Glasgow Journeys

A New York Postscript

2010-04-18T05:22:00.001-07:00

Some travelers, Japanese, it appears to me, in particular, seem to be recording their journey, rather than experiencing it; not a trap I want to fall into. So I'm writing this, as a postscript because New York, the "Big Apple", didn't leave any time for tidying up my notes. My memory has never been much good, so this postscript will be even more suspect than usual.

I never really know my own motives, but it is at least possible that this delightful year wandering around rural America was just a very heavy disguise for the final frenetic week in New York, my favourite place to visit in all the world. This is the place I visited most in my life, and is a rich tapestry of memories, some so strong I can still even smell them.

But, in the spirit of adventure which characterized this last year, I decided to stay in a part of the city I've never been to before. I didn't quite have the nerve to choose Harlem, so I settled for Brooklyn, in part as a tribute to Tom Wolfe's delightful short story, "Only the Dead Know Brooklyn", which I had just read.

So when I descended out of Pennsylvania and the Alleghennies, pausing only to notice that as we came down to lower altitudes the trees were beginning to blossom, it was to blast straight onto Manhattan and off the other side; pausing only to misunderstand Dulcie one last time and make a brief detour through Chinatown.

I was staying at the Broadway Junction end of Atlantic Avenue, where there is ready access to the subway and buses. I had, of course, forgotten that quaint American custom of putting the subway over the top of everything, on a gantry of steel. So, briefly, on a strict schedule, throughout the day and night, my room may have been the noisiest place on earth. It's a good job that doesn't bother me very much. This part of Brooklyn is clearly very poor: everybody, except the policemen, is black

For my first outing, I got to take the 'A' train. Not quite as far as Billy Strayhorn took it, up to Harlem, only to the other end of Manhattan, to 4^th Street in the Village. To go 'off-Broadway' for an interesting production of Thornton Wilder's "Our Town". I couldn't resist this, having just visited twenty such places around the country. I wonder if the people I met saw their town like this (allowing for the changing times). They certainly didn't seem like that to me. But it did say what those people on American Family Radio clearly believe, but so spectacularly fail to say.

The setting, a community hall, was exactly like the fringe productions I go to so much in London. The only difference was that it cost $75. Miraculously, everyone had turned white.

Waiting for the 'A' train back to Brooklyn, the station was filled with the sounds of a Brahms Piano concerto. I guess that would be by popular demand in this neighbourhood.

Downtown Brooklyn was a bus ride away, and boasted a number of Irish bars. In one, the Irish barmaid explained her rather unusual name by telling me it was after the founder of the Legion of Mary. It was a curious complement to me to think (rightly, as it happens) that I knew what that was. She drew me a map of how to get to the 'A' train. After a long session, it took me a little time to work out that she was on the other side of the bar, so the map was upside-down, if you see what I mean.

I moved to a hotel on the west side of Brooklyn, nearer where the QM2 docks. I turned Silver into his livery stable en route. Before I could get my luggage into the car they were going to take me to the hotel in, he was washed and scrubbed, and away with another rider. He never really took Rozzie's place anyway.

It was a lovely sunny day, so I went out for a walk to find the nearest subway station. This was on the Broadway Express, so I could get up to Time Square and see if there were cheaper theatre tickets. But the other way it went to Coney Island, which is how I found myself, still in New York City, on the beach, in a bar which made its own beer, with a Polish barmaid who loved to play Abba, which I love to listen to. She wanted to borrow my newspaper to read about the Polish air crash. (I should point out that when I say "Irish" and "Polish", in these cases I actually mean it: they were not Americans claiming another nationality, as Americans do.)

I went up the Bronx to get a ticket for the opening Yankee game of the season. I had assumed it would be in the evening, but it was more than halfway through when I got there. I bought a ticket for the game the following afternoon (baseball players play nearly every day). The man at the ticket booth looked me up-and-down, then asked me if I would like to go into the end of the first game, and gave me a free ticket. The new Yankee stadium is a really fine place. I was bemoaning how expensive everything (that's code for "beer") was when I had to remind myself that I got in for nothing.

On the way back, I stopped off to visit my favourite bar from way back. I'm pretty sure I remember exactly where it is, but, sadly, it is gone, replaced by a pub called "Baker Street". The inside seems to be much the same, so that has to do for memory lane.

In the Irish bar in Brooklyn, I had got into a conversation with a African American, about the same age as me, who had recommended "Race", David Mamet's new Broadway play, so I stopped off at the Time Square ticket bureau to get a ticket, and made the startling discovery that on-Broadway is cheaper than off-Broadway.

After years of avoiding big theatres, it took me a minute to get used to the actors shouting at each other so we could hear them. But this is a really good play, very verbal, with lots of belly-laughs about racial attitudes. And, of course, famous faces from the TV screen.

I had organized the emptying of my American bank account almost perfectly, leaving less than two dollars behind. Unfortunately, I got fingered by a Brooklyn gas pump. It, as some of them do, asked me for my zip code when I used my credit card. Without thinking, I put it in as I would for the American debit card. Of course, a zip code means nothing for a British credit card, so I got declined and had to pay cash. I didn't think any more about it, but, unfortunately, I got shopped, and they stopped the credit card. Which meant the final car rental payment got declined. Which meant they used the American debit card. Which meant it went horrendously negative. Which meant the bank shoveled on overdraft charges like I was their only source of income. Which meant a lot of phone calls, including one to Britain. But it all got straightened out. And I got a pleasurable reminder of the delightful southern Kentucky accent of the car rental lady.

From my hotel window, I can see the Queen has arrived. The hotel is owned and operated by Indians: Indian Indians, that is. I shouldn't have to tell you this, because all hotels in the United States are owned and operated by Indian Indians. But it is in an Hispanic neighbourhood, so the cab driver who takes me to the QM2 is Hispanic. He is playing Mozart on his radio. It is the first time I have enjoyed music in a cab: and a fitting end to my stay in New York.

Thursday 8th April 2010 - Old Haunts and New Friends

2010-04-09T15:21:00.001-07:00

Today was a short hop across the Alleghenny River and into the Pennsylvania Wilds. Where I lost Public Radio for a while. I got to listen to American Family Radio. They specialise in being peeved that the "Liberal media" (their words) ignore things they think (apparently sincerely) to be important. Since what they believe in, being traditional values like "Country" and "Flag" and "Family", are almost inexplicable, and certainly beyond your average media jock, they are simultaneously right and unfair. Not only are the "Liberal media" (their words) incapable of explaining these concepts, so, it appears, are they themselves. Anyway, it made a a change.

When I got back to Public Radio, it was Clarion University running what was obviously a news-reading exam. As the young lady approached what was going to be the Russian President's name (it was about this nuclear treaty thing), you could tell from her voice that she knew she wasn't going to be able to pronounce it. And when she got there, indeed she couldn't. I wonder if she learned anything from that, like, for example, practicing beforehand. Come to think of it, I wonder if this was the first time she'd done it.

About 50 mile before Bellefonte (my destination for tonight) there was one of the most specific local attraction signs I've seen: it said "(at 2280 ft) the highest point on I-80 east of the Mississippi". I bet none of you can match that! It is a beautiful day, and I'm in lovely rolling (still bare) wooded hills.

Bellefonte is where the American Philatelic Society keeps its library, so I know my way around here.

Later that night, I went out for some beer. I started in the poshest bar, where they keep their beer and their grown-up ladies in good condition, but there were not only no grown-up ladies on duty, they were selling Sierra Nevada Pale Ale on draft. Since I was staying out-of-town, and therefore driving, I decided not to trust myself, so I didn't stop. The next choice was my favourite redneck bar outside of town, but since it would require a difficult drive back along back roads, I wasn't too keen. As I was dithering, a new pub leapt to my eyes. As I got in, they not only had Troegg's, the local brew, and Yeungling's, a fairly moderate ale, they had a duty grown-up lady waiting at the bar to greet me. She hung on my every word; wanted my opinion on everything. I gave a long expose (now, now!) on the various beers I had encountered on my trip. She was captivated. Turned out the place had recently opened, and she was la patronne. Grown-up ladies are so much more fun than truck drivers. She didn't want to listen to any Gilbert and Sullivan, she wanted to listen to me.

Wednesday 7th April 2010 - Keep on Trucking

2010-04-08T15:22:00.001-07:00

As a result of my late night research on racehorse breathing, I was pretty late out of Chicago. So I got caught in the rush hour. Actually, I expect, like most big cities, it's a pretty long rush hour, so I probably couldn't have avoided it anyway. I thought it might be a bit of luck, and allow me to do a bit of sight-seeing, but Chicago was only visible from about floor 20 downwards, which was a little eerie. But I did get up onto the Skyway, and see down to Lake Michigan. I must be getting good at interstate travel, 'cos I got a lengthy honking from someone I had to cut up to get to my exit.

Today's Public Radio delight was a phone-in about Scrabble: yes, a phone-in. They had an expert to interview, and, no doubt ask penetrating questions of, but they all just prattled on about how much fun it was. One man phoned in to say that he cheated on his wife, but only at Scrabble. He confessed that whenever she left the room, he rummaged around the tile bag for letters he wanted. He then told us that she still beat him, and never knew he cheated. She is obviously just charitable about his inadequacy as a cheat.

Later that night, I fell into the company of truck drivers. I had stopped at Youngstown, and the motel was right beside one of those giant truck stops. These places allow truckers overnight parking, with restaurants and shower facilities. The bar was across the road, so I knew it was going to be hard to get back. It served Great Lakes ale, from Cleveland.

The drivers swapped notes about how far they travelled, how much time they got off, how to make good money without getting caught breaking the regulations. There seemed to be a clear payoff between how far they could run in a day and how much time they spent at home. In that context, I wanted to raise the subject of Scrabble, and cheating on their wives, but before I could, they decided they were going off to the "Titty Bar", which I supposed to be some Gilbert and Sullivan themed pub.

I myself took to heart that bit from The Sorcerer, and, despite not being a baronet or a KCB, or a Doctor of Divinity, I went home to bed respectably. The magic drink having manifested its power. It obviously, at least, got me back across the road safely.

Tuesday 6th April 2010 - Talk Radio

2010-04-07T17:07:00.001-07:00

I'm up and off at eight. New York is 1200 miles away, and I'm planning 3 or 4 days to get there. I have to get to Chicago for tonight. It's boring old interstate all the way, 94 down to Madison, Wisconsin, then 90 (or is it 39?) into Chicago.

Although there's nothing much to see on the interstates, Public Radio provides good company. It hardly ever goes out of range east of the Mississippi, so it's usually only a question of twiddling the dial to pick up the next transmitter.

Today's memorable programme was something like Women's Hour. They were plotting, as usual, to take over the world. I enjoyed myself with bits of ribaldry they couldn't hear. They weren't even approaching grown-up.

Later that night, I met a man who gives breathing exercises to racehorses. I didn't ask him how he did it, 'cos I was sure I wouldn't understand the answer. He not only claimed to have won the Kentucky Derby (not personally, you understand), he even offered me a hot tip for this year, which is only a month away.

Monday 5th April 2010 - Transportation Matters

2010-04-06T19:05:00.001-07:00

The local Rotary Club turned out to cheer me and offer a free lunch. It seems Minnesota is a hotbed of free lunches. A young lady from the Agricultural college gave us a talk about local farming. Garrison Keiller is constantly on the radio telling us that people around here are all mad. It's obviously because they farm in a climate like this.

I also, finally, plucked up the courage to stand my transportation people down, and broke the sad news to them about Rozzie's demise. They had been waiting to take him off my hands. They were pretty blase about it; and thought he was probably already back on the road in pirate colours. Somehow, that cheered me up. But there was a serious point: the write-off price the insurance company came up with proved quite conclusively what a good deal they had made for me in the first place. It's not often you get solid evidence of that.

Later that night, there was an Irish barmaid to take my leave of. She remembered I liked my glasses warmed. That gets her honorary grown-up status.

Easter Sunday 2010 - Multidimensional Miracles

2010-04-05T14:32:00.001-07:00

I was up early to get the final washing done. Those of you who like to keep abreast of the frontiers of science will be interested to hear that in the Maytag Small Collider at Eagan, Minnesota, the infamous blacksox particle has re-emerged into this universe. This was undoubtedly connected to the event horizon of the Chinese bamboo copy forcibly introduced last week.

My hosts concocted a thin and implausible tale about a fortieth wedding anniversary so that they might throw a party for me. It went on for most of the day. I restricted myself to regular American beer, so I (just about) managed to stay the course.

We played catchball (a segment of baseball) in the yard. I discovered that you wear a baseball mitt on the less dominant hand, so you can throw better. Catching, apparently, is easier than throwing. You could have fooled me.

Holy Saturday, 2010 - Rituals and Adoration

2010-04-04T10:12:00.001-07:00

Today is the ceremonial day for defiling my person with alcohol. I have to rise late for the ritual cleansing and dressing. Which has to finish just as the sun crosses the yardarm. (Do you get the feeling I've spent too much time on my own?)

The choice this year for the defiling, you will be unsurprised to discover, is the divine Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, out of Chico ,CA, although I do decide to drink it out of a Sam Adams glass. SNPA was really a "no brainer", because, at this crucial moment when my taste buds are fully rested and pointing like a doberman, SNPA allows two distinct tastings. It is bottle-conditioned, so I can pour half of it carefully and drink it bright, a l'anglais, then swirl the rest around and drink it, American-style, cloudy. They both have their merits, American being, as you would expect, a much stronger, drier taste. But I prefer the delicacy of the English style.

The only problem is that American real beer ("micro brews" they like to call it here) is fiercely strong, so, in no time at all, my taste buds are suitably anesthetised and tucked away for another year.

For the second-to-last part of the ritual, the traditional Cadbury's Creme Eggs are readily available. And you don't need to be told what the last part is.

Later that night a group of grown-up ladies was assembled to listen adoringly to my stories.

Friday 2nd April 2010 - All Ship-shape and Bristol Cream

2010-04-04T09:10:00.001-07:00

It's the day to get my Easter rituals organised. In particular, I have to find a religious supplies shop to get some stocks of altar beer. This is no trivial task in the United States. The liquor store has more choices in beer than it does in french wine. Actually, the beer aisle is not unlike the breakfast cereal aisle in a supermarket. I feel like a small child in a candy store: there is exquisite agony in making the choice. In fact, it takes me all of an hour.

When I finally choose, and get to the check-out, it finally occcurs to me that other people might like something as well. So, as they say in the Ozzie beer adverts, I throw in a bottle of sherry "for the sheilas".

With alles now in ordnung, I can turn my attention, finally, da-dada-da-dada-da - to the packing. After a week of background thinking, it falls into place smooth, as they say here, as a Clinton apology. I have my road bag, my "just in case" bag, and the big case divided into "wanted on voyage" and "not wanted on voyage".

And I've made a hatbox for my precious Stetsons.

Thursday 1st April 2010 - Ideas Above my Station

2010-04-02T17:05:00.001-07:00

Having trumped the Immigration Service yesterday, I felt my loins sufficiently girded to have another tilt at the Social Security Administration. Having one of their numbers in my possession will greatly facilitate closing out my bank accounts.

My last foray in that direction was way back in Montana, where a nice young lady had taken the trouble to find out how to give me a number, and was about to do the deed when we discovered I'd sent the essential document to Immigration. (I had noted the number, but, surprisingly for the SSA, they didn't want the number, they wanted the object.)

But now my documentation is complete, so I dropped into the local office. It was a small office, so, although they had the mandatory man-with-a-gun, he declined to look up my bottom (to be absolutely honest, he seemed a little surprised at the offer) He told me to take a number; from a little dispensing machine. This, I thought, is easier than I expected. But it turned out only to be a queueing number.

When I got to see the clerk, she was all brusque and business-like. I'm very sympathetic to social security staff. They sometimes have to deal with people who are sometimes very stressed. She looked at my documents. No, she couldn't help, I was the wrong status. So how was the young lady in Montana going to do it, eh? Quick as a flash, the clerk pointed out that she (Montana) hadn't seen the document. If she had, she'd have known I was (chorus) the wrong status.

She suggested I go and see the Internal Revenue, but that is a circle aound which I decline to go again. They never do anything to help, anyway, but they collect information as they do (or rather, don't do) it. My father told me to keep away from the IRS. He was always threatening to shoot them (well, not always, just on Saturday nights).

Still, I suppose it's better to have a government that doesn't know what it's doing: I don't think we'd like the alternative. I shall just have to stick to cash.

Wednesday 31st March 2010 - A Free Lunch

2010-04-01T13:02:00.001-07:00

I had to go up to town for a meeting with my legal team. I wanted to check everything was in order, and that I could have a slippery-smooth exit, with no falling foul of government bureaucrats. It is just as well I took the trouble, because there was, indeed, a severe flaw in my plans. But, with the proper professional advice, it was soon put to rights: my I979A now nestles in my passport in place of the I94, waiting to confound the aparachik. Another one in the eye for mere government.

By the way, I discovered, and it is not surprising with lawyers involved, that there is such a thing as a free lunch. Their ethics do not permit them to accept gifts from clients, so they had to buy lunch. It was in one of St Paul's finest old Italian restaurants, full of Godfather figures, cheeks stuffed with cotton wool, making that curious back-handed waving gesture. I suppose any (or, indeed, all) of them might nowadays have been Justice Department stooges, waiiting to pounce on an unethical lawyer.

I bet you didn't know there's a special rule that allows Lenten fasters to eat masses of Italian food in Holy Week in towns with a saint's name.

Tuesday 30th March 2010 - The Black Sox Scandal

2010-03-31T15:03:00.001-07:00

With some reluctance, I started stage one of the packing. After a year on the road, stage one is unpacking, the creation of chaos: hence the reluctance.

Some surprising things turned up: or rather, didn't. As I piled all the socks together, I noticed there were no black ones. Now why would I notice that? I wasn't looking for it. But black socks are an essential part of the QM2 dress code. I had them when I came in; where are they now? Obviously I put them in a sensible place: inside posh shoes; pockets of dress suits: unfortunately, none of the above.

It is well-known that washing machines are secret consumers of socks, but how could they have consumed the only pair of socks I never wore? Naturally, everything else was forgotten in an obsessive hunt for black socks: which steadfastly remained unfound. Perhaps, like the infamous Chicago White Sox of 1919, they have been banned from ever appearing again.

Having covered the floor in clothes, and invoked the intervention of many of the less-salubrious deities, I eventually pulled myself back from the brink before the men in white coats were summoned. Instead, I went round to the local supermarket, where the ever-reliable Chinese had stocked a whole shelf with dress black socks, made, apparently, from bamboo.

I also used the outing to take my dress shirt to the laundry. The laundry is in the same mall as the barber's, and the young lady here also demanded my phone number. I gave her a false one. She asked me if I wanted light-, medium-, or heavy-starch. I hadn't considered starch at all; I went for medium.

I also found a twenty-five-year-old Canadian two-dollar bill. I obviously brought my stock of old Canadian money in case I had to take a half-term break in Canada. Which reminded me that I had acquired a couple of US two-dollar bills on my travels: but they were nowhere to be found. They are probably among the things I mailed home from Montana and Missouri. I wonder if that's where the black socks went to?

Monday 29th March 2010 - Recidivism and Shopping

2010-03-30T10:25:00.001-07:00

It is a beautiful day, and fairly warm. Spring is most decidely sprung. Minneapolis is at the same latitude as Bordeaux, but, of course, a thousand miles from the ocean, so it can spring a few weather surprises.

There is a park opposite, and, in the American way, it is 18-20 square miles. Here you have to drive somewhere to go for a walk. But a short walk allows me to indulge a favourite childhood passion, throwing stones into ponds. I'm very civilised about it now, and only throw small pebbles, being careful not to disturb the wildlife: not when anyone is looking, anyway. When I was very small, I would drag the largest rocks I could, and nearly go in with them in the final heave. A bit of harmless recidivism is good for a chap.

Suitably fortified, I start to size up the packing problem. As well as the old camera and computer I lost in Philadelphia, I also lost, more importantly, it turns out now, the bag they were in. I'm fairly sure that, no matter how brutal I am at disposal, I will have to replace it.

So I took myself off to the local shopping mecca, a giant mall much like Bluewater. But where you might have expected them to call it "Blooomington Mall" or "Minneapolis Mall", or ,even in a frenzy of hubris "Minnesota Mall", they chose to call it "Mall of America": no hidding behind bushels there. The road signs tend, rather diffidently, to the more prosaic "MOA". They could open a cheap one for the lower classes and call it "MOAB" (that's a rather obscure biblical joke).

They claim people fly in to the nearby airport just to shop: from as far as Europe and Asia. Bluewater was pleased when it got a rail station. Typical parochialism: it should have been aiming for an airport.

To my way of thinking, it's just expensive shops and mooching children. I look at the immense, expensively-finished fabric of it, and wonder how all that could have been paid for. I managed to find a bag. But I couldn't find a pond to throw a rock in.

Sunday 28th March 2010 - Floods and Teenagers

2010-03-29T12:20:00.001-07:00

It is the time of year when the snow is melting, so the rivers get a sudden surge. The mighty Mississippi is well boxed in here, but the boxes, so to speak, are nearly full. The Minnesota, which flows into the Mississippi, has overflowed and now occupies its entire flood plain, looking like a large lake rather than a (relatively) small river. The trees on its banks can still be seen tracing its normal path.

This we see on our way to a teenage birthday party. I am one of the socially nervous, who can be readily persuaded that teenagers are capable of casual canibalism. I have been told that modern teenagers actually watch TV programmes where the characters regularly indulge these tastes. But, being a close cousin, however many times removed, may spare me such a fate, especially as I have had had the foresight to come bearing gifts.

As it turns out, I get treated like royalty, which means I get introduced to everybody all at once, with someone whispering names in my ear, than get sat in a corner among the favoured few, and only have to wave benignly from time-to-time.

The favoured few are mostly parents and grandparents. They have an inexhaustible supply of teenager war stories which are simultaneously hilarious and hair-raising. Like old soldiers, they vie with each other over the horrors they have survived. I discreetly keep a thick wedge of them between me and their teenagers: I could get the hang of this royalty stuff.

Later that night, I contemplate the passing of Palm Sunday. We're now into Holy Week, or the "home straight" as I think of it. I can now start edging discretely towards the nearest bar.

Saturday 27th March 2010 - Doing the Foul Deed

2010-03-28T10:01:00.001-07:00

There is good news: nettles have been seized, diems carpe'd, nails hit accurately, iron struck at suitable temperature, stitches saved, worms duly caught; trunks emptied: well, whole cars, actually

There are, of course, drawbacks. It's a good job it's Lent. Getting up in the night now would likely involve the stubbing and stabbing of toes. Everything has been laid out for disposal or folding into transatlantic cases.

Which is exhausting enough for one day. So it's off to the malt shop for traditional American fare. Americans of my age hanker after juke-box-fuls of sixties music and Horlicks with their dinner. They probably also think wistfully of the recreational drug use and casual sex they missed out on at the time.

"Malt shops" sell 'malts', a milkshake made with ice cream and malted milk, a baby food invented by a London Pharmacist come to Wisconsin, one James Horlick. As an accompaniment to hamburger, it lacks the biting piquance of a rough claret, but Americans have chosen to try to prevent their children drinking by setting this sort of example. Europeans do the opposite. Of course, neither works, as the children, in their turn, miss out on their generation's recreational drugs and casual sex.

Friday 26th March 2010 - Coming Clean

2010-03-27T10:26:00.001-07:00

Although it is still not too warm, the sun is shining on the twin cities, and there is a definite smell of spring in the air. In a few weeks, the Minnesota Twins will open their new stadium and play their first outdoor baseball at home for nearly thirty years. It is time time to cut myself out of my goose-greased underwear and wash out the nooks and cranies.

I should also indulge myself in a haircut. I got a trim last Autumn, somewhere in Ohio, I think: a backstreet, walk-in barber's shop, full of old men talking non-stop. This, of course, is 'big city', so I don't suppose I will find anything similar (not that they won't be there, I just won't know where)

I asked Google to find some, but ladies went to its barbershops, or its barbershops had gone to the dogs. So I got adventurous (it's spring!) and tried Yellow Pages. It gave me a measly three, and two of those were the same. It also, inexplicably, offered three "single-men dating agencies" in Kansas: possibly a bit of fine tuning needed on the search algorithm.

I tried the one which wasn't a repeat, or a dating agency. A bright young lady greeted me and asked what she could do for me. Why do people do that? I've walked into a barber's shop with six months of hair on my head; it's got to be obvious, hasn't it?. Anyway, I've no sooner confessed my intent than she asks for my phone number. Sadly, she was far from grown-up. But she did alright with the hair.

They also offered to trim my beard, but there's something a bit too 'Samson and Delilah' about that. Anyway, matching it up to the hair allows me to look lovingly at myself in the mirror for an hour. And I don'r even have to ask for my phone number.

25th March 2010 - Trouble with the Servants

2010-03-26T13:13:00.001-07:00

One of the servants is lying to me. Now we're no longer busy, I shall have to find camp drills for them, keep them out of trouble.

Dulcie suddenly volunteered the number 25361. Well, it wasn't volunteered, really. I asked the wrong question, and out it popped. Seems she's been keeping track of all our travels, unbeknown to me. And she claims it adds up to the aforementioned 25361. That's more than once round the world at the thickest bit, which seems a bit unlikely.

The trusty steeds disagree. I managed to extract a deathbed confession from Rozzie (RIP) and he coughed up (after a bit of arithmetic) 13793. Silver is currently boasting a youthful and vigorous 5517. Which adds up to 19490. That seems a bit more plausible. I know that the steeds can generally be a bit optimistic, maybe as much as ten per cent if I don't air them properly, but twenty-five per cent seems a bit high.

Dulcie is supposed to be the deadly accurate one, so what has she been up to while I'm not there? Was she off on moonlit hayrides? Dallying with other travellers while I was furthering my librarian studies? Were her virginal wrappings a mere family deception when we first met? I have written to her family demanding an explanation.

Wednesday 24th March 2010 - Posting a Letter

2010-03-25T14:30:00.001-07:00

The trunk remains darkly closed.

I found some displacement activity, although it turned out to displace more than I expected.

I had to post a letter. I asked Google for the nearest Post Office. Of course, being Google, it showed me every post office in the universe, and left me to narrow things down a bit. The one I picked turned out to be the local sorting office. Dulcie did rather better, and found a real post office next door.

Where I was faced with a longish queue and an "APC" (Automated Postal Centre?). I really only wanted to get the correct stamp for whatever weight of letter I had, so, always game for new experience, I went for the ATC. Which promptly started an inquisition: of jesuitical proportions. For example, it wanted to know if my letter was "rigid". Well, depends, dunnit? I wouldn't have considered it "rigid", but the USPS might. The man waiting behind me had no doubt noticed I had one slim letter. He was becoming agitated. I was getting much more "experience" than I had bargained for, so I quietly admitted failure and joined the counter queue: quite a few places behind where I would have been if I gone straight there.

When I got to the counter, there was another inquisition. I was sending someone a stamped-addressed-envelope, so they could return something. The letter wasn't sealed, because, well, the stamped-addressed-envelope still needed its stamp, didn't it?. The counter clerk wanted to know if I was going to put anything else in the envelope. Well, I was, wasn't I? Jacques Tati would have done it much better. Everyone would have known to laugh. Instead of getting cross, like they did. Eventually, I lied my way out of trouble.

Later that night, I finished Cormac McCarthy's "The Road". It's very good.

Tuesday 23rd March 2010 - Dodging the Column

2010-03-25T13:20:00.001-07:00

When I cleared out Rozzie (RIP) last Christmas, I packed everything into bin liners and stuffed them into Silver's trunk. Eight months of just throwing things in the back, and sometimes clearing a space to sleep in had not got them in the best of order. And "AR" (After Rocinante"), I kind-of settled into hand luggage and minimum changing about. If I couldn't find something, I just did without it.

Now I have to clear up and put things in order, so I can carry everything on and off the ship. I have to peer into the dankness od Silver's trunk, and haul everything indoors to sort out. It's something I'm not at all keen to do. Probably because it will inevitably be done badly. Most people will say "just get on with it", but I have this feeling that the longer I leave it, the better it will be done when I do it.

Or maybe it's just because I'm not very good at it. I don't like doing things I'm not very good at. Or maybe it's the other way round. I've heard it said that the seccret of educating children is to try to spot what they're good at, and then help them do that.. I'm sure that's true. In the mean time, I'm spotting what I'm good at, and encouraging myself to do that, instead of what I have to do.

Monday 22nd March 2010 - I'll Fly Away

2010-03-23T12:42:00.000-07:00

The interstates certainly make the case for flying. At least when you fly, you can maintain an interest by reading. And it's safer.

I stopped at Portage, ostensibly for a coffee, but really just to see a small town. This is quite a good one, with a thriving centre. The snow has gone and the sun is out. And I feel a bit better.

Portage is where the French got off the Fox river, which runs into Lake Michigan at Green Bay, and onto the Wisconsin, which flows into the Mississippi. They had to 'portage' about two miles.

And, finally, I'm back in the Twin Cities. I've a bit of business to clear up here, then it's off to the Big Apple for some fun, before I entrust my person to the Cunard Company and the Atlantic.

Sunday 21st March 2010 - On the Julian Calender, That is

2010-03-23T12:22:00.001-07:00

I really am a city slicker at heart. Having spent nearly a year out in the boondocks, I've been in the suburbs of Chicago for about five minutes and already I know the train times to town and back. And where to find today's cheapest concert (it's free, actually).

This is important, because it's Bach's birthday: unless you happen to be Pope Gregory XIII, in which case you have to wait another 11 days. The Chicago Chamber Orchestra is doing the honours at 3pm. Union Pacific, in deference to the great man, have arranged a conveniently timed train there and (probably) back.

Knowing the nickname of this city, I wrap up well. When I arrive at the concert hall, there is a mob on the other side of Michigan Ave, being restrained by mounted policemen, shouting "you're not welcome here"(the mob, not the policemen). I went in to check if I needed to get a number, or anything like that, then came back out to see what they were shouting about. But they were gone. It couldn't have been Bach they were shouting about. Maybe it was me!

The concert was very enjoyable

[n1514]

But I do have to say their intonation was a bit iffy in places. (I think when you get a lot of lady fiddlers together, you need a conductor who's a bit of a bastard).

Back in Glen Ellyn, the Irish pub was doing boiled cabbage. That sounded "efnick" enough to excuse me salad on such a cold night.

Saturday 20th March 2010 - Back to the Frozen North

2010-03-21T17:14:00.001-07:00

I toyed with the notion of irritating Dulcie by taking US-6 or 20 to Chicago, just to hear her recalculating again, but I slept in late (it's the country air and the clean living) and there was a nice breakfast place next door, so I let her have her way. She excels herself by getting me onto two Interstates and a toll road all at the same time: not only does this road carry Interstates 80 and 90, it's also the Indiana Turnpike, and so is going to cost money. "Drive 170 miles", she says, and goes to sleep

It takes me all the way into the heart of Chicago. When we get onto urban highways, Dulcie really comes into her own: urban drivers are so impatient, but she wakes up and coaches me which lane to be in, and which turn is coming next. Which is a blessing, 'cos it started snowing the minute we hit town. It's still a bit too warm for it to settle on the roads, but the roofs and parks are covered. I can see all this from the highway, because the highway really is high. In fact, it's called the skyway. I wonder if I'll be marooned tomorrow.

I'm stopping in a suburb called Glen Ellyn (it might dispute the description), about 20 miles west of the lake shore. Dulcie takes me out the Eisenhower highway, then has to choose between Reagan and Roosevelt. She chooses Roosevelt, which surprises me, since (I must check this) I think Reagan may have been the only president who outspent Roosevelt (Reagan's road, of course, is a toll road).

Later that night, I went to Glen Ellyn town centre to suss out the bars. The very first one I find is an 'Irish' bar: I'm clearly back in the big city. A lady comes in and sits beside me (actually, it's the only free seat at the bar). She is clearly grown-up: she's sneaked out of confession for a couple of belters. She's also clearly Irish: she's totally unimpressed by my Lenten fast.

Friday 19th March 2010 - I've Saved the Worst Bit till the End

2010-03-20T14:29:00.001-07:00

Dulcie ushers me straight back onto the toll road. Women just love to spend money, don't they?

But these toll roads (not all the Interstates are toll roads) are not at all what I've been used to. Usually, every exit is preceded by a list of motels, gas stations, and restaurants. But the toll roads have their own 'service plazas', with their very own franchisees, so they're not about to advertise the competition. And there seems to be a sad lack of those 'meerkat' adverts which advised me everywhere else.

I'm so determined to hang on till I see a franchise restaurant I like that I nearly run out of gas. I have to turn off and do a ten mile detour to fill up. Still without any sign of a restaurant: perhaps the toll road owners have some control of the zoning laws. I finally give in to my stomach, and stop at a 'service plaza'. I justify it on the basis that this one is called "Clyde". But, in food terms, it sells only mortal sins, so I duly commit one.

And when I get to today's destination, Montpelier (although they now pronounce it in American), the trip turns out to have cost $14, rather more than crossing Chesapeake Bay.

Later that night, I drive south about 15 miles to a rather special 1950s diner, which cheered me up again. It's not far from US-6, which runs to Chicago. I wonder if that made Dulcie nervous.

Thursday 18th March 2010 - The Middle of the End: I-76 West to Pittsburgh

2010-03-19T16:19:00.001-07:00

The end is nigher! Having indulged myself with a coastal trek from Florida to Delaware, it's now time to turn west, back to base in Minesota, sort out a few bits and pieces before I head back to New York and the Queen Mary home.

Having irritated Dulcie for eleven months by keeping her away from the Interstates, it's now time to give her her head. She ushers me up state 41 and US-30 to get to I-76 as quick as possible. On US-30, otherwise known as the Lincoln Highway, I suddenly,and, I might add, unexpectedly, find myself in Paradise. You may be surprised to know that there are a number of motels, of varying quality, in Paradise, as though people didn't expect to stay long. I feel compelled to report that there didn't seem to be anything special about the place at all: sorry about that.

As soon as we hit I-76, Dulcie whoops out "continue for 146 miles", and promptly goes to sleep; I can see the attraction it has for her. What she doesn't say, and pretends not to notice, is that this Interstate is a Turnpike, the Pennsylvania Turnpike, whch means I'm going to have to pay. I pick up a ticket on the way in. There is no indication of how much it's going to cost.

I-76 takes us up through the Allegheny mountains, where we catch sight of snow again. I haven't seen snow since ... , well, since southern Alabama, actually. We also have to go through a few tunnels, one of which is half closed, and so has two-way traffic. I have to put up with those huge trucks hammering past in the other direction. Even going as slow as 50mph, I feel I'm going to get sucked into the slipstream.

But we get to the outskirts of Pittsburgh by late afternoon, without any mishaps.

Later that night, it turns out the motel has the best bar in the neighbourhood, so that was a bit of luck. I get to sit near a lady who may or may not have been grown up. She kept telling me that she graduated 'cum laude' from an 'Ivy League' school which she didn't identify, which wasn't very grown-up (the keeping telling me, I mean). But she was also a widow, which I'm sure must be grown-up. She also kept telling me she was a widow: now, why would she do that?

Wednesday 17th March 2010 - Saint Patrick's Day

2010-03-18T16:15:00.001-07:00

My wander up the east coast has brought me finally across my previous path, near Glasgow Delaware. Last time I was here, it was thick snow and freezing. Now it's sunny and warm. So I go out for a look about. One of the things I meant to do last time, but was prevented by the weather, was to visit the Amtrak coach repair yards. When I find them, it turns out it's just workshops, with no public presence, like tours or presentations. The guard is very helpful, and gives me an address in Philadelphia I can visit. It's alright for him to talk about going to Philly, he's got a gun.

But the trip is not wasted. Next door, I find another bit of Scottish heritage. There is a new development, which they've called St Andrew's. Almost all the street names are Scottish, although they do seem to be something of a golfer's view of Scotland. But they also have Robert Burns, and, puzzlingly, Keats, perhaps honoured for his homage (with the French pronunciation!) on his visit to Burn's grave. There's even a little town square, called Boswell Square, with a bronze plaque eulogising said Boswell ("still regarded by many as the greatest biographer in Western Literature", for example).

The piece-de-resistance, however, right in the centre of the development, is, would you believe, "Cardiff Way". The only explanation I can think of for this strange anomaly (apart from the ridiculous notion that people who could eulogise Boswell thought Cardiff was in Scotland) is that Cardiff Way comes to an abrupt end:

[n1504]

Perhaps there is going to be a twin development, with all the street names Welsh. Like "Glasgow", which we all know now is derived from Welsh Gaelic (or 'British', as it was then called)

Anyway, all that Scottish and Welsh diversion seemed a suitable way to spend St Patrick's day. Does anybody know what nationality St P. was? Was he Welsh as well?

Later that night, I sneaked out to parly with an ex-policeman who claimed to traffic in shoulder patches, to see if he could get one of my missing ones. He certainly talked the talk (his name was Patrick too, and he was festooned with shamrocks). I arranged for an intermediary to act as my agent, but I'm not going to hold my breath, as they say.

Tuesday 16th March 2010 - Crossing the Channel

2010-03-17T13:28:00.001-07:00

I'm staying right on US-13, called the Military Highway here in Norfolk. I'm going up through Delaware, to cross over my earlier path near Glasgow (can't leave them alone, eh?) before heading off west. Much to my surprise, I find the motel I stayed in last time is actually on 13, just where I want it, so Dulcie can have the day off.

US-13 actually sweeps out across the Chesapeake Bay, in an 18-mile Bridge-Tunnel combo.

[n1483]

It's mostly a low-level tresle bridge, with two mile-long tunnels and a high(ish) bridge. Including the approach roads, it's 23 miles long, so it's much-of-a-muchness with the tunnel between Britain and France. I wonder how the costs compare? This looks much cheaper, as well as being a lot easier to use. I wonder why this solution wasn't chosen. Could the desire for cross-border control have demanded all that extra engineering?

I knew I wouldn't be in Delaware when I got to the other side, but I half-expected Maryland. In fact, it's still Virginia, known as the "Eastern Shore". When we get to Maryland, it seems to have an "Eastern Shore" as well.

The weather remains fairly good for the whole journey, so I guess we're travelling behind all the rain the forecasts were warning us about.

Later that night, feeling like a rest, I settle down to watch some TV, but the volume of advertising again starts to irritate me. So I went down to the big cinema complex at Glasgow and watched "The Green Zone" instead. I was hoping for something like the Bourne films, so I was rather disappointed. I could have gone to the Digital-3D version of Alice in Wonderland instead, and I wish I had, if only to experience the technology.

Monday March 15th 2010 - The Helpful Bathplug

2010-03-16T15:48:00.001-07:00

I hadn't realised how helpful bathplugs, especially defective ones, can be. Only yesterday, one stripped me of my Roman Emperordom, and lo! today is the Ides of March: not a day anyone would want to disport themselves as a Roman Emperor.

I sneak out early, in my most plebian outfit, to get early to the car rental people. They are very helpful, and immediatley offer to accompany me to the tire-fixing place. The tire-fixing place are equally helpful, and take the wheel, allowing me to get back and sorted out, carefully avoiding any imperial displays. (The flat tire, by the way, had a doorkey (yale-type) stuck in it. I hope whoever lost it had to spend the night on the beach, and I hope it was cold.)

Then I just have to stop off to get the wheel changed, get everything back in the trunk, and it's off to Norfolk VA. The forecast was for rain, but, although it's pretty dull, all we get is a bit of drizzle now and again.

On a fleeting visit to downtown I happen upon yet another battleship. It being Norfolk, they've got it parked on the front lawn.

[n1470]

I guessed it would be called the Virginia, but that never got built. It is, in fact, the Wisconsin, which actually saw action in 1991, in the first Gulf War. I expect it's only here because they couldn't get it up the St Lawrence and across the Great Lakes. It also has a row of bars near it, which I tell Dulcie to remember for later investigation.

And that was quite enough tourism for one day.

Later that night, Dulcie whisked me back to the downtown bars. They actually turned out to be a kind of indoor mall of bars and restaurants, and after a bit of looking around ("Eat, Drink and Play", for example, turned out to presage a licensed video games parlour: whatever next?), I ended up in the local naked ladies bar with the rude name. It was fairly quiet, except for the naked ladies, who liked to whoop and shout a lot. The only other candidate was at the other end of the mall, where I started, and it was even quieter, with no naked ladies.

Sunday 14th March 2010 - A Monument to Lawyers

2010-03-15T13:55:00.001-07:00

We've moved to Daylight-Saving Time, so I've lost an hour. That turns out to be small beer, as a defective bathplug causes my whole Roman Empire to fall. The Emperor is too decadent to go and collect a bag of sand, so it serves him right. Still, without the opportunity to read several chapters in the bath, the hour is more than made up for.

But I waste some time dithering over whether to visit the Wright Brothers Memorial or the beach first. Since we're an hour ahead, it's the middle of the day before I decide. I got enough sun on the ferry, so I will take to the beach late. But when I actually see the light of day, it's quite cold and dull, and I have to get out my puff jacket again.

The Wright Brothers' Memorial Park is a testament to lawyers. The Wrights chose Kill Devil Hill not just because of the ocean winds and the slope: they were also interested in a soft, sandy landing: the hill was a giant sand dune. When the nation turned it into a national monument, the lawyers drew up a map, with coordinates to delineate the place. The dune, undaunted by mere lawyers, upped and started to move out of their park.

Now you and I might have extended the park, and organised options for the future, but the government planted trees and grass to stabilise it. The sort of place the Wright Brothers would have avoided; it now looks nothing like what they needed.

[n1416]

But, to the government, it happened 'here'.

The last time I was here was around thirty years ago. My memory tells me there were other huge dunes about, with people using exactly the properties the Wrights used, for hang-gliding. It's all developed now. If you tried hang gliding, you'd end up in someone's front room. There's even an airfield, with a tarmac runway, in the Memorial park.

When I got to the beach, there were still some surfers out

[n1461]

but the weather was closing in, and they cleared up and left. Pretty soon it all looked as desolate as it must have in the Wright Brothers time

[n1463]

and, well wrapped up, I enjoyed a quiet walk, with the place to myself.

Saturday 13th March 2010 - My Companions Let Me Down

2010-03-14T15:33:00.001-07:00

Dulcie is obviously getting frustrated in the absence of Interstates: she played one of her pranks on me this morning. I asked her last night how long it would take to get to the ferry, and she said two hours and forty minutes (well, actually, she's a bit like Data in StarTrek, she said 2h38m). So I allowed myself three hours, and even then, got started fifteen minutes early.

After a few miles, when I'd got clear of Wilmington, I noticed she was calmly forecasting our arrival 20 minutes after the gate closed. So I did some mental arithmetic and worked out I had to exceed the speed limit by about 5 to 10%. So I did. But it means having to concentrate much more, and look out for patrol cars, some of which are unmarked hereabouts. I'm fortunate to be able to follow a sheriff's deputy for a fair bit of the way, and he's doing what I'm doing. Unfortunately, after quite a while, he comes up behind another driver, who then has no option but to drop a bit below the limit. I just have to take that on the chin. But we're getting close, and it's becoming clear that Dulcie's been lying. I interrogate her carefully, and it turns out she's added the ferry route to the time calculation, but not at ferry speed (I'd have noticed that). When we got to the terminal, her advice was "board ferry", so she knew. If I'd got a speeding ticket, I'd have made her pay.

The Ocracoke ferry is called the Silver Lake. The journey takes about two-and-a-half hours (it's slightly further than Dover-Calais), and the weather is so clear I'm worried about sunburn.

To get from Ocracoke to Hatteras there is a 20-minute free ferry which runs every hour. As I come in sight of the terminal, the attendant starts to wave furiously. I manage to race straight on, and it promptly leaves. It's still lovely and sunny. This is an ocean inlet, and I reckon, technically, we get into the Atlantic, 'cos the water changes abruptly from brown to blue. I can see ocean breakers in the inlet.

And, as if on cue, a dense sea fog descends. I hope they have radar. They certainly have a large horn. So does the ferry coming the other way. We get quite close, because the channel, which is marked, is really quite narrow. The markers are just too far apart to see ahead and astern at the same time. I expect they enjoy playing this little prank on the landlubbers: keeps the old adrenaline flowing. I'm reminded that this is the place where the British Navy got Blackbeard. I expect that's why the Coast Guard are lurking about in the fog.

[n1411]

It is a great relief to get back on solid ground. But there is a lot of sand and water on the ground. Either there's been a lot of rain, or the ocean has been invading. Negotiating these pools (negotiating? Hah! I'm just following the man in front) takes out one of Silver's tires. A rear tire: now how did that happen?

Unfortunately, I've just had a long phone conversation, and I'm out of battery. So I have to do a tire change myself. Actually, I'm sure that was much quicker than waiting for help, although two passing drivers, young and fit, stopped to see if I needed help. The spare is one of those 'donut' emergency tires, so I shall have to get a fix quite quickly, which is a nuisance, because I don't want to stop anywhere for too long. Needless to say, the rental company office is closed till Monday.

Later that night, I find myself in rather a posh bar, so I treate myself to a steak. It's not just the servants who can misbehave!

Friday 12th March 2010 - Planning, and its Effects

2010-03-13T17:55:00.000-08:00

Because this wander up the East Coast is so indulgent, it's difficult to choose where to go to next. I've spent so much time knowing exactly where I'm going next, and what I was going to do when I get there.

I've been thinking vaguely of stopping next at Norfolk, but, looking at possible routes, I occurs to me that I can go part of the way up the Carolina Outer Banks, which would allow me to re-visit Kill Devil Hills, where the Wright Brothers made their first powered flight.

Their is a ferry at a nice civilised hour, but when I go to book it, the dark forces of the universe have intervened and broken the boat. So I'm faced with the choice of getting there too late, or starting off before seven, or going the long way by road. I check with Dulcie how long she thinks it will take, and book on the early one.

Later that night, I'm invited to see a Tiffany lamp which came from a grand old house in Glasgow, Missouri.

[n1373]

The viewing included Wahoo (a game fish, somewhat like a barracuda, prized for it's delicious white flesh) for dinner, and a hootenanny for afters, so it was a very pleasant evening, although it had to be curtailed because of my early start.

Thursday 11th March 2010 - A Lesson in Misplaced Loyalty

2010-03-12T10:45:00.001-08:00

I have fallen in with the Wilmington Old Bottle Club. They're off on a spree this morning, and I'm, as ever, keen to join in. Unfortunately, it turns out they're interested in the bottles, and not their contents. I have got myself into one of those agonising situations where people hand me fragile obects to admire, and the room turns into a garden shed of obstacles and hard edges. I simply can't believe what these things are worth, but they're clearly very old, and I don't want to be the one who breaks them.

With some hilarity, I'm then dragged off for a lesson in an obscure bit of Scottish history. It's about the Battle of Moore's Creek, which took place here just before the Revolutionary War/ of Independence. I'm distraught to discover the Scots formed up on the English, or 'Loyalist' side, apparently because they had promised to, in return for land and tax holidays. They were massacred in a battle lasting about three minutes, providing a public relations triumph for the American, or 'Patriot' side.

It's not so much that the Patriots were better organised, and more cunning, although they were. It's more that the Scots were led by donkeys (it's happened a few more times since). They didn't so much walk into a trap as charge into it.

[n1369]

It was, apparently, the last broadsword charge in history. Not only did they not see any of the warning signs, they didn't even look. The commanding general was called Donald Macdonald. Perhaps his entire troop were Campbells, and he was wreaking revenge. Can you believe that on the day of the battle he had the nerve to call in sick?

Later that night, after a brief sojourn at the Brewery, I'm invited to appear on Public Radio. The appearance turns out to be a word picture describing my enthusiastic approval of a "celtic" band from Raleigh called Barrowburn, performing 'live'.

[n1372]

In the modern world of media-savvy political protest, 'live' has a pretty technical definition, meaning recorded specially in front of an audience ( I nearly said "live audience", admitting of the possiblity that it might sometimes be done in front of a dead audience), rather than on a gramophone record. No doubt there will be some editing before it is aired, if only to make for a neat length. The word picture of me will surely end up on the cutting-room floor, since it was really only a bit of typical American over-enthusiastic hospitality.

Wednesday 10th March 2010 - Into North Carolina

2010-03-11T14:25:00.001-08:00

After nearly a year in the US, I finally asked, at breakfast this morning, for "tomato juice", as opposed to "tomatto juice" (I'm sure you're aware that Americans pronounce it correctly, or "regular", as they would say, aren't you).

Afterwards, Dulcie has no choice but to lead me onto US-17, but she managed to disguise it heavily at the beginning. She did display a bit of recidivism at Myrtle Beach, and had me on the bypass before I could gather myself. Momentary lack of concentration can cause serious problems on the road. But this didn't bother me too much: what I saw on the outskirts suggested that this was where Blackpool got most of its worst ideas form.

Today is Wilmington, and I'm not even going to pretend I want to look at old buildings. The promentory that Wilmington is on is Cape Fear. The name may have come from early explorers being trapped in the shoals created by the tidal turbulence, or it may be a corruption of Cape Fair. Whatever the reason, Wilmington is another big port. It is the home of the battleship USS North Carolina.

Later that night, I repaired to the Front Street Brewery, a bar with a brewery in it, inside a glass room. And eight different brews on offer, varying in strength from 4.8 to 9.1. But I can't tell you what they were like. I wouldn't have been able to tell you about the 9.1 anyway: that's much too strong for beer.

Tuesday 9th March 2010 - Tourist Encounters

2010-03-10T16:00:00.001-08:00

So it's up and off to Charleston, which is still in South Carolina. We stay on US-17, and, to my surprise, Dulcie happily concurs. US-17 runs along the coast, and, except for the huge concrete highway bridges (Americans just love concrete), it is, well, 'coastal'. In fact, it is popularly known as the lowcountry, conventionally spelled as one word. Dulcie steers me safely into the heart of downtown Charleston, where I stop for a tourist encounter of the first kind (that's observation): I go down to the battery and take a picture of Fort Sumter.

[n1358]

Fort Sumter is where the Civil War started. It's the black streak to the left of centre. The fuzzy lump to the right of centre is one of those huge container ships. Pretty soon I'm getting to a tourist encounter of the second kind (physical effect): it's putting me to sleep ( Hynek,who defined the alien encounter scale, specifically mentioned catelepsy as one of the defining effects).

I then go for the third kind, and try to make contact. I go into one of the downtown motels to ask their rates. This is a chain I recognise. It's one of the cheapest I've stayed in, in Pottstown PA. I almost lost the power of speech when they told me. I fled to the interstate to look for a motel nest.

The first intersection I come to has a 'meerkat' advert for one of my favourite breakfast places, and I suddenly remember I haven't eaten yet. As I turn off, I see an advert for the best of the cheap motels. So that all worked out nicely. Except their internet wouldn't work, nicely or other wise. But there is a chain bar across the road, and it usually has internet, so I pop over there. They don't, but the staff, conspiratorially, invite me to try to pick up one of the other hotels, and, after a few false starts, I do. (Smoking is permitted here, not just at the bar, but also in the restaurant, which is the first time I've encountered that.

This is the stuff I'm happy at: darkened taverns with strangers talking nonsense to each other, attempting to arrange close encounters of what is now called the seventh kind (have a guess!)

Perhaps I should just stick to the interstates. Except I'm going to Wilmington next, and the interstates don't go that way.

Later that night, I drove downtown for my kind of encounters. In the first bar, I was just about to sit at the bar whan this decidedly grown-up lady took the stool. If I'd been sitting on it, it would probably have been an encounter of the fourth kind (abduction). I told her to go have a seventh encounter with herself and left hurriedly.

The next bar I found was called the Blind Tiger. This, I found out when I was researching the whiskey gangs in Alabama, was a generic name for speakeasies during prohibition. The practice was to get the patrons to pay for entry to see some exotic animal (like a blind tiger) then provide the booze free. Whatever kind of encounter that is.

Monday 8th March 2010 - The Beginning of the End

2010-03-09T15:07:00.001-08:00

The weather is telling me I can no longer delay going north. I've decided I can make it to Savannah, Georgia today, up US-1 to Jacksonville, then following the coast on US-17. North out of Daytona beach, there it is:

[n1351]

It says I've had my little holiday, and very enjoyable it was too, but this is the road home. This is wrapping things up, collecting my thoughts, preparing for re-entry. I need a demob suit, and counselling, but, as ever on this trip, I have to provide all that for myself.

In fact, fulfilling some perverse need to stay close to the Atlantic for a while, I'm not actually going to Savannah. I'm passing right through it, heading for a holiday resort called Hilton Head Island, where I've marked out a reasonably cheap motel.

It's an uneventful journey, except for the joy of ignoring Dulcie, whose Interstate obsession continues unabated. US-17 joins forces with I-95 for the trip through Savannah, allowing her a bit of relief, so I don't really get to see the place at all.

Later that night, I toddle off to look at the ocean again, but the journey had taken seven hours, which was way more than I expected. At these latitudes, night falls pretty abruptly, and the ocean is shrouded in darkness. I repair to the recommended bar (the recommendation came from the young man packing up the "tourist help" stand. He tells me it has "music and (here he gets excited) girls". I try to explain the concept of 'grown-up' but he happily tells me that's how he feels, because his lady-friend is all of 49. I tell him that's a very doubtful grown-up, and he looks confused). Once again, I'm confronted with a row of taps offering some of the best beers in America on draft, including no less than three from the wonderful Sweet Water Brewery in Atlanta, which I first encountered in Birmingham AL (that's me practicing some recall!). I enjoy the soda water instead. Well, I don't actually, but nevermind, eh?

Sunday 7th March 2010 - A Day of Rest

2010-03-08T19:04:00.001-08:00

Being a holiday Sunday, I sat about doing nothing. Well, actually, I had to keep getting up and moving about, 'cos yesterday's walking really had taken it's toll, and the old joints (well, "old joint" actually, since only one is involved) were (was) in danger of seizing-up.

Later that night, I felt fit enough to watch the "Oscars". But there really wasn't much point, 'cos I hadn't seen all the films: how can I tell whether they're getting it right or not if I haven't seen all the films? And none of the ladies fell out of their dresses, so it was a waste of time all round. There are better ways of wasting time.

Saturday 6th March 2010 - The Climax of Bike Week

2010-03-07T09:41:00.001-08:00

It's Bike Week in Daytona Beach. It's another beautiful day here, and Saturday is "Cruising on Main Street" day (nothing as organised as a parade for these guys). I can take great pleasure in cared-for mechanical objects, so I just had to go hang out.

I walked up-and-down Main Street, in and out of bars, enjoying the cameraderie and the machinery, till I could walk no further.

There were aged rockers

[n1278],

and aged bikes

[n1269]:

some, apparently, historic

[n1264];

lady bikers

[n1279],

some of whom might, just possibly, have been grown-up

[n1328],

and some who clearly weren't

[n1301].

There were helmets

[n1332] [n1322] [n1337] [n1348]

and a bemused cyclist, who had clearly misunderstood the event title (as I confess I did when I first heard it)

[n1344].

And, of course, the stars of the show, exquisitely customised bikes

[n1294],

and trikes

[n1326],

one with what must be the ultimate acccessory

[n1339] (by the way, as you can see from the propeller configuration, it's an autogyro, not a helicopter).

And some people who had just come on their motorbike

[n1346].

But all of it drowning in a shimmering sea of chrome

[n1316].

Later that night, once I'd uploaded, I just sat about enjoying the pictures. If you're a glutton for punishment, they're all at

http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=mvslavin&target=ALBUM&id=5445669545660236113&authkey=Gv1sRgCLP6lsmJmYLy5gE&invite=CIrTt5YM&feat=email , but be warned: there are about a hundred (one of the joys of digital photography is you can make as many attempts as you like at "getting the shot", and only have to worry about needing to stop to replace the battery).

Friday 5th March 2010 - Back to Nature

2010-03-06T17:10:00.001-08:00

After getting a few things up-to-date, it was off to the National Wildlife Preserve at Lake Windrush.
Ever since they took me into the Mojave in their 4-wheel drive to visit Glasgow California, I've been a big fan of the Park Rangers. When people denigrate government (which is a very popular sport here) I like to point out that there's another side to it. And so it proved today.
I was told it might be a bit cold for the 'gators to be out-and-about, but I was hardly into my stride (this was essentially a walk to catch up on all the walks I've been missing for the last 10 months) when one popped up about twenty yards away. Actually, it was just sunning itself, the 'popping'as just my perception. I controlled my instinct to flee (and my bowels) and got a picture. It was sunny enough to avoid camera-shake

[n1195]

After that acclimatisation the rangers went the whole hog (if you'll pardon the metaphor) and produced a big bull

[n1207]

I also got an Anhinga, a turtle, an armadillo, a great heron (I think), a big bird of prey (an osprey?), and flocks of egrets.

[n1209] [n1210] [n1216] [n1212] [n1203] [n1205]

And, as if that wasn't enough exercise to be going on with, it was of to Lyonia in the afternoon. Lyonia is part of the county library. It is reconsituted Florida Scrubland, and the home of scrub jays. These are native to the Florida peninsula, and not found anywhere else. There are large and emphatic instructions not to feed them, but it is clear from their demeanor that they expect something, so the instructions must be being ignored.

When we disappointed them, one of them tried to eat me

[IMG_2248]

Thank goodness it wasn't an alligator. I hope I don't get ornithosis.

After another long trek, we repaired to the library cafeteria for a well-earned glass of water. After 10 months of practically no walking at all, today seemed to consist entirely of walking. I shall be stiff tomorrow.

Thursday 4th March 2010 - A Bit of the West Indies

2010-03-05T07:21:00.001-08:00

It being Bikers' Week, the the Daytona Beach News-Journal has a large coloured picture on the front page of, em, "Coleslaw Wrestling". I suppose if I was the editor, I would have been unable to resist the temptation either. The fourth place went to a grandmother from Virginia. But she was only 42. It's not just newspaper editors: even grandmothers aren't grown-up during Bikers' Week.

Then it's off for some sightseeing. There's a warm spring close by which attracts West Indian manatees at this time of year. They're mammals, a bit like big (sometimes really big) fat seals. They normally live in the river, but this spring delivers millions of gallons of warm water every day. There is a Southern-Romantic backdrop of Live Oaks festooned with Spanish Moss.

[n1162]

Like me, they just want to hang about in the sun.

I also found the Fountain of Youth (don't tell the grown-up ladies!).

[n1187]

That Spanish ponce came here looking for it. Of course, it's a big tourist attraction, so every town in Florida has one.

During the afternoon, I'm priveleged to witness some commercial transactions at the local tire depot. The tire man is unable just to sell tires, he has to explain all the options, and why he would choose what he wants the customer to choose. I was sold. I nearly bought a set, and I don't even have a car.

Later that night, NASA, who live just down the road, called to say they were going to let of some fireworks in my honour. It was really only one great big rocket

[n1192]

but they had put a weather satellite on top of it. I expect all the Floridians watching were hoping this would appease the gods and bring some warmer weather (to my amazement, they think it's cold here).

Wednesday 3rd March 2010 - No More Glasgows

2010-03-04T19:37:00.001-08:00

So that's it! I've done my 20 Glasgows. Now for a bit of a holiday. I'm off to the Atlantic.

Heading across the Florida panhandle to the coast, Dulcie elects to use I-10, and I choose US-90. We bicker about it the whole way. I finally fall silent and enjoy the scenery, but she nags relentlessly at every junction, maintaining, all the time, an icy calm. 90 runs right onto US-1 at the coast, so I reckon I don't need her help anyway. My aim is to take 1 down to St Augustine (emphasis on the last syllable, which rhymes with "bean"), then onto Florida A1A which runs right down the Atlantic coast (Did I mention I was going to the International Speedway at Daytona Beach for my hols?).

It turns out I'm really quite anxious to see the ocean, 'cos I get quite miffed when I can't. This being America, prime real estate with ocean views is not free, and has been sold off for big houses, condos and hotels. After quite a long way, I do eventually get a glimpse:

[n1148]

and somehow I'm filled with relief.

Dulcie is now determined on I-95, and is issuing directions coldly, calmly and relentlessly. I'm beginning to enjoy ignoring her. Could this be what freedom is about?

It's not as warm as yesterday, but, inside the car, it looks like a beautiful Summer's day. Being 20-odd degrees south of where I usually am, the sun is actually at the mid-summer height I'm used to.

It's Biker Week in Daytona Beach, and soon I am joined by swarms of motorbikes, some of astonishingly exotic design. When I finally turn inland on US-92, I can hardly see the road for bikes. In fact, as I pass the International Speedway, the sun is starting to get low, and I can hardly see anything at all for flashing chrome.

Later that night, I fell straight into bed, exhausted. Because of the route, and the beautiful day, I forgot to stop (except, of course, for traffic signals). And Dulcie's constant barracking was quite tiring too: if I'd got lost, I'd never have heard the end of it.

Tuesday 2nd March 2010 - Way Back Then in the Land of Cotton

2010-03-04T19:06:00.001-08:00

I was going to miss out the Courthouse, because everything was already fairly clear. But who am I to deny the fair grown-up ladies of Butler County Clerk's office their right to gaze upon my person? So it was one final trip up 319 to Thomasville.

To begin with, I couldn't make head nor tail of the computer Deed index. But a grown-up gentleman took the trouble to help, and it soon became clear (because he told me) that this index only went back to 1985. So it was looking through that awful writing again, for possible names. I made a few guesses at what might be interesting names, but never found anything. I found the map laying out the present plantation, and found some deed references for neighbouring land, but they went cold in two hops. And since there was only a grown-up gentleman to help, I couldn't work up a lot of enthusiasm.

I did bump into an interesting story on a page facing something that might have been interesting but wasn't (if you follow me). Back in 1860, the widow of one Theoseus B Davis paid $2003 for a female negro slave (I didn't need to say negro, did I?) aged 22, and her two "Mulatto" children, a boy of 4 and a girl of 2, being sold as part of her husband's estate in open auction in front of the courthouse. Now what do you make of that? To keep it in context, I'm told a "prime field hand" cost around $1800 at that time. The price, at the very least, indicates the widow was bidding hard against somebody, and determined to win. Do you thing it possible that the widow knew the father? Do you think there was any deathbed plea? Who would bid that high against her: and why?

Later that night I fell in with a nest of Englishmen. They gather here because this bar shows English football on Sundays. They fell into discussing the finer points of the beer, just to test my resolve. Of course, I passed. One of them showed me some college senior-year essays he was marking. I don't know how typical they were, but they were, in both literacy and language terms, truly appalling.

Monday 1st March 2010 - Nothing New Under the Sun

2010-03-02T15:35:00.001-08:00

For the last two years or so, I have had a 'Google Alert' on the word "Glasgow". That means I've asked Google to tell me every time it gets a mention on the internet. I wonder, sometimes, if it's getting it right, but, in the end, I just have to accept what I get. (It's a bit like when Google says, after a search, "here are the first ten pages out of ten million": how are you ever going to know if that's true?)

Anyway, this morning one of the pages was entitled "Glasgow Middle School takes top honors at Louisiana Science and Engineering Fair" Oh, no! Louisiana! I have been relying on the United States Geological Survey's database, and, although it's all been fun, and I've had a real good time, this is not the moment to tell me I've missed one.

So I drop everything and get Google proper to find me this school. Which , I discover with great relief, is on Glasgow Avenue in Baton Rouge (the next avenue is called Edinburgh). I don't think I could have taken another Glasgow at this stage.

Today's mission is the Thomasville History Museum. The duty grown-up lady is poised behind the door as I arrive. She said they had been warned I was in town, and they had expected me on Saturday (I think I did tell her counterpart at the Genealogical Library that). I hope she hadn't spent the entire weekend there, her little heart fluttering like mad.

But there is nothing much new here (except a rather splendid Model-T Ford out in the garage, and, the house having been built by a lumber merchant, a very fine floor). There appear to be three standard texts on the history of Thomas County, by William Warren Rodgers, who was professor of history at Florida State, in Tallahassee. He is now, apparently, 80, and the grown-up lady is expecting him to visit next week.

When I came out of the museum, the bank told me it was 71degrees. So I thought a bit of tourism was in order. Thomasville, as well as claiming to be the "city of roses", also boasts an enormous oak tree.

[n1136]

It lives in a park donated by the lady who bought all the Glasgow farms. She also donated the house the museum is in: one of the planter aristocracy.

Later that night, the local bar is packed. I'm introduced to a Mancunian, an archeomotrist from Florida State. Roughly speaking, that's doing archeology by satellite. That's one way to avoid the perils that befell Indiana Jones.

I also met an English major, who promised to comment on the literary merits of my blog (and I volunteered for that while I was cold-stone sober).

Sunday 28th February 2010 - A Day of Rest

2010-03-01T15:47:00.001-08:00

I seem to have settled into Sunday being 'Roman Emperor' day. It is, as a Roman Emperor himself might say, a forteriori, a 'Roman Emperor' day today, because this inexpensive Tallahassee motel has provided (as standard, I hasten to add) a faux-marble whirlpool bath. After I have read a couple of chapters, sweated myself clean, and anointed those bits in need of anointing, I take a look at the day (this is the view out of the front door of my room, Live Oaks draped with Spanish Moss)

[n1121]

I drive downtown for a look about, but, as usual, I can't really find downtown, so I take a stroll in the local park. The local park, as well as the usual quota of sweating girls, is full of dog-walkers. Rather to my surprise, a very high proportion of the dogs are 'toy' sized: must be a local fashion. Perhaps they are being walked for geriatric snowbirds.

I find a heron, posing in a pond, trying to look like a 1960s table lamp

[n1117]

(that's not the blue water of the Caribbean: I forgot to switch the white balance back to 'daylight', and, of course, the heron had no patience for amateurs)

Then I repair to a local hostelry for a leisurely lunch. The Canadians are beating the USA at hockey. They're not too fussed here, they don't really understand hockey. Someone told me they used to have a minor hockey league down here, but it failed: they probably couldn't afford the ice.

Later that night, I tout my story round the bar. "Awesome", says one man, "awesome". Then he apologises for his vocabulary: "I've got two teenage kids", he says, by way of explanation.

Saturday 27th February 2010 - A Chink in America's Armour

2010-02-28T15:55:00.001-08:00

I was talking to someone the other night about rugby. I can't remember why, but he said he'd just seen "Invictus", at the local cinema. So I decided I would go. I think it's another one where there might be an Oscar at stake. The local cinema has found a way of packing the customers in: it charges $3 to see slightly older films.

The I had a strange experience on the way back. The radio was playing a tune, I think it must be called "Big Locomotive Number 99", and it whisked me straight back to a night at the Rockbridge Mountain Music Festival, near Glasgow VA. I think I last heard it in a jam session on the camp site in the dead of night, and I thought it might be the same group. But it wasn't. It was a really pleasant memory to recall.

Later that night, I did a pub crawl, just to look longingly at the beer pumps. A young lady came in, dressed in the uniform of the Chinese Army (sort-of, all khaki with red bits, and that funny hat). She was looking for a party, and was directed downstairs. We assumed it was a fancy-dress party, but then several other people turned up looking for the same party, and they were all dressed normally. There was much hilarity at the bar wondering if maybe she dressed like that all the time.

Some people were a bit disparaging about China. Despite having only had soda water, I had some fun pointing out that not only does China make everything they buy here, it lends them most of the money to buy it.

Friday 26th February 2010 - The Last Glasgow

2010-02-27T12:44:00.001-08:00

After a long and leisurely breakfast, it's off to the Thomasville Genealogical, History, and Fine Arts Library. The very name is teeming with grown-up ladies, and I check one out as I come through the door. Before I know where I am, there are so many old maps and books around me that I'm sneezing uncontrollably.

The maps, from 1908 to 1995, all show Glasgow.

[n1087]

Where the western states were divided up by townships and ranges, Georgia, one of the original 13 colonies, appears to have been divided into Land (and Military) Districts, which, in turn, were divided into lots. A settlement of Scots, Mc Millans, McIntoshes, McLeods and McKinnons, appear to have named this district Glasgow about 1826. And created a village in it also called Glasgow. That would put it pretty-well beyond doubt that it was named for Glasgow, Scotland. It was a significant village for quite a long time, and even had a Post Office, but it now exists only as a church and cemetery.

By the time of the, em, War between the States, Georgia, with a population of about one million, was 50% white, 50% slave. Presumably because here in South-West Georgia they were so near the Gulf, they feared invasion, so there was a "Glasgow Independent Home Guard" for (to quote the Thomasville Southern Enterprise of July 1861) "Home protection, to quell any servile insurrection (nudge, nudge), or to subdue any invading foe": so not quite the Home Guard that Captain Mainwaring would have recognised, then.

Later that night, daunted by the wonderful beer provision in the Texas Steakhouse, I opted for the the other salon on the corner. This is called "Steel City", and is themed as a Pittsburgh bar ( that's a bit like having a Wolverhampton-themed pub in Britain). It turns out to be an even greater Lenten test, since, among the thirteen draft beers they sell is, would you believe, London Pride. They also sell a long list of bottled beers, which is really the only way to get 'real' beer in the US. I get into a conversation with a man at the bar, and he insists on buying me my cola. With things like cola, you only get to buy one, and they keep topping it up.

The restrooms say "Yinz Galz" and Yinz Guyz" on the door. Apparently there is a Pittsburgh dialect, which is epitomised by this "yinz" (or"yunz"). Like the Glaswegian "youse", it is the plural of "you". The web sites which discuss Pittsburghese claim this is just like "y'all", which is used all across the south. If that's true, then there seems to have been a remarkable development, since people say "y'all come back now" to me, making it singular, and thus reintroducing the confusion it was designed to remove.

Thursday 25th February 2010 - Glasgow-by-the-Sea

2010-02-26T17:59:00.001-08:00

After making myself a good breakfast, I instruct Dulcie to take me to Glasgow. She only knows it by the GPS co-ordinates, so she drags me though a farmyard and up a dirt track. When I get to the designated spot, there is a fine new summer house/hunting lodge by a lake, but nothing else. And the road onwards looks like grass. Since I don't have four-wheel drive, and no cellphone signal, I drag Dulcie back to the main road, ignoring her 'recalculating', and at the very next junction

[n1060]

(I know what you're thinking, I thought it myself: "No, don't go in there, that sign's a fake. It's some deformed banjo player who wants to show you his organ.") In I went. It's another dirt road, with what can only be described as 'swamp' on either side. The water seems to be at the same level as the road. One more bucket of water and the road would be flooded.

There is a church, and a cemetery. But all the graves are less than 30 years old. (There is one for a McMillan, born 1936, and given the first name "German". Now what would be the purpose of that, do you suppose?) I drive on gingerly and find one rather fine house. The couple here belong to the family whose name appears on the next road, the one that led to the farmyard. They're very welcoming, and about my age. He tells me that it's a black church He thinks there used to be a white church there as well, and a store, but he's remembering from 50 or 60 years ago. There were lots of small farms, the sort "one man and a mule could manage, about 10 to 15 acres". The hunting lodge and the farm I passed through are now a large plantation, the "Mayhaw Plantation", which bought up all the small farms and turned them into quail habitat, for hunting. They have horses and don't want the road paved. He thinks he might be the last man in Georgia to live on a dirt road.

I go back round to the farmyard, which is the centre of the plantation, and find another local of my age, and he remembers much the same things. He adds that there was a McMillan family, which sounds promising, but he says they were black.

There is, apparently, a fine genealogical library at the county seat, Thomasville, which is only about 8 miles away. But it's a lovely sunny day, and I'm only an hour from the coast. Just in case the weather changes, I thought I'd take the rest of the day off and go to the seaside. I look at the map, and find a place called Panacea. Now who could resist that? Perhaps, more appropriately, there is a place called Lanark beside it.

And this is what it looked like

[n1071]

[n1072]

Eat your hearts out!

Wednesday 24th February 2010 - South of the Deep South

2010-02-25T19:13:00.001-08:00

So it's off again; in rather wet weather. Dulcie, to my surprise, takes me off the interstate at the first opportunity. In fact, she dragged me past the place where the aged rockers were playing the other night: perhaps they caught her eye.

Again, the 'emptiness' of the place catches my attention. But, as usual, the scenery can't hold my attention: I've discovered that the engine management computer will display what it considers to be the instantaneous MPG, and, since I get to use the cruise control quite a bit, I'm happily distracted by its confessions of inadequacy.

There is also the usual variety of place names: "Andalusia" and "McKenzie" on the same sign; Geneva and Elba; and the surprising "Ponce de Leon" (I just had to find out where this last one came from. The, eh , 'Ponce', was a Spanish Explorer, first Governor of Puerta Rico, who, it is said, came to Florida to look for the fountain of youth.). Just before PdeL, south of Samson, just before we left Alabama, I saw a small cotton field

Then Dulcie drags me back onto I-10, where a big Mack (that's a truck) tries to run me off it. With a bit better planning, I could have used US-90. As we cross the Appalachicola River, it's now Georgia to the north, and a sign reminds me we're back in eastern Time.

Then it's into Tallahassee, and Dulcie finds my hotel. I chose it because it was cheap, but is has studio flats with whirlpool baths.

Later that night, I find a drawback with the hotel: it's right across he road from a Texas steakhouse which not only has Sam Adams on draft, it also has the wonderful Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, and it serves them in Imperial pints: a Lenten test for me to pass.

Tuesday 23rd February 2010 - A Fond Farewell

2010-02-24T19:03:00.001-08:00

Today is Historical Society day at the Library. There are grown-up ladies as far as the eye can see. I had promised their leader I would attend and lay hands upon them, let them touch my garments, that sort of thing.

When the pleasantries are over, I let them run about for me, finding microfilm, setting up machines, leaning over me to point things out. It all seems to be grown-up lady heaven. It's nice to be useful.

The rest of the day is rather serious and boring. I'm moving on tomorrow, to, as it happens, the very last Glasgow, the one in Georgia near the Florida state line. So there is all the packing up, route checking, locating the motel nests.

Later that night, I find myself watching the local news. The bingo issue has caught fire again. I just knew, when I first saw it, that this story would run. The Governor is up to something, and has bussed in hundreds of supporters for a rally at the Capital. But the meeting is set-upon by mobs of enraged bingo players, mercilessly wielding their zimmer frames: it is clear that a lot of Bailey's has flowed down a lot of throats.

Monday 22nd February 2010 - Digging up Glasgows

2010-02-23T16:08:00.000-08:00

It's a lovely morning. It must be well into the 60s. Coat off and airconditioning on,I decide that, even if the directions are 50 years old, it's worth a try to find the Glasgow graveyard. I start by going much to far down the Mobile road. I expect I would find lots of cemeteries in Mobile. I remember from my student days that there was an awful lot of everything in Mobile.

I stop and consult the cemetery directions and a road map, and make some guesses at what might be called what now. And it kind-of works out. I figure out where the instructions must be starting, and count the distances. But it's clear the roads are not in the same place. They may not even be the same roads.

From where I end up, it's just possible that the place I'm being directed to, described as being "behind a house" is in fact behind the house of the Glasgow I met on the first day. But, since it's pretty doubtful it's the right place, and since hardly anything was visible 50 years ago, I don't feel I can knock on the door and ask if they've got anybody buried in the back garden.

But it's a lovely day, and I enjoyed a nice drive in the country. There seems to be quite a lot of forestry just south of Greenville. And, even on US 31, not much traffic at all.

Then I succumb to the lure of the library, and wander back there for a rest. I read a bit about the Civil War. Did you know that of all the American soldiers killed in battle, from, and including, the War of Independence till now, more than half died in the Civil War. On the Southern side, a quarter of all males between 20 and 40 died. It must have been the first industrial-scale war. It must mean to them what the First World War means to us.

Later that night I decide I want to see "Avatar" before the Oscars are announced. The cinema is just beyond the edge of town. There is a large development block, with the motels, including mine, on the town side, and Walmart on another side, with a huge empty space in the middle. The cinema, which, rather courageously, has called itself "The Edge", is on the far side.

I drove into an empty parking lot. I think I was the only customer (it is offering ten movies). The two members of staff were most attentive.

"Avatar" is very good. Sort-of "Star Wars" meets "Lord of the Rings". The story is the conquest of the American West. The good guys are really, really good, and the bad guys are really, really bad. I can't wait to see the 3-D IMAX version, which I should be able to do in two months.

As I left, I was still the only car in the parking lot. I thanked the staff and told them I wouldn't be needing them again tonight.

Sunday 21st February 2010 - Abstinence for Everybody

2010-02-22T14:31:00.001-08:00

It's difficult to be a full-scale roman emperor during lent, but I did manage the reading of several famous short stories in the bath. The most entertaining was "Thrawn Janet" by Robert Louis Stevenson, because he's written it in dialect (Doric, I think), and it only makes sense if you read it out loud. There is something very decadent about using endless supplies of someone else's hot water.

I decided that, it being Sunday, when Butler county forbids the sale of alcohol, that if I didn't go out for lunch, I wouldn't get to speak to anyone at all for the whole day. Eating out in America is fraught with risk for the dieter. Just reading a menu here can make you fat. Actually eating can make you, well, American. I find a salad item which can be modified. I issue complicated instructions about what must be left out altogether, and what can be delivered "on the side" for final checking, and manage to get a reasonable meal.

Then a woman rushes in and gets them to change the TV Channel urgently. Even although I was actually reading, my first instinct is to bristle at not being asked, but it turns out she wants to watch NASCAR, which I had forgotten was on, so that accounted for the rest of the afternoon. She is rather surprised at their quaint licensing laws, but contents herself with lemonade. I tell her that's got just as many calories as the booze, and she should try the local water (which, by the way, is so soft it's hard to get the soap off your hands). But she is American, and can't imagine having something plain (here they make the lemonade for you, right in front of your eyes).

Saturday 20th February 2010 - That's a Very Interesting Question

2010-02-21T18:01:00.001-08:00

It has been noted that all the land round this Glasgow appears to have changed hands between 1935 and 1997. But if you think about it, it's not really surprising. The first is at the end of the Great Depression, and the other is at the start of the madness which produced this latest recession. And there was a lot of history in between, especially in this part of the world.

I have never, during this trip, imagined myself as some academic historical researcher, not even at an amateur level. This was, and is, a pleasure trip, the main pleasure being in discovery. If I bring anything at all to the party, it's a modest gift for analysis. There will be no careful uncovering of fact through painstaking research, more a jumping to conclusions.

So, in that spirit, let's start by having a look at what most reasonably-educated people might know of both times. In 1935, that great socialist creation, the Tennessee Valley Authority was two years old. It had been brought into being to rescue Tennessee and Northern Alabama from a long period where the over-exploitation of the land was matched only by its under-husbandry. It is easy to guess that things were even worse here in Lower Alabama. It is easy to imagine that land-owners here had been waiting desparately for years, if not decades, to sell up and get out. Inheriting land here must have been like acquiring the proverbial White Elephant, not to mention the poisoned history on its back

Fast-forward to 1997, and we find ourselves in a world where, if the land itself was not valuable, betting on its value was valuable, and betting on the value of the betting slips was even more valuable. Remember also the farmer I met in West Tennessee, outraged that one of his neighbours had bought the land because doing nothing with it earned him $50 an acre.

Then there was the lady I met the other night whose husband was working nightshift in the Hyundai plant, who was proud to tell me that they had bought sixteen acres "and a pond". So, in 2010, Alabamians work in car factories in order to buy land for recreational purposes. That process must have been well under way fifteen years ago.

You'll have gathered from all this that I didn't really do anything today. I went down the library, and read a bit of history. But I only got as far as the aftermath of the Civil War. It was very depressing.

But black and white seem to get on quite amicably now, although I'm sure it's not that simple.

As a footnote, the weather here is like a summer's day in Britain. But it seems odd, because all the trees are bare. Of course, I'm now much nearer the equator that I've ever been before. In European terms, I'm now in Africa, if you see what I mean: somewhere about Marrakesh.

February 19th 2010 - Never Take Advice from Children

2010-02-20T18:14:00.001-08:00

I wake up with a wonderful idea. Since I'm interested in a store in 1866, and since they taxed and licenced just about everything, perhaps the old county tax records will show some payments. So I dally with the Tax Assessor, who is beautifully grown-up, and she takes me downstairs. Actually, she leaves me with a pile of ancient newspapers, while she goes off somewhere to look for the old records.

The newspapers go back to at least the 1880s, but I can't bring myself to touch them. Clearly they will crumble to bits. The next person to look through them will be the last. The Tax Assessor comes back and tells me there are too many things in front of the old records. I offer to do some moving, but she says I can't go in there. I wonder what was stacked in front of them: old Tax Assessors? old boyfriends?

The doyen of the grown-up ladies calls me and we arrange to meet at the library. This is a bit of a pity, because I had half-arranged to see the sheriff at the same time. She produces some of the books they keep locked away (these genealogists seem to be real light-fingered). They don't add very much, except to tell me where the Glasgows are buried. It's not in a churchyard, it's behind someone's house. The person who recorded it 50 years ago gives a laboured description of how to get there, and says that only two of the markers are still visible, so I reckon there's no point in trying to find it now. Interestingly, one of the markers visible in 1960 was Sue Glasgow, the land-gathering widow.

After which I rushed back to the courthouse, but the sheriff had gone.

Later that night, I went to a bar recommended by some youngsters the previous night. They had promised a good crowd, and country and western music. When I got there, they wanted $3 at the door "for the band". The bouncer couldn't give me change of ten, althought the bar was crowded, so I reckon it was a 'grown-up' tax.

It turned out to be a DJ playing loud pop of that doggerel-poetry variety

You know

The kind

Where they talk too fast

And it's

Just as well

'Cos it all sounds daft.

(Yes, I know it doesn't rhyme or scan. I was just trying to get into the spirit of it.)

I escape as quickly as I can, without my $3.

Thursday 18th February 2010 - Another Town, Another Courthouse

2010-02-19T12:20:00.001-08:00

The morning newspaper startles me into wakefulness headlining an incredible statistic:"8 out of 10 Americans released from Haitian Jail". Now I know the 8 out of 10 cat-owners prefer, what is it, kit-kat chocolate bars, but if the Haitians have been jailing hundreds of millions of Americans, no wonder there was an earthquake.

Today is courthouse day. Dulcie, who seems to know a limitless number of things I'm not interested in, professes not to know where it is, but she can't look out for spires like I can. It is a lovely sunny, springlike day. I wonder if shirtsleeves will be OK. A lady passes me in the parking lot:"bit nippy", she says by way of greeting. I'm struck dumb (well, no, I'm making that up, but she obviously operates on a different scale to me).

There is no plat map of Glasgow, which is no surprise, so after a bit of toing-and-froing between Tax and Probate, I have to settle down into trekking through deed books and all that terrible writing.

Butler County had its courthouse fire in 1853, so that's when records start. The place names book I found in the library tells me I want to start about 1866, so that's OK. Roughly speaking, the story I pick up is that Captain John Glasgow, a planter in 1860, has married, had a son, and died by 1870. His brother William has signed over all the property to him, and married. John's widow then goes on a buying spree (that's a bit of an exaggeration), buying anything which joins with what she's got. She gets mixed up with the Searcys, who are next door, sometimes buying jointly. She is not listed (these indices are all transcriptions) as being in Butler County in 1870, but William and family is. She dies in 1884, but John H Glasgow, who I presume is the son, is still dealing with the Searcys, and by 1890, in at least one deed, Searcy is described as being "of Glasgow, Butler County, Alabama".

My new regime requires a break for fluid in the middle of the day. I step across to the cafe. I'm in a part of the world where if you look towards a crosswalk, every vehicle stops 10 yards short of it. In the cafe I ask for tea and get a brown translucent plastic beaker full of iced liquid, which I assume is the mandatory water. The shock of the first mouthful tells me it is sweet, mental analysis tells me it's cold tea. So this is what people drink around here! I point out, pathetically, that I'm a Brit, and expected it hot, without sugar. They rummage about and find a teabag, and the coffee machine provides hot water. It, kind-of, does.

When I get back to the courthouse, a young man is talking to one of the clerks. Every sentence, however short, ends with "Ma'am". I've noticed when young people here talk to me, it's the same, with "Sir". I guess they still do manners here.

There is an interesting side issue here. There are a number of black (the records all say "coloured") Glasgows around. The only one I found still here is black. He lives on what used to be the "Searcy" Road, and is now the Davenport Road. He told me his daddy (or Grandaddy) was called Davenport. One of the black Glasgows, Irvine, in 1888, married Leona Davenport. I guess all that's connected.

Later that night, no longer being reliant on Silver's discrete coughing, I drive downtown (a couple of miles) to visit the single bar in town. It is almost empty, but the barmaid, probably because I asked for a soda, insists on 'carding' me. I retaliate by showing her a European driver's licence. My victory is short-lived: she can't find my date-of-birth, but neither can I.

Back at my local, the joint was finally jumping, with a group of good ole boys getting seriously tanked-up, and a lady whose husband was on night shift. She told me a lot about the Hyundai plant, where he works, and which employs about 3000 people directly, and Kia, just across the state line in Georgia, and Mercedes, up at Birmingham. She was cooking nicely, but, unfortunately, when I carded her, she came up seriously short in the 'grown-up' department.

Wednesday 17th February 2010 - There Must be a Grown-up Somewhere

2010-02-18T15:20:00.001-08:00

The Library here seems to be totally devoid of grown-up ladies. In fact, when I find the "Genealogy room" it is devoid of anyone at all. Apparently, they only work on Tuesday mornings, so I've just missed them. I will just have to manage on my own.

It doesn't look as though that's going to be too difficult. There is a 1935 map of the county on the wall, with Glasgow prominently marked. There is a 1997 Plat Directory (essentially a land ownership map) with Glasgow still prominently marked.

[n1023]

There's a newspaper cutting reporting a School picnic, datelined "Glasgow, August 31, 1897". There is an obituary for a Captain John Glasgow, who was captain of the local company of the 13th Alabama Regiment. He died at 39 after a "short illness" in 1867, not long after the war. His "relict", as the paper puts it, died in 1884.

There is a fascinating report in 1898 of a prisoner being escorted to Montgomery by Sheriff Shanks and Deputy John Glasgow for execution. There was also going to be an appeal to the Supreme Court (presumably of Alabama) and the newspaper assured us that the execution wouldn't take place till afterwards.

There is a 1905 advert for lumber and shingles, where customers are asked to phone George Searcy at Glasgow. And there is a touching report in 1924 of the death of John Glasgow, having returned to his "ancestral home", now owned by George Searcy.

The 1935 map has all the related land owned by the "Planters Mercantile Company". This will, no doubt, be a 'sharecropping' company. They fertilised and seeded the land, provisioned the farmer, and paid for the crop at the end of the season. They were a kind-of bank. If the crop went badly, the sharecropper would still be in debt. In the end, the company would take the land.

[n1015]

I can't find the most significant book on the county history, but, amazingly, an ole boy comes in and promptly trades me the phone number of the senior grown-up lady.

Tuesday 16th February 2010 - An Unexpected Sign

2010-02-17T19:58:00.001-08:00

I have to have a bit of a late start to catch up on things, but by the afternoon I'm ready to visit Glasgow and look for a few signs. But I'm out of luck. Not only are there no Glasgow signs, there aren't any signs for anywhere. Altogether a bit like wartime. If it wasn't for Dulcie, I'd be seriously worried.

But it's a lovely warm day. I even have the aircon on for the first time. So I wander about taking a look at the place. And suddenly I strike gold!

[n1009]

I just have to go in and ask. Yes, he knows this place is called Glasgow, but he doesn't think it's anything to do with him. Oh, come on, how can that be? What about your ancestors? (He's black, by the way, and this is southern Alabama, so the question is actually a bit implausible, unless ... ) No, he built this place about fifteen years ago. But his daddy and grandaddy lived about a mile up the road.

So it's not gold, after all. I will still have to force myself into the company of grown-up ladies for a few days.

Later that night, I skip out for a bit of Mardi Gras. The bar is filled by a sales team. Their leader is hitting on the manager. Well, to be honest, he's trying to sell her something. The youngest member of the team starts to make contact with the barmaid. They have some music in common. The barmaid turns out to be a student nurse, originally from Connecticut. The leader seems to take exception to not being the centre of attention. He decides it's time to go. The middle team member says gee, you can turn on a dime. But he insists. We're on Atlanta time, I have to call the wife, have to check my emails. I think he's just peeved, but maybe he thinks he's protecting his boys.

And then there was just me and the student nurse. And, it being Butler County, no draft beer. So, despite her being, as Alexander McCall-Smith puts it, "traditionally built", the Mardi turns out to be quite Maigre. Oh well, best not overdo it when there's no hair of the dog available till Easter.

Monday 15th February 2010 - Culture in the Deep South

2010-02-16T17:09:00.001-08:00

I got away to a quite early start. It's a beautiful sunny day all the way down I-65. When I remember to look around, the scenery really is quite distinctive, but somehow my mind always wanders off somewhere else: the linemen lopping trees, the truck numberplates, the price of gas at each junction. I think I'm truly not interested in scenery.

Anyway, Greenville, the seat of Butler County, where I'm headed now, is about 50 miles south of Montgomery. It's, I suppose, a biggish small town, with about 7000 inhabitants. When I get there, there are still a couple of surviving snowmen on front lawns. But there are no cheap local motels, so I have to tout about and bargain with the chains. I manage not too badly, mainly by persuading one that I'm working in the courthouse, which is kind-of true.

When I get settled in and go for a look about, I find a renovated art-deco movie theatre from the thirties in the middle of town. Tonight, for one night only, a touring theatre company is offering "Cabaret". How could I resist that. This is not the place for theatre criticism, but it was a talented production with a good small orchestra, in a fine theatre. Not what one expects in rural southern Alabama. When I said, later, where I'd been, they all said "Oh, you've been to the Broadway show". There was a bus and a truck parked out the back of the theatre. Apparently they've just done Birmingham and Montgomery, and after here, they're off to Mobile. I wonder how much these touring players and musicians enjoy themselves.

Later that night, I discovered a new beer, Leinenkugel, from Chippewa Falls in Wisconsin. They claim to have been in business since 1867. Wisconsin is a long way away, but they also have the splendid Shiner, from Texas. Unfortunately, this is another county with funny laws: the sale of draft beer is prohibited.

A young woman came in talking loudly on her cellphone. The hairs on the back of my neck told me I wasn't going to like her. She flopped down at the bar, and stretched her feet out on the bar stool next to me. Fortunately, I hadn't had quite enough beer. Then she spent the the next twenty minutes huffing and puffing at the phone, and complaining to any and all passing ears that her expletive-deleted husband had refused to come home for the weekend. I'm afraid I was on his side. I could tell I was not the only one.

Sunday 14th February 2010 - Marathons, Roman Emperors, and Texas

2010-02-16T10:45:00.001-08:00

This is President's Day Weekend. It used to be Washington's Birthday, but now it includes them all. I can't quite find out if Monday is a holiday. It seems to be for some. But some schools are cancelling it to catch up on the days missed because of snow.

Birmingham has a marathon today. Where I go for breakfast is one of the gathering points for spectators. This, no doubt, explains the black-tight convention last week. They do two laps, so it incorporates a half-marathon effortlessly. I wonder how many participants have an agonising 13th mile, wondering which event they are going to turn out to be in.

Having enjoyed the circus provided for my breakfast pleasure, I head back for serious roman emperor time. I settle back in my hot tub with the paper. This is a census year here. No doubt I will be compelled to play the tiniest part in it. I can't really complain. The US census is responsible for my entire career: the machines invented by Herman Hollerith to count the 1890 census created a set of companies which, in 1924, merged into IBM, which, forty years later, provided me with my first training in programming.

There are already projections about what the census will show. The newspaper has a long piece on population movements between the states. This affects the number of seats they have in congress. Alabama is going to hold its own, but the losers are going to be the North-East and the industrial Mid-West. The winners are the desert South-West and the sunshine South-East. But it looks like the big winner is going to be Texas.

One of my favourite Country and Western songs is "When I die I want to go to Texas" which I just love for its breathtaking arrogance. And my favourite film, "The Outlaw Josey Wales" is a (fairly faithful) adaptation of a book entitled "Gone to Texas".

"Gone to Texas" was written by a man called Forrest Carter, who wrote an even better book. [Perhaps, before you read on, you should read this wonderful book, which is quite short, especially if you enjoy what is now called 'creative non-fiction'.] The book is called "The Education of Little Tree". It caused quite a stir when it was published in paperback about six years after Carter's death in 1979.

It was (apparently) written as a memoir of a small boy brought up by his part-Scottish, part-Cherokee grandfather. Its success was due to the stir it created in what I will vulgarly call the 'ethnic industry' (I nearly, after so many years among the London Polyocracy, found myself saying "Effnick"). They should have been better educated. Carter took his first name from a Confederate general, Nathan Bedford Forrest, the first Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan.

It actually topped the New York Times non-fiction best seller's list in 1991. Then the venial press teased out the truth: it had been written by Hitler while on a Summer holiday in the Carolina Mountains. No, I made that up: it had been written by - I can hardly bear to tell you this - it had been written by the - you're not going to believe this - [Did you stop and read the book before you got to here?] - it was written by the man credited with giving George Wallace his famous catch phrase "segregation today, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever", the creator of a paramilitary splinter group of the KKK.

Imagine you're in the Louvre. Imagine there is a picture beside the Mona Lisa, showing the same enigmatic smile. Imagine being enchanted by it. Imagine asking the curator who painted this wonderful picture. Imagine he points you at the little plaque beside it, which says "Eva Braun, by A Hitler". Is it still enchanting? Are you horrified it could be juxtaposed with the Mona Lisa?

You're getting some idea of the what happened in America twenty years ago. The New York Times moved it to the 'fiction' list. We view the fiction-nonfiction divide rather differently now. I am compelled to say it was a good book, before the controversy and therefore still is.

Later that night, it was All-Star Basketball in the Dallas Cowboys' stadium, which is one of the engineering wonders of the world. Apparently there were 108,000 spectators, indoors.

Saturday 13th February 2010 - Quiet Day, Noisy Night

2010-02-14T12:05:00.001-08:00

The sun came out, and, again like Tam O'Shanter's moment, in a trice, the snow was gone: from everywhere, even the well-drained shadows; there was a heavy shower under every tree.

Because my motel appears to have no interest in fixing the WiFi link, I get to spend the day in this wonderful library. I don't really have any hares left to chase about this Glasgow, so I devote a peaceful afternoon to some story research (that really means wandering through the Web, seeing what inspiration it brings). So nothing repeatable here happened at all. Although, going home, there were a few snowmen surviving by the roadside, looking quite inexplicable.

Later that night, the rejuvenated Meryl Streep is back, fawning over me. I allow my imagination to run riot. It's a good job we can't see inside each other's heads, isn't it? On the outside, we pass the odd, polite pleasantry, but inside, passions seeth unfettered: she seeks diversion on the lemon -squeezing gym.

The local joke here is that, not only has Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama frozen over, since the Saints won the Superbowl, it's clear Hell has also frozen over.

Strange silences fall from time-to-time in the bar, and I realise that, behind me, they're watching the Luge at the Winter Olympics. This is a restricted sport, open only to certified lunatics of the first rank. They stick a large thumb tack up their bottom, and launch themselves down an ice gutter at a hundred miles an hour. Not all of them survive the experience, which is why there are these breathless silences, like heavyweight boxing or NASCAR racing. I expect the event organisers are pleased with the audience attraction ratings.

Towards the end of the evening, I get into an argument with a young(ish) man about the merits (or otherwise) of Joyces' "Ulysses" (the more prejudiced among you should remember where I am). He has the advantage of me, since he has (or claims to have) read the damned thing. But I manage a points victory by asserting that I have tried to read it more times than he has. I make a particularly adventurous point about, this being Alabama, Joyce may have particular attractions to inbred mutants, and ask him if he plays the banjo. He is generous, and allows age to triumph over knowledge.

Friday 12th February 2010 - You Call this Snow?

2010-02-13T12:33:00.000-08:00

We'd been promised snow overnight, but by breakfast there was none. This is more like the weather forecasts I'm used to, where the infamous butterfly wing in Venezuela moves the weather where it will. Anyway, by 9.30, it had started to snow lightly. The roads were too warm for it to lie, but it got a little heavier and went on for some hours.

The Library decided to close at one o'clock, grown-up ladies running about like Chicken Licken, as thought the sky was falling on them (which, I suppose, in a way, they thought it was). Of course, there are no stacks of road salt here, why would there be, and no equipment to spread it anyway. So everyone just has to go home and have fun.

From the sports news later, it does seem as though there is more snow here than there at the Winter Olympics in Vancouver. By teatime, it is settled where the ground is well-drained, and looking quite picturesque.

[n1001]

I couldn't resist that particular scene, since it seemed to embody the attitude of most Alabamians. The sign is one of those freeway signs (you can just see the freeway exit signs in the trees) and is a medical organisation touting for addict business.

Later that night, a barmaid, apropos of, it seemed, nothing at all, suddenly said, very loudly, "Me! I just want to go to bed". Now when a barmaid says that, you've just got to misunderstand it, haven't you? And the entire bar duly obliged. She retired, hurriedly, perhaps not to bed, but certainly in some confusion.

I'm off south on Monday morning, so I indulged in some emotional farewells with the weekday crowd. It was probably a combination of the strength of feeling and the strength of the beer. We managed to stop short of "Auld Lang Syne" and "Will Ye No Come Back Again".

Then it was carefully up the hill, since the roads are now frozen, and the snow is too deep on the verges, and, of course, it being America, there are no sidewalks.

Thursday 11th February 2010 - What's in a Name?

2010-02-12T12:25:00.001-08:00

Silver's livery stable called to ask me to check in and renew the monthly contract. When I get to their local branch, the staff don't quite know what to do, so the manager has to be summoned. She looks at the contract, and asks me what's going on. She thinks I've got a real good deal: the way she says it, I can tell she means it. It reminds me of what a good deal I got in return for puting Rozzie down.

Since I have to go to the library for contact with the virtual world, I have a scan round the Tutwiler Southern Heritage collection for bits of inspiration. My eyes light on a book about prohibition movements in Alabama at the turn of the (20th) century. And I think I might discover something about that mysterious phrase in Adamsville's local history book, the "Whiskey Gangs".

I think they must have been the "grassroots" of the liquor distributors and the politicians they owned. It was really about who could issue licences. "Local Option" was the liquor lobby's aim, since cities could (can) always be counted on to vote for boozing. The prohibitionists were out in a great alphabet soup of acronyms, including, of course, them women. The compromise position (the real pro oily politicians) was "Dispensaries", which was code for state monopoly (and therefore control), of liquor sales. You can see, and sympathise with, the inevitability of Prohibition only a decade later.

Later that night, I got into an argument about how you divide up the Irish. The likes of me do it on the basis of nominal, elected religion. She thought there were "black" and "red" Irish. Now I knew of "red" and "green" IRA. She thought catholics were "red" because she was a catholic, and had red hair (you can never tell what colour ladies hair really is, can you? Not unless you get really friendly, and the conversation was not heading in that direction). Anyway, as it turned out, her parents had named her after a tree. She said they claimed to have chosen between Karen and Stacey and: and they chose Myrtle.

Wednesday 10th February 2010 - Patchy Information

2010-02-11T10:25:00.001-08:00

Today's quest is to get my Police shoulder patch. But first, I have to get to the library to check my email. Actually, I just like sitting in this library, so I don't need much of an excuse.

Then it's off up 78 to Adamsville, to check who has jurisdiction in Glasgow. City Hall is sure it's not them. Yes, they know where I'm talking about, that road is, the rest isn't, must be Graysville. Graysville City Hall is sure it isn't them. Maybe it's neither, maybe it's just county. Anyway, says Graysville, we don't have a police department anymore, we're under the county sheriff now.

This is bad news. This is Jefferson County, and I already have one (or is it two?) Jefferson County Sheriff's patch from another state. So I decide I will check with the Adamsville Police Department before I go back to see the sheriff in Birmingham.

And they are sure. Yes, it's them. They want to see my passport, which is as it should be, but then they're pleased to oblige. The patch is rather grand, and has a representation of the American flag and eagle on it. It also has a sticker on the back saying it was made in China. One of the delights of America is that, really, nothing is sacred.

Later that night, on the WiFi crawl, I get caught up in some news stories. The Birmingham Post is exhorting its readers to support the removal of sales tax from groceries. They quote some interesting statistics, demonstrating the regressive nature of consumption taxes: the bottom 20% of earners earn, on average, $10,000 per year, and pay 10% of it in tax. The top 1% earn (if that's the right word) on average $1.2 million, and pay 4% of it in tax.

But the bingo plot is also thickening, and delivers up an interesting twist: the owner of the biggest casino is a MacGregor (not a Magruder, a MacGregor). And it's not really the social activity I'm familiar with at all. It's an electronic version, played on machines rather like fruit machines, allegedly networked. So it's just an old person's version of texting, with virtual, rather than real company. And they are all scrapping over the right to tax it.

Speaking of virtual company, Google, on which I am much dependent for storage and backup of my material, and this blog, and my email, has offered me its new social networking system, Buzz. I guess it's like Facebook, etc. It certainly has one characteristic in common with Facebook: I gave it a try, but I couldn't figure out what I was supposed to do. Anyway, I hear they're going out of fashion.

Tuesday 9th February 2010 - The Magruder of MacGregor

2010-02-10T09:31:00.001-08:00

I've been enjoying this splendid library for some time without realising that just round the corner from where I'm sitting is a painting of the man himself

[n0991]

He appears to have got to this neighbourhod in the 1880s as a young engineer with the Georgia Pacific Railroad. And he made good: really, really good. He ran mines (like the Murray Mine at Blossburg, near where Glasgow got laid out), built coke ovens, and ended up selling his Tutwiler Coke and Iron Company for a million or so.

The M in his name stood for Magruder, as you can see from the picture. Back then, the Magruders thought they were Macgregors in disguise. In 1916, E M was a Deputy Chief of the Clan Gregor Society in America. He wrote a piece for their newsletter, saying how wonderful his mother-in-law was (not typically Scottish, that!). She appears to have been a Magruder too, on her mothers side, tracing back to an original Maryland immigrant.

Their feeling that they were MacGregors revolves round the outlawing of the MacGregors, which they thought produced some name changes. Nearly everyone in the 1916 list of American Clan Gregor members is actually a Magruder, except for their honorary chief, the MacGregor of MacGregor, who was back in Scotland. Well, it being 1916, he was actually in France. I wonder if he came back: these Americans were quite generous in sending funds to look after wounded MacGregors.

Later that night, on the WiFi crawl, I met a man from Chicago. He was on his way to Florida, but had stopped near Memphis, Tennessee because of the snow. (We're not getting snow here, so I think I might just be far enough south.) He had a lot of dealings with what used to be a big Scottish bank, working in international real estate. We agreed that when the history of this receding recession comes to be written, at least one Scottish bank will have had a lot to answer for. So, having solved the problems of the world, and admired many of the local beers, we toddled happily home, forgetting only the prime purpose of our outing, which was to upload some photos.

Monday 8th February 2010 - Photo Addendum

2010-02-10T09:00:00.001-08:00

[n0988]

Here is the photo that should have appeared yesterday. The magic word appears on the second last line of the first block. You also have an opportunity to see the handwriting skills of someone who earned their living copying things in 1894. ]

[You do know you can click on these photos and that will take you to a site where you can enlarge them and scan about the details, don't you?]

Monday 8th February 2010 - With a Little Help

2010-02-09T10:19:00.001-08:00

My trip to the Art Gallery has borne some surprising fruit. One of the people who took me commented (you probably saw it) that I might have misunderstood the ownership note on the Glasgow map. They say that the Tutwilers were (are?) among the gentry round here, so they might have been the owners of Glasgow.

So it's off to the courthouse for another look. And closer inspection shows that the surveyor was called TH Tutwiler, and the "property of" says EM Tutwiler. So I go chasing EM through the deeds, and strike gold in no time at all. The first deed I look at has EM selling a lot to one Nash Jones, describing it as being in the "Town of Glasgow". The neigbourhood is full of people called Glasgow, and this Tutwiler decides to call his town Glasgow. Why would he do that?

This first lot was sold on the 27th April 1893. Interestingly, the Adamsville map was entered into the record on the 11th May 1893, and the Glasgow on on the 18th May, so they were running neck-and-neck. No doubt Adamsville won out because of where the railroad went. Tutwiler laid out a subdivision in Adamsville the previous October, and called it Glencoe, so he must have had some Scottish connection, even if it was only a marketting ploy. (By the way, the Adams who laid out Adamsville was called William Minus Adams, a name I've never encountered before. Oh, and he couldn't write.)

[I would show you a picture of the deed, but my cables are in all the wrong places. This lack of WiFi is going to cause me problems. I now have a set of pictures which exist only in the camera. If I don't get to load then up to the Google server soon, something will go wrong.]

Later that night, I'm out on my WiFi crawl, with Silver watching over me. In Ruby Tuesday's, the boys at the bar want to talk politics, but can't. I sense that it's because they know they can't use certain words: the language they learned at school is simply no longer used. So they settle into sports, and the general conclusion of the evening is that we would all do what Tiger Woods did, if we got the chance. Actually, they didn't say "chance", they said "good fortune". But I'm sure they only said it at all because there were no girls there.

I finish the WiFi crawl within walking distance of the motel, so I can abandon Silver if necessary. I have no sooner settled into my favourite beer when a grown-up lady policeman parks herself beside me and tells me walking is the only acceptable option: so much for Silver's discrete coughs. She is part of "Animal Welfare", which I think, in the old days, would have been called the "Dog Catcher". I examine her,em, shoulder patch closely, and notice it has the letters "RWH" written very small at the bottom. Sadly, she doesn't know what it means, but she phones a friend. "Return with Honour", she says. They've reduced their motto to an acronym.

Sunday 7th February 2010 - Who Dat?

2010-02-08T12:30:00.001-08:00

I start my Sunday morning looking for breakfast with WiFi. The pancake place is the best I can do, but it only has WiFi from Starbuck's next door (see, it is that kind of neighbourhood), and it just seems to be a gateway for other US broadband providers, so I need a logon, which I don't have. So it's going to have to be the library after all.

After my ablutions, and, I confess, a wistful passing look at the local bar, I'm off down town to their magnificent library. There's a good crowd waiting for it to open. They mostly look, I have to say, like they are in it for the warmth. All over the "mid-Atlantic east coast" they are opening shelters for people caught in the winter storms who have lost power. I wonder if it has ever occurred to them to open the libraries, give people something to do.

The WiFi is free and effective. I get to do my research, and send off the promised material. And I get the blog up-to-date.

Later that night, it's the Superbowl. For someone like me, who's not to keen on the sport, the adverts during the TV presentation are aa big thing. The news reports have been trailering them for weeks now. My winner was one of the Kia (Korean cars?) ads with Bret Favre (Minnesota Vikings elderly quarterback) winning the 2020 Superbowl (when he will be 152 years old) and confessing that he's going to retire because he's older than the coach. The were, of course, trying to highlight the longevity of their vehicles.

The New Oreans Saints won. They were generally reckoned, all week, to be the underdogs, so I was rooting for them. New Orleans parties every night (they say), so they will have to "superparty" for a while. The Saints have never been to to the Superbowl before (known, disparagingly as the "Aints"). Apparently the city, which has suffered much recently, is much cheered. They deserve a little bit. So we can all shout "Who dat", which is their cry, for a day, and think of their irrelevant good fortune.

"Who dat?" was a minstrel show catch phrase which encouraged a repeat response from the audience. Some black musicians later used it to invoke a simple riff from their audience. It gained common currency among American troops in the Second World War. Then it gradually got adopted by the fans of the Saints, as a long chant "Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say dey gunna beat dem Saints?" Now it is, apparently, to New Orleans, what "Show me" is to Missouri.

[I'm doing this in a bar (Ruby Tuesday's - remember the Rolling Stones?). Silver is working up to his second discreet cough]

[hide]

Saturday 6th February 2010 - Barmen Never Understand My Dreams

2010-02-07T14:56:00.001-08:00

As a result of my expeditions last night, I now have a good place for breakfast. It has an extensive and varied menu, bt everything comes with a pile of pancakes. I sat facing the window, and a constant stream of ladies in black tights came jogging by. It was so continuous at one point, I thought it might be the floor show, but I think it was just that kind of neighbourhood.

When my laptop got stolen in Philly, it wasn't much of a problem. I had been quite rigorous in uploading all my material every night to a Google server. So there was no way I could lose anything.

During breakfast, I got a call asking for some notes on some of my researches. I happily agreed, and understood there was a quite tight deadline. "Oh, yes, I can manage that". I had no sooner settled down to the task than the Motel network went down. So I was cut off from all my papers. Usually, this just involves rebooting the main router, but, of course, on this occasion, it was a more serious problem. By the time I had extracted a bit of honesty from the support line, it was really too late to go anywhere else.

I had noted that the wonderful library downtown opened on Sunday for a few hours (you don't see that very often) so I thought I might just mosey down there, take in some of the scenery, and still be able to deliver on time. If that doesn't work, I'm in a nest of motels, and it's usually possible to stop in a parking lot and pick up an unsecured signal.

Later that night, my favourite barman let me down. It being his night off, he had thoughtfully conjured up Meryl Streep to look after me. But he had either not listened to, or was unable to believe the "grown-up" bit, because she had been spectacularly rejuvenated. She was also obsessed with squeezing lemons. Whenever she had nothing else to do, she took to the lemon-squeezing machine like she was in the gym.

The Good People of Birmingham (which is a brewery) like to describe their beer as "hopshine", hoping to lend an air of historical illegality to it.

There is clearly something going on about bingo in Birmingham. There are court orders flying about, halls are shutting, and at least one sheriff is saying he will prevent state troopers from raiding halls in his county (sounds "wild west", doesn't it?). It will turn out, no doubt, to be about tax revenues. Which is, of course, making the natives restless. The Birmingham News has the "Poarch Band of Creek Indians", in the shape of the CEO of PCI (I wonder what that might stand for?) Gaming, telling us what their plans are.

Friday 5th February 2010 - A Flock of Wild Geese

2010-02-07T12:23:00.001-08:00

I like to do a bit of reading at breakfast. I think an American breakfast beats everything, and I treat it as my main meal of the day. So I like it to take quite a while.

The old boys like to talk a lot, and share their war stories. It's all quite lively and comfortable. Suddenly I realise it's all gone a bit quiet. There is the ubiquitous TV in the room, running silently on subtitles (or 'closed captioning' as they like to call it here). There is a ladies program, discussing breast enhancement. There was a lot of furtive watching going on. Of course, I ignored it completely, but, if you're interested, they concluded that it was best to be happy with what you've got. If they'd worked that out at the beginning, it would have saved a lot of embarrassment, certainly in the diner I was in.

I was in the courthouse for another day of deed -searching. These Glasgows obviously had a lot of land to buy and sell, but none of it was in the place I was looking for. There was the passing interest of discovering who was related to whom, and who could write, and who could not. The man who came to be an early mayor of Adamsville, and came to be remembered in local histories as the sainted local doctor, had several brothers who couldn't write.

But, eventually, I concluded that I was chasing wild geese.

So it was back to the library, to see if I could find the censuses for the period, and find any interesting names living where I wanted to look. But the censuses were computerized, and the library had elected to make them searchable by genealogists, people looking for names and ancestors. What I wanted to do was look at the documents and see if any place names popped up, or any interesting names in those places. After much trial and tribulation, of the kind only computer programs can provide, I found a way of twisting it's tail, so I could look at what I wanted. But I still couldn't find anything before my eyes had to rest again.

On the way out of town, there was an accident on the freeway, so a five-minute journey took an hour.

Later that night, I had no sooner go my mouth round a Sweetwater 420 than I was dragged off to an art gallery open evening on the other side of town. Some of the art was quite good, and I thought it would please them if I let them know my verdict. There were also some blues players, who, apparently, had never played together before, and they too were good.

The beer, however, did not come anywhere near the Sweetwater standard. The only good thing to be said of it was that it was free at the point of use. That, of course, is no small thing.

Thursday 4th February 2010 - Another Day in Court

2010-02-05T18:03:00.001-08:00

Today is courthouse day. I am well prepared: I know Birmingham is a big city, so I expect the artillery will want to look up my bottom. I even leave my trusty Swiss Army knife in the care of Silver. When I get in, the records are well hidden away, but I manage to worm my way in and get some free advice from the goodly supply of grown-up ladies.

They have those rather frightening shelving systems where, although there are lots of shelves, there is only one corridor in between them, and you have to roll them along till the corridor is beside the shelf you want. I'm pretty sure someone will jam me inside them and I'll never be seen again. I comfort myself with the thought that I will haunt the grown-up ladies mercilessly.

The map book contains a couple of "Glasgow Additions" to Adamsville, which is what I thought I wanted, but they are much too recent. In fact, Glasgow comes up as though it's not part of anywhere else at all.

[n0972]

Unfortunately, nobody lays claim to the land to which the map refers (the "property of" refers, I think, to the map).

There will no doubt be many deeds which refer to this map, but it does not refer to any of them. I guess that the sellers in such deeds will be Glasgows. The index to the deed books is computerised, so I spend the afternoon looking at computer copies of old indices. It's not very good, but I've done this before with microfilm, and this is much better. After a few hours, I have a good list of deed references to chase, and can hardly see.

It simply amazes me that something as important as copying land records could be done by people who wrote so badly. You'd think good handwriting ('copperplate') would be the basic job qualification, but it wasn't. Perhaps beggars couldn't be choosers.

Later that night, we are in the midst of the next winter storm. The weather forecasters have been predicting snow on the Atlantic coast as bad as I experienced in Delaware just before Christmas. But here it's just very heavy rain, and not even very cold. I think I will test out my new winter hat, which is in the care of Silver. But by the time I have walked the few steps across the parking lot, I realise that I will get very wet indeed if I walk. So Silver has to hover in the background once again, coughing discreetly when required.

Wednesday 3rd February 2010 - Birmingham City Library

2010-02-04T17:35:00.001-08:00

Silver whisks me downtown for breakfast beside the City Library. The breakfast is nothing to write home about, but it contains a ladleful of the mandatory 'grits', which is like semolina, only, em, grittier. The library, on the other hand, is quite something, and has a skybridge over to the Southern History Research Center, which is a substantial building in its own right.

The grown-up ladies here show just the sense of decorum you would expect in such a building. But books and newspaper clippings appear in short order. There is very little reference to Glasgow, but the references to Glasgow Hollow and Glasgow Hill suggest they were "coloured" parts of town.

I get seriously diverted into the arrrival of black miners in the area, and the strikes and strife that ran from 1894 to 1908. The Mineworkers Union seemed to be quite integrated, but, in the end, that was more of a hindrance than a help. In 1908, they ambushed a train, killing several "scabs" ("blackleg" didn't quite work here) in what was described at the time as the biggest battle since the Civil War (or "War Between the States" as they are inclined to call it here).

Some of the old township grid maps show Glasgow

[n0952]

but the maps of the original patents haven't uncovered any patentees for that bit. Some Glasgows held patents a short way away. It's a relief to be back in settler country, where the land is described with reference to a fixed grid of Townships and Ranges. When I get to find land deeds, it will be possible to work out where they are.

Later that night, my favourite bar introduces me to Georgia. They now have a draft beer called "Sweetwater 420". It's from Atlanta, and among the best I've tasted. They also produce a brown ale, which, appropriately, they call "Sweet Georgia". I didn't try it, but the label actually claims that it's as smooth as a Bill Clinton apology.

Tuesday 2nd February 2010 - A Sunny Day in Glasgow

2010-02-03T17:53:00.001-08:00

It's Groundhog Day today. What it comes down to is it's a sensible day to start Spring (or, for my Australian viewers, Autumn). The 21st of June is the Solstice, the day the Sun stops coming north, and starts going south again: it's sometimes called Midsummer's Day. So Summer would start about six or seven weeks before that, which would, in turn, be the end of Spring (or, as I said, maybe Autumn). So Spring would start thirteen weeks before that, which is now. It's all based on Pagan feast days.

Anyway, the Americans have come up with this rather quaint forecasting custom which involves what the groundhog does today. If it wakes up from hibernation, comes out of its hole, and sees its shadow, it goes back in and sleeps for another six weeks. If, on the other hand, it doesn't, it doesn't. Or, to put it another way, if you have to decide, without the aid of a groundhog: if it's sunny today, it's not going to get warm for six weeks. If it's not, it is. Of course, it's a very unreliable guide, but a good bit of fun.

It being sunny today (nudge, nudge), I head off for a first look at Glasgow, Jefferson County, Alabama. It is a small collection of houses, most not in the best of condition, a few actually derelect and abandoned. Even the cemetery is not in the condition I have come to expect of America. The church claims to be in Mount Olive. There is a faded sign advertising "Glassgow (sic) Hill Octoberfest".

[n0906]

But it has the classic American appearance of having been "laid out": The roads are in a grid, and some are still called "Ist Ave" and "1st Street".

When I cruise through Adamsville, on the other side of US 78, my eagle eye spots a library. It is suitably staffed with grown-up ladies, who not only scramble to attention, they get on the phone and scramble an auxiliary squadron as well. The library is suddenly full. Documents are being thrust at me from all sides.

It turns out that Adamsville was incorporated in 1901, and almost immediately fell into the hands of "the whiskey gangs" (whatever that might be). By 1914, the Mayor was demanding that it be unincorporated. And that Mayor was called Robert S Glasgow. It was incorporated once again in 1953, and the first mayor, would you believe, was Robert S Glasgow Jr. Somewhere or other, I saw the someone had bought some building lots from the elder Glasgow, so I'm going to hazard a guess he laid out a bit of town and it got called the "Glasgow Addition".

So I now have a thesis to test when I go to the courthouse tomorrow.

Later that night, I thought I would eat me some spare ribs. But I couldn't. First, they were too cold. Then, when I could actually try them, they appeared to have been left out for some days to dry out thoroughly. "Sorry", said the barman, "I'll take care of that". And he did: it was simply excised from the bill.

Monday 1st February 2010 - Sweet Home Alabama

2010-02-02T13:30:00.001-08:00

It's a beautiful day, and I'm off south on 55 to Lynchburg, where the Jack Daniels Factory is, and which, therefore, indirectly produces the flavour for a lot of Scotch. Then It's down 50 to Fayetteville, and straight south on 231 to Alabama. And, almost immediately, this strange thing happens, where the majority of license plates change to Alabama. Here they like to adorn their license plates with song titles, and, for the last couple of years, they have used a 1970s song, "Sweet Home Alabama".

As we reach Huntsville, a huge Saturn 5 Rocket rears up in front of us. Huntsville is the home of NASA's Marshall Space Flight Center, and boasts what looks like, in passing, a spectacular space museum. As we pass, there is a shuttle, although I couldn't read its name, and quite a few other rockets standing about. Then Dulcie steers us onto the interstate system, and, since it's such a beautiful day, I let her have her way.

Southern Tenessee and Northern Alabama are not exactly flat, but they are certainly 'lowlands'. On the other side of Huntsville, We get our first glimpse of the Tennessee River. Having turned it into a hydro-electric resource, it's really a series of long thin lakes here.

The snow, even on the north side of gravel mounds, has vanished, if it was ever here. When we get to Birmingham, the temperature has climbed to nearly 60 (15). We're now on the same latitude as Casablanca, so let's hope we've finally left the snow behind.

Later that night, I find a bar in walking distance which carries a fine selection of local brews on draft. Americans insist on calling these "Micro-brews" to distinguish them from the megalithic InBev, which owns most of the standard "domestic" brews. But few of them are small in any sense Brits would understand.

Sunday 31st JAnuary 2010 - An Explosive Joke

2010-02-01T17:09:00.001-08:00

I gave in and settled for a MacBigBreakfast. It was good enough.

But the ablutions were not. There was insufficient hot water to fill the bath, and an American bath at that. So Sunday did not get off to a good start. Although the almost cold shower afterwards was quite bracing.

The roads looked OK, but the pedestrian route looked quite challenging. It would likely be just too much on the way back; especially if my consumption was unconstrained. I decided Silver had to be pressed into service in the role of minder.

I had hardly settled in when a man came in, sat beside me, and ordered a Glenlivet on ice, with a slice of lime. The barman remarked on the presence of a Scotsman. I pointed out that taste was an aesthetic matter, not admitting of general rules. The man said he usually drank it straight, but he was on an errand, and this concoction slowed him down. He had a Scottish name, and confessed, rather wistfully, that he had never been to Scotland.

Someone across the bar recommended Irish whiskey. This turned out to be a surprisingly generous recommendation, since he had worked for Dell here until they upped stakes and went to Ireland, for the tax breaks and the cheaper labour.

He was now a maker of automatic weapons. I didn't quite know what to make of that. I guess governments will always buy them from somebody. He walked with the aid of a crutch, and had one foot wrapped up in one of those ski-boot-like things they use now instead of plaster. I tried to resist, but it was Sunday lunch in the bar, so I just had to ask him if he'd shot himself in the foot. He took it in good part. In fact, he'd driven his car into a tree, so he was lucky to be there at all.

I was holding forth about what a fun place Nashville was, when a young lady said she knew a bar in Nashville where they sold a terrific cocktail called an 'Irish Car Bomb". I told her I thought we were all against terrorism now, and that was an unkind thing to bring up when there was a Brit present.

She didn't quite understand. So I produced one of my 'Tam O'Shanter' moments. You may recall that, much the worse for the drink, Tam is spying on the warlocks and witches dancing in Alloway kirkyard, and is so excited by one of the dancers in a short dress, he cries out "... 'Weel done, Cutty Sark', And, in a moment, all was dark." I said to the young lady that calling it an Irish Car Bomb was a bit like calling it a "nine-eleven". The bar went very quiet.

I was thinking of elaborating the tale, Tam O'Shanter fashion, to have Silver getting his tail shot off by an irate crippled gunsmith as we fled the parking lot, pursued by angry natives, but they took it in good part, and were most hospitable. I expect, though, they'll remember what at least one Brit thought of making jokes about Irish Car Bombs.

Saturday 30th January 2010 - Eating Out

2010-01-31T18:21:00.001-08:00

I cruise up and down the main drag looking for a breakfast place. I spot a huge sign outside a restaurant saying "Brunch". So in I go. "Oh, we don't do Brunch anymore". "But it says it in large letters across the front". "Oh", (goes away) "OK, you can have brunch". As I wait, two men sneak hurriedly out of the kitchen and pull the sign down. So I guess they don't do brunch anymore.

The freeze is going to be bad again tonight, so I arrange to meet my Scottish Society friends early in town. I am determined to walk. It's about a mile and a half. It's a kind of bravado. If the power lines come down, I can make it to town on my own. Of course, there is no sidewalk, and the parking lots are, by now, treacherous.

Although I make good progress, I only get halfway before my friends appear beside me. Apparently the planned rendezvous is closed to let the staff get home safely. So we have to find somewhere else. I have a problem getting into their car, because the back door is frozen shut.

The big chain restaurants are still open, and doing good business. The waitress, who obviously works for Social Services, decides us "oldies" ought to pay the bill of the young family at the next table, as well as our own. We are mean, and, after some discussion, decline.

But it's home early, before the roads turn into an ice-rink.

Friday 29th January 2010 - A Mexican Standoff

2010-01-30T14:06:00.001-08:00

I get out of Nashville with the weather closing in fast. I'm heading for Tullahoma, on the Tennessee border, where I have a date. It clears a bit, but by Tullahoma it's snowing heavily again. There is no problem driving. It's down I-24 to Manchester (Manchester? How did Manchester get into it? Actually, I don't know why I'm saying that, the Glasgow I'm headed for seems to be a suburb of Birmingham), then Highway 55 to Tullahoma.

The motel is happy to accept me early. It's snowing heavily, but they have a bar and restaurant on the premises. Drawback is: it's a MEXICAN restaurant. I'm pretty tense. The young staff seem to be touching things all the time. In the case of the young men, mostly themselves. I suppose it's a latin thing (although I do have to say I never saw my latin master doing it).

The staff keep rushing up, asking me if I'm ready to eat. Little do they know! But when I'm ready for another drink, nobody notices.

In the end, I can't bring myself to eat. It will clearly be some time before the trauma of my last Mexican meal passes into history.

Later that night, in heavy rain, I meet up with some friends from the Glasgow, KY hogmanay party. The reason I'm stopping here is to read my favourite Burn's poem at their Scottish Society Burn's Birthday Celebration.

Unfortunately, the weather has won this round as well. I had fans flying in by the thousand, but the airport is closed, and the roads are not offering any guarantee against being snowed-in; the event is being postponed.

We have a quiet dinner in town, in a restaurant where they keep fairly good beer, and very good Scotch. The rain is making driving fairly safe, but if it stops and the ground freezes, it will be really treacherous. So it's home fairly early.

Thursday 28th January 2010 - My Annual Retail Therapy Session

2010-01-30T13:38:00.001-08:00

The buying of the hat must have tripped some primitive, Scottish 'it's January clothes are cheap' switch. For quite some time, I've been living in jeans. This prevents me standing out. Everybody in America wears jeans all the time. I wouldn't be surprised to discover they all wear denim pyjamas. Anyway, between jeans and tuxedo, I've got nothing to wear. In addition, at least one of my shirts is only fit for meeting people I'm never going to see again.

I ask Google to find me the nearest Macy's. That's kind-of code for a shopping mall. In fact, when I get there, it seems just to be Macy's. They've actually got valet (Americans use the French pronunciation) parking. Whatever gave them the idea I was going to spend that much?

Everything is, indeed, in a sale, some things nearly half-price. It doesn't take much to satisfy my mild retail lusts, so the event is soon over.

The gentleman's gentleman who has decided to help me through the event claims some Scottish ancestry. I don't point out to him that nearly everyone in America does: the Scots who came here originally must really have put it about quite a bit.

The afternoon is spent obsessively watching the Weather Channel. I'm moving on tomorrow, and what they call a 'winter storm' is approaching. American Weather is very predictable. They can see the extent of the storm, which is presently closing down bits of Texas and most of Oklahoma, and the direction it is travelling in. It's not so much a forecast as a description of the inevitable: only the timing is slightly open to question.

Apparently, these Winter Storms lay down a mass of snow in the middle, with heavy ice and rain on the periphery. Almost all American power transmission is overhead, so the weight of ice brings down lots of lines, and even poles. It must seem very malign to Americans: it not only freezes you, it cuts off your power as well.

Later that night, it's a fancy mid-town bar, with lots of dead furry and feathered things stuck to the walls. The service isn't very good, but the company is, which is what matters in a bar. Anyway, I'm from the UK, I have very low standards when it comes to service.

The place is showing its class by having golf on the TV. It is replays of some T. Woods matches. For months now, whenever I've seen any golf on TV it's usually been TW. I think the media and fans are going through some grieving process and have got to the denial stage.

One of the matches is from La Jolla, in California. There is a Californian present: "La Hoya" actually. No wonder the Spanish lost their empire, if they can't even spell.

Wednesday 27th January 2010 - An Unexpected Discovery

2010-01-28T10:38:00.001-08:00

The day starts bright and sunny. This is not a good thing in Nashville, since eyes and brain have to be brought up to speed slowly. As I adjust, I can see this is just the morning for a stroll along the Broadway to see the sights. I walk along to the Cumberland River, which is big and fast flowing, and I guess, must be the subect of "Roll on, Muddy River" (or what ever its actual title is).

I was diverted on the way back into a discount shop, and bought myself a winter hat. The current trend among country singers and their roadies and bouncers and the like is to wear massive black hats, so naturally I bought myself a small white one. I'm a dedicated anti-follower of fashion.

The Nashville and Davidson County Library now has its great bronze doors flung wide open. Although very grand and Victorian-looking, it appears to be almost new. It is very well-appointed, except for, inexplicably, an almost total absence of grown-up ladies. So, of course, I can't find anything, and nobody knows anything.

But I bump into one of my unexpected and unlikely facts. As I'm perusing the biography section, under "G", I find one for Ellen Glasgow, the writer. She is from the family after which Glasgow VA is named. As I thumb through it idly, I bump into a description of the ancestors who came to Virginia, and the surprising claim that they weren't called Glasgow originally, but Cameron. There being another family in the vicinity (Ulster, I think) called Cameron, they got to be the "Glasgow Camerons" because they came from Glasgow, and eventually accepted the obvious shortening. It cites references in the Ellen Glasgow papers for this. If it's true, then, indirectly, Glasgow VA was named for Glasgow Scotland.

Later that night, I decide on a turn around the more touristy bars on the Broadway. Kris Kristofferson is appearing at the Ryman, so the town is quite busy. I have now discovered that the system here is that the band play for tips, passing the hat round, so to speak, although it's usually a jar. Apparently this is a long tradition on the Broadway.

One of the bars is where the young people go to be seen. It has by far the loudest band, fully amplified, with an even louder off-beat drummer. I don't know how they get to be seen, since they're packed in like sardines.

I allow the young people to see me for as long as possible, until my ears start to make it clear that if I don't leave soon, they're going to leave without me.

Tuesday 26th January 2010 - A Bit of Peace and Quiet

2010-01-27T10:41:00.001-08:00

Venturing out in Nashville seems, inevitably, to be accompanied by a delicate start the following day. I don't think I'd like to have to work here. Except, of course, as a musician. Maybe that's how they do it: maybe they're all musicians.

The Nashville Fire Department sent an alarm call for me. American fire engines, as well as the usual lights and sirens, have a tug-boat horn which can be heard quite a long way away. They sent their entire fleet to the federal courthouse opposite:

[n0879]

quite a wake-up call.

I spent most of what was left of the day in the state archives. Such an oasis of peace is hard to believe in this riotous city. Perhaps that's why they have to close on Mondays; perhaps all the staff get together downtown and sing and dance and shout at each other for eight hours. Then they can put up with all this quiet for the rest of the week.

I was checked in at the door by a grown-up lady from Spain. From Madrid, she said, although she didn't say it like that, she said it the way Spaniards say it. I was immediately assigned a researcher who was waiting at the door, a bit like a taxi. He found the date of Lube Glasgow's death in no time at all, so I found the appropriate edition of the "Weakley County Press, Martin Mail, and The County Times" in one shot. And there it was on the front page:

[n0882]

Reading old newspapers is intrinsically fascinating, so I tried to skim through the 1920s to see if any mention of Glasgow the place appeared, but I wasn't lucky.

Later that night it was back to the Station Inn where, on Tuesdays, they not only have an acoustic jam session, they also have cheap beer. On the way there, I passed the old Union Station, where I spotted a beer bar called the Flying Saucer. It serves up eighty-one draft beers. It also, reluctantly, serves wine and spirits, but there are none on show. They are having a quiz night, and also selling a cheap beer, the very splendid "Fat Tire" from Colorado.

When I got to the Station, the jam session was in full swing: not an amplifier or drummer in sight. But I can now say I have finally come across a very young virtuoso bano player, although, disappointingly, he didn't look the least bit inbred.

[n0888]

(That photo number gave me a start. I don't know what I'd have done if it had come up 666: left town in a hurry, I suppose.)

Monday 25th January 2010 - This is Also the State Capital

2010-01-26T16:42:00.001-08:00

The hotel provides a splendid breakfast, so I can slob about in my track suit and make as slow a start as I want. It's practically lunchtime before I'm ready to go out.

Today, I'm heading off for another set of quiet, book-lined rooms. I've located the Historical Society, the State Archives, and the City Library. It's turned very cold again, so I'm well wrapped up. It being lunchtime, I have to choose my route carefully, so as to avoid waysides by which I might fall.

But, it turns out, although there is live music all the time, there are no libraries or archives, or even historical societies on Mondays. The city Library takes up a whole block, and I work my way all round it, finding only enormous bronze doors firmly closed. I even wander into the car park, and up to where you park for the library, then down the escalators to an inside door before I see a sign saying closed on Mondays.

So peace-and-quiet will have to wait till tomorrow.

Later that night, it's off up the Gultch. This is a part of downtown being smartened up and made residential. It contains one of the famous traditional country venues, the Station Inn. Inside it looks a bit like a church hall (and of a pretty poor church at that). There is a cover charge here, and the audience is substantially preservation society types (you know, ladies who don't dye their hair, and gentlemen with grey beards and hardly a cowboy hat between them).

But the music is very traditional ( they do have a drummer, but he only has a side drum). and very enoyable. And the beer is domestic, and comes by the pitcher. So, all-in-all, a very traditional evening. I failed to find out who the band was, but I don't suppose it matters very much.

[n0873]

Sunday 24th January 2010 - A Day of Rest

2010-01-25T12:42:00.001-08:00

After the frantic delights of the previous night, I wake up to find myself more-or-less in one piece. Although the better beers here are usually just a bit too strong, nonetheless my 'beer only' rule sees me through. The damage doesn't seem permanent. Anyway, after last week's seeing-to by the Mexicans, what can the cowboys do (even pro lady shuffleboard players). A good slow breakfast, an even slower hot bath, and the hair of seventy-two dogs should see me alright.

Today is the day they play the games which decide which teams go to the superbowl. So it's down to the no-music bar to watch a bit. All the screens except one are showing the big game. The exception is showing soccer, Real Madrid v Malaga. The soccer provides a bit of interest while the football is stopped, which is nearly all the time. Malaga advertise a British Bookmaker on their shirts, which seems a bit odd in downtown Nashville.

I had let it be known that I favoured the Jets and the Vikings this year, so, of course, it was the Colts and Saints who were successful. It's a good job I don't have any dealings with bookmakers, British or otherwise.

Later that night, I felt it unwise to upset the delicate balance of recovery.

Saturday 23rd January 2010 - Off to the Grand Ole Opry

2010-01-25T12:03:00.001-08:00

I had contemplated going to Memphis for a visit, but when I have to choose between the blues and country music, country music is going to win every time. So it's two hours down the road to Nashville. Anyway, Nashville's pretty-well on my route to Alabama

It's an uneventful journey. Tennessee is long and thin, and comes in three bits. I'm going from West Tennessee to Middle Tennessee. The truck plates tell me this is a route from almost everywhere to almost everywhere else, inclusing some of the Canadian provinces.

I've bought a ticket for the Grand Ole Opry tonight. The Grand Ole Opry, as I'm sure you're aware, is not actually a place, it's a radio program., But for most of it's life, it broadcast from the Ryland Auditorium in downtown Nashville. This is the former Union Gospel Tabernacle, with the horseshoe bench seating which everyone associates with the Grand Ole Opry. It now broadcasts mainly from a giant resort hotel on the edge of town, but in the winter, it returns to the Ryland. I can not only discover this from the internet, I can also find a hotel round the corner.

I check in, and wander out on the Broadway to see what's what. One section of the Broadway is a row of bars offering free live music, all day. One bar, instead of offering live music, offers seventy-two draft beers. The AT&T building in the centre of town looks to me like it something out of a Batman comic

[n0863]

It turns out the natives call it the "Batman Building".

The Opry is not as traditional as it used to be. There are drummers and electric guitars everywhere. But each act got two numbers, and it went on for an hour. I don't suppose they actually do it live now, so they can trim at the edges, but we got about sixteen acts. I don't of course, know how famous they are or were, but althouth some looked very venerable, they could still do it.

There used to be a radio program in Britain which, nonsensically, featured a ventriloquist. The Grand Ole Opry features some square dancers:

[n0854]

Later that night, testing out the bars of the Broadway, I fell in with some fully paid-up members of a Grown-up Ladies Shuffleboard Team. For some of the busier bars, they knew where the back door was. I found myself a mere plaything, brought along for the purposes of dancing. Of course, in the end, I wore them out. I don't remember getting home.

Friday 22nd January 2010 - The Glasgow Branch

2010-01-25T11:01:00.001-08:00

At breakfast, there is a loud discussion about the status of the Old and New Testaments in the proof of things. The cook is summoned from the kitchen as final arbiter. It turns out that he is the pastor of a cowboy church (this is to be taken literally, and has none of the "make it up as you go along" undertones the word "cowboy" might evoke in Britain). He does rather well, and tries to keep it at the "well it all depends" level without undermining the sweet simplicity of the original premise.

I've really come to Dresden again to meet a lady who knew Lube Glasgow, but the breakfast floor show has made me late. So another breakfaster sends me across the square to the barber's shop. Apparently, in the barber's shop, they know everything and everybody.

And the barber's shop really is like you imagine such places used to be. It lacks only a quartet to take it back a century. (Don't laugh, this is Barber Shop Quartet country.) There is a wide-ranging discussion on the various Glasgows. There must have been several different families, all relatively well-known. But nobody remembers the store, of course, because that goes back more than half-a-century.

When I was looking through the deed books the other day, I spotted an old map on the wall, and tried to use it to figure out where the land concerned was. As I started looking at it, my eyes suddenly focused on a river carrying the name "Glasgow Br". This turned out to be a fair distance from where the store was. It's a branch of Thompson's Creek, so I guess "Br" means "Branch".

With a liitle bit of time to spare, I decide to go visit it.

When I finally locate it, I go calling at the nearest house to see if they know its name. The inhabitant is a super grown-up widow lady of 85. She thinks the stream is called Thompson's Creek, but she says her house is where the old Glasgow House used to be. She has a family album, and in it she has a newspaper cut-out picture of the said old Glasgow Family. She says to say hello to the lady I'm going to meet later.

The Glasgow Branch is nothing much to write home about (although here I am doing just that). It has been raining a lot here recently, and most of the ground is wet underfoot, but the Glasgow Branch is barely running at all.

[n0830]

When I get back to town, my contact is back from lunch. She is a niece of Lube (I discover this is a single syllable), and remembers him. He and her daddy got on well. She thought Lube got rich lending money with land as collateral. Which is probably how he ended up president of the bank.

She didn't think he had a bad reputation. I suppose lending money against land in the great depression could be either ruthless land-grabbing or enlightened local lender-of-last-resort trying to help people stay solvent in hard times. Certainly, he sold the store for much less than he bought it for, and gave the buyer a year to pay, without interest.

Later that night, it's a quiet farewell. Everyone wishes me well on the rest of my trip: and not an in-bred banjo player in sight.

Thursday 21st January 2010 - Another Favourite Place

2010-01-22T16:57:00.001-08:00

The phone rang first thing in the morning. I was in the shower. How is it people know just how long to let it ring so that when you get to it they've just hung up? I call back when I'm dressed. It turns out to be the car rental company. Apparently Silver's licence is about to expire, and they have to send the new "tags". They want to know where I am, and can I stay there for seven days? Well, no, actually.

When I realise that if I don't do it I'm going to get stopped a lot, I go out of my way to be helpful. As it happens, I've been promised a bed for the night at the other end of the state on Burns night. So I get that address, and pass it on.

Then it's off to Martin, to the University library. It's a fine library, superbly peaceful, but it has very little of interest to me.

A Glasgow got divorced in 1881, on grounds of desertion. There is a court summons for the witnesses. The sheriff, of course, is supposed to serve summonses, but he simply records, in pencil, on the summons itself, that he has deputised the plaintiff to serve it.

In 1980, a lady in California applied for membership to a society called the "First Families of Weakley County". British readers will no doubt instinctively see that as a snobbish thing, but it is a quite literal reference to the original settlers. She wants to prove she is related to the original Glasgow, and provides a lot of research about the family names, when and where they were born and died, their Revolutionary war regiments, and their land patents.

Since that was all there was, I settled into working my way throught the microfilmed records of the "Dresden Enterprise" for 1927 (I'm guessing that's a special year in the life of Lube Glasgow). But I don't find anything relevant. There is quite a lot about the saga of Charles Lindberg's transatlantic flight, with new items dragging it out week after week. When I'm doing this, I sometimes thing I could happily spend the rest of my life reading old newspapers.

Later that night, the bar had one of those fairground games where you control a little crane to try to lift up soft toys and drop them down a chute. Now I've always thought they were simply a scam, that it was more-or-less impossible to do. Imagine, then, my surprise watching a grown-up lady, with, I have to say, a considerable amount of alcohol concealed about her person, relieve said machine of six toys, in short order, as though it was easy.

Wednesday 20th January 2010 - My Day in Court

2010-01-21T18:19:00.001-08:00

I decide I will have breakfast in Dresden, so as to make an early start in the courthouse.

I have noticed, from time-to-time, in roadside fields, some very large donkeys. I come up behind one in a trailer at traffic lights. It's simply enormous close up, and the penny finally drops: it's a mule.

The cafe on the courthouse square has pictures of mules on the wall

[n0759]

I ask the waitress. They show them off at the county show. These are from "Belgian" horses, you know, like Clydesdales and Shires: that's why they're so big. There is also a picture of the old courthouse, which burned down in 1948, so there may not be any records left at all.

In the courthouse, the grown-up ladies of the recorder's department scramble into action, as good as any wartime squadron. My thesis is that the store that used to exist at the junction was, at one time, owned by one of the Glasgows in the cemetery up the road. The cemetery records show two graves at Lebanon Church, with names for both. The names I didn't know were Lube A., 1887-1959, Lula Bowlin 1889-1929, and Etta Moore 1890-[still alive in 1980 - they do that, they put their names and birth year on gravestones; it's either macabre or Scottish): an interesting menage-a-trois to speculate about.

The Tax Assessor gives me the parcel number of the plot where the store used to be, so it's time to track back through the deed books. I have the name of the lady who used to own it, so I will get an early check of whether I'm on the right track.

It is a matter of considerable surprise to me that all the counties in all the states that I've visited all keep their old records the same way (their computerisations are very different). I am in a room like all the others I've been in, with the same heavy, leather and canvas-bound books

It's a slow process, not least because quite a lot of people tried to make a go of the place in the 50s and 60s for short periods. But, eventually, back in 1918, Lube and Lula Glasgow bought it. They bought it for $1500, and sold it in 1927 for just over $1000. Lube must have been gifted with the second sight, for his purchaser sold it only four years later for just $600. In fact, Lube bought a lot of land in 1917, including some from the Glasgow in the other grave.

Then, armed with all the names, it's round to my other favourite place, the main library. I stood the ladies down, but I'm sure they phoned a warning ahead. The librarian squadron were poised for action.

Weakley County was formed in 1823, and they produced a 175th anniversary history partly in the form of family biographies submitted by family members. It has been well-indexed, and is simply full of Glasgows. It looks like they might all be related to one of the first settlers here.

But what's exciting is that there is actually a picture of Lube

[n0770]

Already a JP by 1918, in the early 30s he had become the first Executive Director of the Agricultural Stabilisation and Conservation Service (remember, we're in the middle of the Great Depression, The Tennessee Valley Authority has just been created, and we're in Western Tennessee). By 1936 he's vice-president of one of the local banks, becoming president in 1955.

You'd think they'd be happy to keep his name. I wonder why they didn't?

Later that night, I contemplated having a longer rest. But I drove up, knowing Silver would keep me moderate. I had no sooner sat down with my beer (domestic by the bottle) than a man my age (I think) came over and insisted I play pool. Of course, having told him I was no good at it, I won. A group of young men came in, looking to play. One had so much metal in his face, he looked like he might have been a nail-bomb victim. He was wearing tartan trousers. He asked about my accent, and said they were from Ireland, but had been here so long they'd lost their accents. I misunderstood and asked how long that was. Turned out to be several generations.

On the way back, a whole herd of deer crossed the highway (this is the middle of town) in front of the van in front of me. He didn't seem to brake at all.

Tuesday 19th January 2010 - First Sightings and Clues

2010-01-20T17:24:00.001-08:00

I consumed an entirely liquid breakfast (and that doesn't mean what it might usually mean) just to be on the safe side. Then Silver whisked me over to the alleged site of this former Glasgow. The US Geological Survey provided GPS co-ordinates, and Dulcie is prepared to indulge my scientific whims.

There is a little cluster of houses at what turns out to be the junction of Jewel Store Road and Lebanon Church Road

[n0756]

(Note the little bit of creativity in the signwriter's art)

It is a cluster in the rural American sense: there is quite a lot of space between them. I drive on a bit to Lebanon Church, and, as I pass it, some instinct has me pull over. Should I look in the churchyard? Actually, it seems quite small. And, as I contemplate it,

[n0751]

leaps to my eye. There turns out to be another, equally large.

I track back to the junction, looking out for inbred banjo players:

[n0755]

At the house right on the junction, an older woman comes out to get in her car. I engage her in conversation. No, she's lived here seven years, and never heard of it being called Glasgow. BUT, she's from Connecticut, AND SHE WENT TO SCHOOL IN GLASGO CONNECTICUT! What? There's no such place. But (look at the spelling) I'm afraid there is, I've looked it up.

At the next house along, the lady has lived here for fifty years. No, that's not the Glasgow place, it's about half a mile away along this road. But it's not there anymore, it got burned down. Yes, there used to be a store, right on the junction. She and her husband used to own and run it. But it was too much for her, working all day, and having people come in all night: she could never get anything done. They sold it, and it changed hands a lot till it closed about twenty-five years ago.

So it's off down the road to find the old Glasgow place (have the Geological Survey got it wrong again?). I find the present owner, a gentleman about my age, happily cutting firewood, and playing with his dog. He is self-sufficient in firewood, having enough acreage for renewal. He shows me a sassafras tree he has just chopped (the amount of wood he has chopped, he probably doesn't need any heating at all). Sassafras leaves are the main ingredient of the filé, as in filé gumbo. And the roots can be boiled to make some kind of tea. He points to the fields opposite: they're not used, they're in 'soil bank', people buy them and get $50/acre for not using them. He doesn't think this is right.

But, yes, this is the old Glasgow place: nothing left of it now (he has a new, prefabricated, house). There used to be a school room down by the road, Glasgow daughter taught school there. Only bit left is the shed:

[n0757]

(you can see behind it how much wood he's been chopping)

Later that night, it's TV and chicken broth by the fireside. Turner Classic Movies (the channel with no adverts) is showing "Inherit the Wind", the film about the famous "monkey trial" about teaching evolution in schools, with Spencer Tracy and Frederick March. I had forgotten (or never knew) that it took place here in Tennessee in 1925.

Monday 18th January 2010 - I Ate, I Drank, and I Was Merry

2010-01-19T17:46:00.001-08:00

I find I am not particularly partial to Mexican food. The only merit I can see for it at the moment is as part of a crash weight-loss program.

I have always been a fan of Tom Lerher. One of his songs which I especially like is "Fiesta Time in Guadalahara". It contains the priceless couplet,

"We ate, we drank, and we were merry,

And we got Typhoid and Dysentery."

Which accounted for later on Sunday through to a late start on Tuesday. And my guts on Tuesday morning, although starting to function normally, felt like they'd done three rounds with Muhammed Ali. I hope to be back to solid food (and beer) by Wednesday. And, em, how can I put this, there's going to have to be a big tip for the cleaner.

Sunday 17th January 2010 - Why American Beer is the Way It Is.

2010-01-19T17:29:00.001-08:00

I like to start my Sunday mornings with a good breakfast, but downtown Paris is closed (except for the churches, of course), so I end up on the bypass, where there is a nest of fast-food places, having a Macbreakfast. By the time I'm finished, the rain has stopped and the sun is peeping out: which is cheering, but demonstrates that I didn't know which way is south.

Then it's back for a hot soak. I think there is negative pressure in the drain (ie it's pumped), because the plastic cup starts to crumple slightly, breaking the seal. This means I have to keep the water running a bit, which makes me feel even more decadent.

While I'm cooling off, I watch the Dallas Cowboys getting a good seeing-to from the Minnesota Vikings. The Vikings quarter-back is, apparently, a hundred and forty years old, born just after the Civil War (often referred to here in the South as the "War Between the States") and looking distinctly like a character from Lord of the Rings. I don't think the Vikings were on anything, but it sure looked like the Cowboys were. Perhaps Gandalf put something in their tea.

Then it's round the corner to the only restaurant in walking distance for the third component of my Sunday morning, what is known in parliamentary circles as a 'good lunch'. I shall gloss over the food: it may figure in the story a little later. But the beer turns up garnished with fruit slices. Now who, except the Belgians, put fruit in their beer? Here, wait a minute, the Belgians now own the biggest brewer in America. Are they trying to modify the drinking habits of the American masses?

I was listening to a programme on Public Radio as I drove here yesterday. Yesterday (hats off, heads bowed, chaps) was the 90th anniversary of the 18th Amendement to the American Constitution, the one which imposed Prohibition. Actually, the programme was really a bit of time for a man with an enormous collection of old music on '78s', and he had chosen Prohibition as his theme. But as well as a lot of historic music about booze and boozing, he made the interesting claim that, because it killed off a great many brewers, Prohibition was the reason American beer is the way it is today. Prohibition was a wonderful experiment, in the sense that it is a bad example of almost everything, not least that old adage about being careful what you wish for, in case you get it, but I hadn't thought to accuse it of turning beer into nothing more than an alcohol transport system.

A bit later, a children's birthday party turned up. There were three adult couples. One of the games I like to play with groups in public places is (silently) to try to guess who is related to whom. I concluded that they might all be related to each other. Well, it is Tennessee, isn't it?

Saturday 16th January 2010 - Off to Tennessee

2010-01-17T18:43:00.001-08:00

It's a nice early start, and by ten-thirty it's breakfast in Clarksville, Tennessee. From being quite unseasonably cold, it's now turning unseasonably warm. It's all the fault of those people with several motor cars. At least global warming is better when it's warm.

Then it's across to Western Tennessee on US 79. My first stop is Paris (they pronounce the last syllable as in "tennis"). This is twenty miles short of my destination, but I suspect, from my internet researches that this is where I'm going to end up. I have a coke in one of the town centre bars, mainly to use the rest room, and check out the cheapest motel.

Then it's off to Dresden, the seat of Weakley county, where Glasgow used to be. Dresden doesn't seem to run to motels, or very much else. The site of the "historical" Glasgow is about seven miles north-east of here. If there are any records, they will be in the courthouse here.

The next stop is Martin (I can't think where they got a name like that: like the beer, it must be "domestic", rather than "imported'). This is where most of the motels are. It's a university town, and seems to be much expanded. It has the feel of a UK 'new town', with wide dual carriageways but no buildings along them. The motels are out by the campus, and expensive by my standards.

So it's back to Paris for the night. The motel is very good for the price. And it seems to be run by a couple of grown-up ladies, so it's probably very clean as well.

Later that night, it started to rain very heavily, so Silver had to do the work. I found a local Mexican restaurant which served a dark Mexican beer in 32 ounce glasses. I've never seen glasses that size before, but Silver coughs diplomatically when I even think of having a second one. Thirty-two ounces is two pints here, commonly called a 'quart'.

Friday 15th January 2010 - My Last Day Here

2010-01-16T16:50:00.001-08:00

My breakfast diner is on the square, and it's warm enough this morning to take a turn round it without my Walmart puffy jacket. It's a typical American small town. Americans are just as new to protecting townscapes are we are, so there are several modern bits. Almost all the premises are active, so they're doing rather better here than most.

[n0744]

I'd been invited to come to band practice at the High School, mainly since they weren't performing any concerts while I was in town. When I went to check in, the Principal was there, wearing her Musselborough tartan kilt. I had acquired two "Scottie" ball caps up in Montana, so I thought it fitting to present her with one.

Once the band were warmed up, they were landed with a new, quite difficult piece, I think just to impress me. Which it did.

At the end, one of the young ladies came up to me and said she had been to Glasgow, Montana in the summer, when I was there, and had read about me in the (Montana) local paper. That seemed to me an extraordinary coincidence.

later that night, the weather having warmed up considerably, everyone was out to wave me goodbye. I spotted a lady in the bar reading a Kindle (that's Amazon's electronic book). Since I'm tempted to get one, I thought I would ask for a user review. She couldn't have praised it more highly. It's certainly easier than trying to find a bookshop in these small towns (it downloads whole books over the cellphone system).

She was a New Yorker, down here because this was both cheaper, and rated the best place to live in rural America (in some farmers' magazine in 2007). But she wasn't adapting too well. She really expected everyone to shout abuse at her, so she could shout back, for everybody to be touting something. She seemed a little peeved that I knew more people than she did.

As the evening wore on, it became clear that she was a classic east-coast liberal. She probably thought that everyone here had parents who met at a family reunion, and had shot there dinner on the way in. And, of course, there was no way they were going to trust someone with a yankee accent. I told her she could explain her accent by saying she had killed her mother with an axe, and spent the last twenty years in a northern prison. They would probably be marginally more sympathetic.

I've never been very good at meeting strangers, but , on this trip, I've put myself in a position where it's unavoidable. I would have thought she had done the same, but she really thought it was their fault she wasn't getting along with them. I told her she was an incurable New Yorker. The only thing for it was to go back. (I also told her that New York was my favourite place in the whole world, which is true, and that cheered her up a bit.) I wonder if this will ever turn up on her Kindle?

Thursday 14th January 2010 - The Kentucky Dress Act of 2010

2010-01-15T17:21:00.001-08:00

I had to go to the print shop to get some more cards. As usual, I had left it to the last minute. This may be the last sizeable town I visit for some time. The shop says they can do it, and want a ten dollar deposit, cash money of the United States: the first place I've visited here that doesn't take plastic. I give them a twenty, and they gave me a badly-printed ten in change. The borders were the most uneven I have ever seen on a currency note. Remember, this is a print shop. They wouldn't dare, would they?

I studiously avoid being the tourist when I can. I'm here to meet people, and look at and use the ordinary things of life. But sometimes there are some special things one just has to look at.

When I was but a callow youth, one of the regular contributers to 'Punch', Alex Atkinson, published his American Road Trip, which he called "Across America on a Rocking Chair". At the beginning, in the section on New York City, he says something like "Manhattan is connected to the mainland by three bridges, each of which is the biggest in the world". This turns out to be true: one is the biggest such-and-such truss, and so on.

A few miles up the road from Glasgow is the Mammoth Cave. The name refers to the size, not prehistoric creatures. At nearly four hundred miles (yes, miles) of passageways, it is the biggest cave system in the world. I thought that was a bit special, so I took the afternoon to go and see it. And it's seriously impressive.

[n0740]

In the early evening, my spies had told me the high school band parents were having meeting, and were going to discuss changing the band uniform. The Scottie band currently disports itself in full highland regalia. Apparently, at marching band contests, they get marked down in the 'appearance' section: the judges,it is said, like to see the hips and thighs and knees of the young people as they march (sounds a bit iffy to me). This is a small town, and many of the band parents were themselves, in their day, band. Their kilts etc. were what marked them apart. It is a tradition about which they feel very strongly.

Now, you can't win contests by spitting at the judges, but is seems a bit sad that they have a set of marking rules which strip schools of their tradition, one of the most effective sources of juvenile discipline.

I was introduced, and induced to speak. I told them about the similar tradition in Montana. Fortunately, nobody asked me my opinion. Neither side would have been pleased.

Tartan was invented by Sir Walter Scott for the visit of George the Fourth to Edinburgh twenty-three years after Glasgow Kentucky was founded. About seventy years after their like had passed the Dress Act to ban the kilt, and cleared the highlands, sending poor Scots off,as it turned out, to get their own back by wresting the American Colonies away from them. Just as well they didn't ask.

Later that night, I met another ex-band member. He was quite dismissive: "It doesn't hide their marching: they can't march. We wore the kilts, and we won regularly."

He also told me that a member of the USA rugby team comes from Glasgow. Did you know that the USA were the current Olympic rugby champions?

Wednesday 13th January 2010 - New Library, New Atmosphere

2010-01-14T10:39:00.001-08:00

I'm trying to read up about the American railways, specifically what it must have been like building them around 1900. The weather has changed and it's now a balmy 46, which is about 7 or 8 in new money. I decide it's time to renew my acquaintanceship with the lovely new library here, with its lovely new armchairs, and its lovely old librarians.

I finish perusing the first book, trying to ignore the chanting child charging about. When I return with the next, there are a group in the armchairs, holding a meeting! I sit tense for a minute, waiting for my good manners to sink beneath a boiling current of anger, when one of them, the only chap, suddenly says "I'm so sorry, you must want to read, we'll go over there". I say something British, and that is that

Of course, the contributions of his companions to their meeting continue to ring round the library.

Later that night, I discover that the Univerity of Southern California football team are called the Trojans. It's a bit like University College London decided that their rugby team was hard and modern, so they would call themselves the Durex (or should that be 'durexes")

Tuesday 12th January 2010 - Hi-Yo, Silver, Away

2010-01-13T16:39:00.001-08:00

The waitress at breakfast brought me the Sunday paper with my picture on the front page. I got my pen out to autograph it, but, rather disappointingly, she said I could keep it. They're such fickle things, women, aren't they. I thanked her as graciously as I could, omitting to mention that I had just been to the Post Office to send several copies off to my National Archive.

Then it's off to the rental company to sort out my new steed. Most people who have read Don Quixote, have read the translation which names Sancho's donkey as "Dapple", but that is just a little too English and dated for my taste. A more literal translation (I'm told) might be "grey". So I have decided that since I am ranging alone (geddit?) across the US, and this car, which wafted me away from the accident with barely a hesitation, is actually silver, I shall call him that. Perhaps a posh name like that will get him to stay with me for the rest of the trip. So it's "Hi-Yo, Silver, away!" (I always thought it was "Hi-Ho", but that's not what any of the web sites say)

When I went to Australia, about ten years ago, I noticed that the lady newscasters clearly weren't human. I suspected aliens were planning an invasion, and were testing out clones to see how easily they could fool us. American sports programs are testing a much later marque, which can walk about with facility. They're still using females. I guess they think that if they can fool us chaps in a sports program, they've passed the hardest test. They have obviously already infiltrated the fashion and adverting industry, in an attempt to modify our view of what real women look like. But they're not fooling me. Look, for instance, at their teeth. They're clearly false. Nobody's got teeth as white as that.

Later that night I meet up with someone who's decided to take my advice and come back from Europe on the QM2. He says they'll have seven days in Europe beforehand, and he's thinking they could go to Dublin, Poland, the Fiords. I remind him that modern air travel is hanging around for days in airports, waiting for men with guns to look up your bottom, all the while amusing themselves with their new lady-stripping machines. Better to concentrate, choose one, hang out.

So he wants to know which of those I would choose. After the usual bumbling fumbling, I decide it would have to be Dublin, the superficial, but none-the-less genuine, friendship of celtic stranger management.

Monday 11th January - Winning in the Game of Life

2010-01-12T17:16:00.001-08:00

           I'm dragged out of the shower by an early phone call. The caller is clearly a grown-up lady, fevered by yesterday's headlines. She wants to show me her cairn: well, her husband's cairn, actually. I told her I didn't get into that sort of thing, but she was fairly insistent. Then she refused to get out of bed, so, somewhat non-plussed, I went on my own. Dulcie refused point-blank to help: what the grown-up lady cryptically referred to as "The Captain's Lane", Dulcie tartly recognised as "Old Davidson's Spur".
           It turned out to be quite a splendid cairn, nicely engraved, commemorating another Scottish menage-a-trois a quarter of a century ago.
           The trip also enabled me to see the 'welcome' sign on the other side of town, showing a nice marriage of piper and flag:

[n0710]

On the way back, I managed to visit the pharmacy, to get something for a bit of recent stiffness I've been suffering. The checkout girl took the trouble to circle something on the receipt, which told me I had won one ticket in the game of life. I told her I already had one, and didn't expect to get another, not even with what they call here a "Cadillac" health insurance scheme. She professed not to understand: "whatever", she said. There's no cure for being young, is there? No, actually, come to think of it, there is.

[ps I could have made life easier for myself, and probably you, if, instead of photographing the paper yesterday, I had just pointed into cyberspace, thus: http://www.glasgowdailytimes.com/local/local_story_009164124.html . Now you can all print it out and gaze shyly at it in secret moments!]

Sunday 10th January 2010 - Another Fifteen Minutes

2010-01-11T18:43:00.001-08:00

My spies call me early to tell me I'm in the local paper. On the way to breakfast, I stop off at the drug store to buy a copy, and, not only am I in the weekend edition (this Glasgow runs to a daily paper), I'm on the front page, in colour. I eat breakfast behind dark glasses, so as not to excite the local ladies too much.

[n0704]

I escape unrecognised, and head back to indulge my favourite Sunday morning activity, which is soaking in a hot bath. I used to read several sections of the Sunday Times like this, ruining the paper in the process. Now I read some chapters of my current book. The motel doesn't run to a bath plug, but this is no problem for a resourceful traveller like me, and a yougurt carton full of pebbles serves just as well. As usual, I have to have a cooling shower and lie down for a while afterwards. It's one of the things I do to make myself feel well-off.

The bank tells me its now 20 degrees Farenheit, which is nice for a brisk walk, if I wrap up well and don't go too far. The snow is gradually disappearing. I expect it will start to thaw in a few days, and then we'll have black ice problems at night. I'm going to stay here for anther week till things get closer to normal.

Later that night, I'm chatting to someone who has clearly been there a while. The barrmaid shows her special constable's badge, and sends him on his way. I ask her if she's her brother's keeper and she looks at me intently, a bit surprised at the question, and says "yes, of course I am".

The TV is showing a basketball game. One of the teams is called the Blazers. In Britain, that's a rather rude name for the people people in the sport who don't play. During the frequent breaks in sporting events, the TV advertises gentlemen's products, like beer and viagra. Tonight there is an advert for cialis, which, it seems, is a bit like viagra, except it prides itself in being soft. I wouldn't have thought the marketing people would have wanted to raise (if you'll pardon the expression) that notion in the minds of the target audience. Anyway, I suddenly notice, in the small print (adverts for pharmaceuticals in America seem to consist almost exclusively of small print, including all the ways it might kill you) that this cialis goes under the pharmaceutical name of tadalafil. I wonder how many of you know that the little musical riff that Windows commonly uses to announce events is called, in the files, "Tada". It's kind-of appropriate, don't you think?

Saturday 9th January 2010 - A Whole Lot of Bull

2010-01-10T15:57:00.001-08:00

Having written the car out of the story last night, I have to write it straight back in again. A nice brisk walk in the morning snow, and it turns out I can remember where I left it. It didn't seem to mind having been left in the middle of an empty parking lot all night.

I have been told it is normal to tip about 20% here. The staff in most of these establishments will be on minimum wage, counting the tips. I move the decimal point, double it, an go to the nearest round number. Sometimes I don't, but it really has to have been a bad experience.

So I was a little surprised when the waitress at breakfast came rushing over to thank me effusively for my tip the previous day. She had gone off-duty between serving me and me paying. I generally pay by credit card, just for the record-keeping it does. The boss had kept the tip for her. She was a grown-up lady, so I asked her if it was not normal to do that. She gave me some frank opinions of my fellow-customers. Apparently some are just mean, and some are, well, less than mean.

I got some shopping in today. Went back to where I'd had the bump, which I thought was jolly brave of me. I could still see bits of Rozzie lying about the road.

Then I came back and settled into a bit of writing. It took quite a long time, with a whole wasted story that ran out of steam. But I eventually got something that might count as a first draft of what I'm after, so I was quite pleased.

Later that night, I went out for my evening stroll. When I went out early morning to get the car, the big sign outside the bank had said 16 degrees. When I went shopping at lunchtime, it said 18. And now it was saying 20. So hopefully the worst is over.

The bar was quite busy. I got into a conversation with the local Repo man. He's the man who recovers cars and things when the payments are not being made. There was also a tobacco buyer, here to buy some special kind of dark tobacco. There was a Virginian who waxed quite eloquent about the pink tobacco flower, which, rather surprisingly, I'd seen in Missouri in the summer.

But there was one really fascinating job. It came out as quite a chat-up line: "What do you do?" asked the barmaid. "I sell semen", he said; a real show-stopper. The barmaid, who is a nice (ish) young lady, was nearly lost for words. "What, you're a donor?" Someone tried to help her out: "sounds like a lot of bull to me" they said. The barmaid then wanted to know if the bull enjoyed donating, but she was howled down: a bit too close to home, that one.

Friday 8th January 2010 - We're in the Money

2010-01-09T11:48:00.001-08:00

My North American Agents have forwarded Rocinante's papers, so I can arrange to take possession of his inheritance. This requires a trip to Bowling Green, where the nearest office of the insurance company is. It is also the nearest point where one can buy beer to go, so I will have to make an integrated trip.

The parkway and interstate are, of course, well-salted, but the big trucks are going as fast as the are allowed, and I am mindful of those conditional signs on the bridges. In these conditions, I slow down for trucks to get well away. Because it is so cold, and the snow is so dry, they are actually quite a stirring sight, sweeping a bow-wave of snow along the verges, with occasional large chunks flying off the top and smashing onto the road.

The insurance office has the requisite number of grown-up ladies (that's one!) to sort everything out smoothly, explaining cheerfully, that, since I'm giving them power-of-attorney, it doesn't matter if I don't sign anything else. She wants me to sign the POA with my full middle name, and I discover, to my surprise, that that's actually quite difficult to do. I make a bit of a hash of it, but it won't matter.

In no time at all, I have trousered the blood-money, and am off. I'm really very grateful to the insurance company: they couldn't have been more helpful and considerate. And, as it turns out, generous. As Dulcie directs me to the booze store, I find myself musing on the venial thought that I really ought to have organised this accident in the last week of my trip. This is really ever so much easier than trying to sell a used vehicle in a limited timescale.

As I'm filling the trunk with beer, I catch a glimpse of the black plastic sacks of things recovered from Rozzie, and feel a pang of guilt.

Although I was brought up in Glasgow, I was actually born in Somerset, and lived there, in the American usage, momentarily. On the way back to Glasgow, I see a surprising road sign:

[n0703]

When I get back to Glasgow, I visit the nearest branch of my eastern bank, which is almost across the road from the motel. When I get the transaction records, it turns out the street is called Wall Street, and this is the "Wall Street Office" I've been dealing with.

Since it's Friday, and I've been depositing large sums of money on Wall Street, I decide I should join the 'happy hour', and avoid being out late in the cold. This plan, unfortunately, to use the Scots, gangs somewhat agley later that night.

I find myself sitting next to a young man from, variously, New York and Florida. We naturally talk about the weather, but, as usual, my accent brings up the subect of ancestry, with which most Americans are obsessed. He is telling me of his Scots-Irish ancestry, when he suddenly says his grandfather was born in a little border village in Fermanagh called Beleek. Now, one of my grandfathers was born in Beleek. What are the chances of that?

Then a novice grown-up lady dragged us all off to a mexican bar, and the evening degenerated into a haze of highly-coloured furniture and big jugs of beer. My car, wisely but unexpectedly, vanished from the story, and I got dropped off at the motel. So I'm in for some exercise tomorrow morning. Now, one of the features of Sancho Panza's donkey is that is vanishes unexpectedly from the story, and reappears, sometimes just as unexpectedly. I must get that name: it might fit this new car.

Thursday 7th January 2010 - Songs and Spies and Underdogs

2010-01-08T18:09:00.001-08:00

I struggled out for breakfast. My Grown-up Lady spy had told me the county weekly paper had a big spread on me, so I stopped off where I was told to buy it. Newspapers are awful: it wasn't quite right in places, but I could see how it was partly my fault for kind-of 'mumbling'. I can see why the Tony Blairs of this world have to do what they do: I can see why corporate bodies have to hire people to keep them "on-message". But it was mostly OK.

While I was reading this, at breakfast, "on the square" (there's a lot of "on the square" in Glasgow KY, I suspect a heavy masonic presence), I heard a country song called "Small Town USA". It approximates, a little, to my experiences over the last few months. It's not the best song I've ever heard, but, judge for yourself:

http://www.cmt.com/videos/justin-moore/343245/small-town-usa.jhtml

I went round to the Grown-up Lady spy for a quick de-briefing, and almost got snowed-in. The state and the county have a little money for salting the roads during these rare events, but the city has none: venture off the highway and you're on your own:

[n0702]

I managed to slither away with all our virtue more-or-less intact.

Of course, Later that night, I was ensconced in my room with only a television and the internet for company. It's the big football event of the college season. It's called the "BCS" (Bowl College Series"). But it doesn't seem to involve any 'series': the media tick boxes, and some computer decides which two teams get to the final. I'm not a betting man, but I bet you couldn't find a single bar in all the world ( that's "world" as in "world series") where they would say this was the best way of doing it.

But it was quite entertaining. I always find myself supporting the underdog. Since I don't understand American football too well, the night produced several underdogs. First, Alabama ("the Crimson Tide") went behind to Texas. Then Texas went seriously behind to the Crimson Tide. Then Texas nearly caught up. Then, right at the end, Alabama ran away with it. At least they had the good sense to play it in Pasadena, California, which may be the only part of the sub-continent which is not freezing.

Wednesday 6th January 2010 - Is Farenheit Colder than Centigrade?

2010-01-07T20:49:00.001-08:00

Glasgow Kentucky is at the same latitude as the Algarve coast. Does that not give a man a bit of entitlement? I know it's very cold in Britain just now. The news stations here are providing us with some solace by showing how cold it is in Britain. But that's about a tenth of the globe further north. I thought it would be at least comfortable this far south.

And it's going to go on for some time.

They still use Farenheit here to tell you the temperature. The scientific web sites say, rather smugly, "the United States, and a few other places, like Belize". It does seem to be a more natural way of describing it, since it rarely involves negative numbers. I have been whiling away the hours finding out why it is such a curious scale.

Farenheit (it wasn't named after him, like "Celsius", he designed it) based it on three references: zero was the freezing point of brine (well, kind-of brine); 32 was the freezing point of water; and 96 was blood temperature. The choice of 32 and 64 ( that's 96-32) was to make it easy to draw the scale - you just keep dividing it in two. Then some bright spark thought it would be a good idea if the boiling point of water was 180 degrees away from the freezing point. This made it 212, but had the effect of making blood temperature 98.6.

[this is the blogging equivalent of the potter's wheel from old BBC TV 'Interludes'. If nothing is happening, I'll just have to provide some erudite interlude.]

And, of course, later that night it was even colder, and I huddled even closer to the television. I dug out a picture of me in Glasgow California last July, and felt a bit warmer.

[DSCF6161]

Tuesday 5th January 2010 - An Economic Chill

2010-01-06T17:40:00.001-08:00

It remains unusually cold. Apparently this is a 10-year record. So it's skipping out for breakfast and back again for reading and TV.

It's even cold in Florida. They're very worried about the fruit. If it drops below something like 25 degrees (that's old money) for more than 4 hours, they're done for. The world will have no orange juice for a year, and Florida will become even more dependant on tourists.

So they spray water on the trees. The water freezes and keeps them warm. That's what the man said.

Later that night, I'm reduced to moderate drinking by the temperature. The big signs outside the banks say it's 18 degrees. That's about minus six or seven in new money. Of course, there are few as hardy (I'm sure that's not the word you would use) as me so the place is empty, and the girls are complaining about how little money they're making. I check-up, on the internet, when I get back, on Kentucky minimum wage laws. Recalling what was being said, it is quite clear the management assume a certain average of tips, and top that up to the minimum wage level. If the tips don't come in, they're supposed to pay the minimum, but it sounded like complaining only gets you looking for another job. On top of which, if there are few customers, they just shut, and send the staff home, so when they come to work, especially in this weather, they have no idea how much money they're going to make.

Now I'm not one of these people who think the owners should take all the risk, but it as well to remember that when they were campaigning for the sale of alcohol in restaurants two years ago, the argument was that it would create more jobs. But are they jobs worth creating?

Monday 4th January 2010 - Meeting the Mayor

2010-01-05T17:34:00.001-08:00

The car is covered in snow. But it's so cold and dry, the windshield wipers just brush it off. The weather forecasts suggest this cold is going to be with us for some time. I wander round the car before I get in, wondering idly what the name of Sancho Panza's donkey was.

Today I am going to see the mayor, and present him with the Glasgow Scotland pennant and letter from the Lord Provost. This is the last Glasgow where I will get to do this. It is also by far the biggest, with a population of about 15,000.

But first, I have to stop off at the county clerk's office. It was her staff who found the original 1799 court order book for me. We take a few photos.

Then it's off to City Hall, for a presentation to the mayor. In fact, the mayor, in turn, presents me with the key of the city:

[n0687]

After this, the mayor takes me to see the Plaza Theatre, which has been lovingly restored to its 1930s form. It was a cinema back then, now it's live theatre, but, of course, thirties cinemas often had live acts as well. We are only about 75 miles from Nashville, so the names of the stars who have appeared here is quite startling. They've had Roy Rogers, and Gene Autry; Flatt & Scruggs and the Carter Family; Loretta Lynn and Dolly Parton

The director tells me the architectural style is 'atmospheric'. It has a curved blue ceiling, with stars in it, and they have managed to restore the projectors which cause "clouds" to drift across it.

[n0693]

It is, unfortunately, dark at the moment, so I can't see it in performance. As you can see, it is a big theatre, with over a thousand seats.

It brings back memories of the Fort Peck Summer Theatre, in Montana, and the Sawdust Theatre in Oregon.

Later that night, there is much ribald talk about the "patting-down" of certain airline passengers (this is the phrase favoured by the media). The general feeling is that it is more "patting-up" than "patting-down' which is needed, if you follow my drift. I guess in the right circumstances, you could get chaps volunteering for that. In fact, in the right circumstances, you could catch the bombers because thay would be the only ones trying to avoid it.

Do you think there is a secret department of government dedicated to getting explosives past expert patters? It's got to be wigs next, hasn't it?

Sunday 3rd January 2010 - Getting to the Bottom of Things

2010-01-04T18:50:00.001-08:00

Today is laundry day in my well-organised wardrobe cycle. If I do it properly, I can breakfast in my slob tracksuit and carry on to the laundromat, so that I get back with everything clean (except the slob suit, of course, which is how it gets its name).

It's still freezing cold, so the rest of the day is devoted to quiet reading, and a bit of TV. I can't even clock off early for a while, because of the anti-catholic policies of this town. If a man can't have a few beers after sunday morning laundry, I don't know what the world is coming to.

When I do eventually venture out, later that night, it's in several layers of my clean clothes. A brisk walk is called for, to blow away the cobwebs of the day. There's about 20 degrees of frost, and it seems the natives are just a bit shocked.

The barmaid wants to know if I'm going to eat. I tell her that American food is just too fattening. "don't I know it", she says. She turns round and slaps her bottom: "Where do you think I got this butt from?" she says. The bar goes a bit quiet. There is a certain longing on the faces of most of the patrons. "No, no", I said, "I think god gave you that." Everyone laughed: I think they may have been thinking the same thing.

Saturday 2nd January 2010 - Too Much TV

2010-01-03T15:20:00.001-08:00

I took a bit to tidy away all the bits and pieces that I'd picked up from Rozzie. This I can do with the TV on in the background. It stops me concentrating too hard on things that don't matter, and keeps the pottering rate nice and steady.

American TV can be about 30-50% adverts, so if you're working at something, it's quite hard to follow the programs, but really easy to follow the adverts. Mazda has decided, quite malevolently, to run a series of adverts showing shots of Rozzie lookalikes from all sorts of sexy angles. I have written them a stern letter demanding that they respect my period of mourning. They're just being selfish, doing it for money. They could show a bit of consideration.

The TV has also introduced me to the startling notion of the 'urine' sale. This popped up several times when my back was turned, so I couldn't quite focus on the full horror of it. Could the local Howard Hugheses be clearing out their bedroom closets? Could the highway patrol be disposing of old samples? Is it an annual thing that doctors do? Are you supposed to buy your own back? Is it a special southe'n delicacy? Eventually I managed to catch it in full. It turned out to be a problem of local accents and ageing ears. They were announcing 'year end' sales. That's not nearly as interesting. I sometimes wonder if my ears play these tricks on me deliberately, just for the fun of it.

Friday 1st January 2010 - A New Year

2010-01-02T18:12:00.001-08:00

The year starts with a beautiful sunny but cold morning. Because of the party, it doesn't, at least for me, start too early. But, in a fancy hotel like this, I can get a good breakfast quite late. And I hardly have to go out-of-doors at all to get to it.

Some of the other guests from the party last night are also there, and we have a fairly lively meal. It turns out I promise to read my favourite Burns poem for them at their Burns night. That means I'll be somewhere in Southern Tennessee on the 30th January. That fits in fairly well with my plans, so I must have been more lucid than I thought last night.

The Kingdome of Raknar have a memorial cairn at the grounds of the Highland Games

[n0683]

They like to meet there at noon and remember old friends.

Then we are back to one of the cabins for a traditional New Year's Day. This involves a lunch of corn bread, black-eyed beans, and collard greens. Of course, they have masses of other things, but that seemed to be the traditional bit.

Then we settle down to watching college football. This is the day all the final 'bowl' competitions are supposed to be played. There are several of these now, so that accounts for the rest of the day.