or moved away, and there were no Hums for several years. In 1974, though, a new tradition was begun featuring an annual late spring gathering at Mystic Seaport on the Sabino, and it has continued that way.

In Tolles’ listing of early members, I noted the name of my college roommate’s father among the others, as he would have been a new graduate in 1936.

Tolles, I think, is now 92 and living in West Hartford. He concluded his piece with the hope that Hums would continue: “Hummers never die,” he says, “but sing on into eternity.”

Good philosophy.

More than satisfactory

Friday, I achieved a goal I’d eyed for over fifty years.

Friday, Lois and I went to the beach again.

No, the goal was not going to the beach. Yes, we did go Monday as well; twice in a week could seem like overdoing it, I know. But given Lois’ teaching schedule during July, it makes sense to grab as many good days at the beach as possible.

So Lois and I gathered our rosebuds while we could. Friday was very beautiful and although when we reached the East Beach location the temperature was still about 70, the air was clear and bright and remained that way. Only the constant wind made conditions less than ideal.

I tired of sitting and decided to walk. Lois elected to remain where she was, working her way with glee through the volumes she’d brought with her, as I set off eastward along the sands.

I determined to walk all the way to the end of the beach, to the breachway through which Charlestown Pond drains into the ocean. Since my family began vacationing in Quonochontaug in 1959, I have wanted to walk the length of the beach (which, to be fair, is only 2.5 miles each way), but, for one reason or another (all of whom are now adults), I could never do. Someone’s legs would give out or stomach need filling, the day would end or turn cold or rainy.

None of these conditions was present on Friday. Walking was about as comfortable as it can ever be. I had a hat, I was slathered with sunblock, I carried a shirt.

And I walked and I walked and I walked. The beach, I observed, was not a perfect crescent as I’ve always thought; it undulated here and there so that the whole is not continuously visible.

I saw piping plovers and least terns. They are protected in a roped off section of beach back towards the dunes along this whole sector with only a few designated passageways for humans. The piping plovers are those little birds that follow the water as it washes in and out along the sands, the plovers’ feet moving so fast you cannot see them. There used to be groups of dozens that would rush up and down before and behind the waves. Now, sadly, the largest group I saw was only five.

The terns, with lovely forked tails, are the swallows of the beach. They’d swoop across the beach and out over the water, skimming and swooping as if they really enjoyed themselves. They’d find a certain height above the sea, slow until they were almost hovering, and look down. When they spotted what they wanted, they’d drop straight down into the water, wings not closed as I’d have thought, but partly open. A moment later, they’d emerge and take off, most of the time with a tiny wiggling fish in their beaks.

And I walked and I walked and I walked. And finally I reached the breachway. The near side of the channel, inaccessible except by paying a serious camping fee or by walking the 2½ miles as I had just done, was deserted. On the further breakwater, a few guys with fishing gear cast their lines. That side is easily accessible from adjacent Charlestown Beach. As at other breachways, water rushed energetically through into the ocean. A cormorant was enjoying riding the current upstream.

The walk was beautiful, both ways, and altogether long enough.

It was time to return to Lois. Our spot on the beach was a long, long way away. It did seem much further going back, and as I stumped along I could reflect that I had not really expected astonishing revelations when I reached the breach and therefore had not been disappointed. And, as I said, a beautiful walk on a beautiful day.