Friday 6th November 2009 - Princes and (Pill) Poppers

          I have fallen among a nest of catholics.  I kind-of knew before I came that there had been a very special missionary here in the nineteenth century, but I didn't think it would be so obvious.  There are large brick churches everywhere. 

          There are also more bars and taverns than I've seen elsewhere.  I don't suppose there's any connection.

          All of which reminded me that I had looked up something about this missionary before I came.  I spotted him because the local State Park is named for him.  His name was Prince Demetrius Gallitzin. 

          He led a quite spectacular life.  His father was the Russian ambassador to Holland and to France. and a friend of Voltaire.  As a baby, he was cradled in the arms of Catherine the Great (I didn't really need to put in the bit about being a baby, did I?).  His mother, a German Princess, unlapsed her catholicism during a serious illness, and seems to have induced Dimitri to do the same. 

          He threw up a career in the Imperial Rusian Army to come to America and become a priest.  I think at this point his bishop found him a bit of a handful.  It is interesting to speculate about just how humble and obedient a nineteenth century Russian prince could be.  However it happened, he ended up in the Alleghenies, ministering to a tiny flock.

          In what seems like no time at all, it seems most of the population was catholic.  And to this day, breakdowns of religious affilliation show and enormous catholic spike in this neighbourhood.  He became known as the Apostle of the Alleghenies, and is on the road to sainthood.  He was clearly a very inspiring man.

   

          The place he was centred in he finally called Loretto, after the Italian pilgrimage town (although it's at the very northern edge of what is now called the Laurel Highlands).   It is in between Ebensburg, where I'm staying, and Glasgow.  I thought I would go and look.  Although a relatively small town, it has a university, a seminary, and a nunnery and two pubs.  It is very well laid out and wealthy-looking.

          But it is the latest version of the prince's church which is so outstanding

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Inside is equally spectacular

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They also have a museum (sort-of) in his chapel house.  It has a copy of his instructions to visitors

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It was noticeable that catholic grown-up ladies come with vacuum cleaners.

 

          The churchyard had stones indicating all ages and european nationalities, but I have to share one outstanding one with you

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(sorry about the indoor camera setting!)

 

          Later that night, I saw a young lady getting a good kicking.  It was in a soccer match, on TV.  Rudyard Kipling wrote a poem about it, though he was thinking of Himalayan bears, rather than football players.

          A substantial number of the ads on TV are about taking pills.  Their purpose is really to outflank the doctors.  They tell us to ask our doctors for such-and-such a pill.  The doctors have retaliated by insisting that the adverts list all the side effects, however unlikely.  This has the bizzarre effect of providing an advert for a product with long lists of how much damage it can do you.  There is one particular one for Viagra (yes, they advertise viagra on the TV here).  In its catalogue of horrors, it says to seek immediate medical help for an erection lasting more than four hours.  What's been bugging me about this is that I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere, if only I could dig it out.  Maybe it's the juxtaposition of "immediate" and "four hours"; or perhaps the medical help it for the other party?

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday 5th November 2009 - Courthouses and Cemeteries

          Cambria County boasts what must be one of the finest courthouses in America.  I have it on reliable authority that its main courtroom is among the ten biggest in the country.

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It has a 'picture postcard' look to it, but when seen from a long way, it is a very impressive sight

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Imagine the impression it must have left around the county in the nineteenth century.

 

          Today was the day for taking pictures of the founder's grave, but it was a pretty miserable day, so I decided I would hide for a while in the Historical Society, check out the scenery.  I managed to find which cemetery I wanted, and the actual plot number of the grave.

         The sun broke out for a bit, so I rushed up to Glasgow for the photo shoot.  There's a whole section of them:

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And here is the man himself

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(and, I now realise, a bit of my left foot!)

 

          Later that night, I was watching ice hockey on the TV.  Ice Hockey is the reason HD TV was invented.  It is now possible to see the puck.  The local (kind-of) Pittsburg Penguins were playing LA.  They were down 2-1 when LA got a man sent off (would you believe for fighting).  The Pens (as they are known) never looked like scoring.  In fact, if anything, LA looked like gettting another goal.

          Its really a very simple proof of the existence of God, isn't it?  Someimes you watch a sporting event, and you realise that not only is there a God, he's supporting one side.

Wednesday 4th November 2009 - Disrespecting the Dead

          I'm sure everyone has seen the Russian Forklift driver demolishing a warehouse full of vodka.  It's the sort of magnetic viewing that pops up on all news channels across the entire world.  And if, somehow, you missed it, I bet it's the most popular thing on UTube.

          There was, however, something much funnier on American TV this week, which may not not have made it across the world.  Since it involves a convicted rapist murdering countless (so far) women, it may not be in the best possible taste.  But it passes my test: it is actually funny, although very definitely in the category 'black'.

          After the arrest, and court appearances, police have recovered ten or more bodies from shallow graves, and (I don't quite know how to put this) 'bits and pieces' from the cellar.

          Then it turns out that the neighbours have been complaining for years about the smell.  The sausage factory next door (shall I pause for a moment while you rush for the bucket?) actually dug up its sewers and replaced them. 

          Perhaps our murderer should have done a Sweeney Todd.  Perhaps he did!

          You couldn't make that up, could you?

 

          One of the Glasgows was buried without dates, but still carrying his qualifications:

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I don't like making fun of innocent real people, but I really cannot resist the temptation to say this stone should actually read "my son the doctor is dead".

 

          The courthouse wasn't much fun ( that's probably why I'm making black jokes).  We're now back east with a vengeance.  The is no plat of Glasgow, as far as I can see.  And all the surveying is done in 'metes and bounds' rather than the ranges and townships of the newer states.  Out west, you can work out where somewhere is by the survey discription in the deed.  But here, you just get a jumble of lengths, directions and markers.  So you would have to be pretty experienced surveyor to see that two descriptions were the same piece of land.

          Anyway, the real story here seems to be about George L Glasgow extending his store to a Post Office, and deciding that when people wanted to buy lots nearby, he would describe them as the "Village of Glasgow", probably for promotional purposes.

 

          Later that night, I went down the bar to see the Yankees (formerly the "Highlanders") winning the World series.  But there were two grown-up ladies sitting beside me discussing how awful it had been leaving their men: "I sat in that trailer, crying my eyes out, thinking nobody would ever want me again" sort of stuff.  I quite forgot about the baseball.  What was so entrancing was the way they talked as though I wasn't there.  At some points I almost believed myself that I wasn't there.

          It turned out, at the end of the evening, that they were working out what was the best advice to give a daughter on how to do the same thing.  Oh, and the Yankees won.

Tuesday 3rd November 2009 - A Small Packet of Fudge

          One of the benefits of church on Sunday was the gifts afterwards.  The lady who cornered me into going - no, that's not fair: who induced my visit - was handing out fudge rations.  Only just emerging from the Octoberfast, I packed mine away for gradual consumption.  But actually, I feel pigging is better that moderate consumption.  If I overdo it, there's just a chance that some of the calories will escape unconsumed.  I have just tested that theory with the fudge: very nice, too.

 

          I'm now in a new town, and have to find all the necessities of life: somewhere for breakfast, a nice boozer to walk to, and a decent supply of grown-up ladies.  So far I've failed to find a breakfast place, but the hotel does a free carbs-and-coffee offering, which might have to do.  There does seem to be one boozer in town, right in the centre: I found people drinking there at four in the afternoon: that's promising, isn't it? 

          But the main item on the agenda is the grown-up ladies.  I have to find a library and a historical society.  To my surprise, the library doesn't open till the middle of the afternoon, but the historical society is just across the road, in a delightful what-Americans-like-to-call-Victorian mansion, built by a local banker.  Apparently, it had got to be a nunnery before the HS got it.  It has the necessary local histories, and the duty grown-up lady digs out the Post Office History for me. 

         It's another Post Office.  I'm not going to find out much till I get to the Post Office archive in DC.  But I do my best to dig out ancestors and wives' names.  This are another set of Scots, who are required ot call everybody by the same name.  Ancestors, dates, and wives' names might turn out to be useful.

 

          Waiting for the library to open, I went back to Glasgow to retake the faulty pictures from yesterday.  Of course, they won't be as good, just the right colour.

Monday 2nd November 2009 - From Borough to Village

          I almost forgot the Sheriff's arm patch, so I had to stop at the courthouse again before leaving town.  The sheriff was busy, but one of his deputies was ever so helpful.  He even wished me success on the rest of my trip.  But I still find find talking to someone wearing a gun very inhibiting.

          Dulcie surprised me by choosing an interstate-free route (I've found a way of checking on her before we start).  Actually, this turns out not to mean very much, since the quality of the road seems to be independent of its route name.  In fact, some roads carry several routes (sometimes in different directions - one can be going south on Pennsylvania-something and east on US-something at one and the same time).  But always American road engineers are in love with concrete, so one has to give a disproportionate amount of attention to looking out for cracks and holes.

          I'm never very interested in the scenery, but, just for the record, the trees are now nearly all bare.  Except for the evergreens, of course, which are, em, as ever, green.

 

          My autumn fast had lasted an extra day.  Surprisingly, out of choice, rather than because it was Sunday.  Perhaps going to church does that to a person.  Anyway, I like to weigh myself at the end, just to make sure I haven't done to much damage (ha, ha).  A proper weighing requires the removal of clothes, so there is a certain difficulty with using weighing machines in the local pharmacy.  I have devised a cunning plan where I add a pair of shoes to the requisite selection of dirty laundry, and weigh that as well.

          Unfortunately, my plan comes to naught, because I can't find a public weighing machine anywhere.  I suppose most people here who need to weigh themselves would not be willing to do it in public.  But it sets me a problem.  Perhaps I could sneak into someone's house and do it.  How do you think that would sound to the men with guns?  "I'm sorry, officer, I was just weighing this dirty laundry".

 

          My first view of this new Glasgow involved another mistake.  On the last use of the camera, I had told it we were in incandescent light.  So it added a nice wash of blue over everything.   I shall have to redo them for the record, but in the meantime, look at the comparison between Beaver County

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and Cambria County 

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          This one runs to a Post Office, so this is the actual "Glasgow, PA"

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(notice the coded reference to strong drink!).

Even if the Pennsylvania Department of Transport doesn't know how to spell it (perhaps the signwriter had been at the Kronenberg!).

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Sunday 1st November 2009 - A Visit to Church in Glasgow

          The United Methodist Church in Glasgow calls itself the "Smith's Ferry United Methodist Church".  It's because the Post Office was originally in Smith's Ferry, and when it moved to Glasgow, it kept that name.  So, naturally, people gave their address as "Smith's Ferry", because that's what they had to say to get the mail delivered.

          They managed to muster 12 worshippers, which isn't bad, considering there aren't many more houses than that in the Borough.  The Pastor was late, because he has two other church services on a Sunday morning.  Methodists sing nice songs, and it turned out the pianist was the mayor's wife.  I gave her the letter and banner from the Lord Provost.  She promised she would get him to reply.  Somehow that seems more reassuring than getting the undertaking from a mere secretary.

          I was introduced to the oldest inhabitant.  He is 85, and remembered lots of buildings which simply aren't there any more.  Actually, there aren't very many buildings left at all.

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          Talk turned to the election of borough officers on Tuesday.  Since there are only a handful of voters, they simply have blank ballots, and 'write-in' votes. They weren't sure that they would get enough people to do the job.  The sermon had been about Jonah,and his attempt to avoid a duty given him.  I had the effrontery to suggest that they should pay attention to how it applied to them.

          The main problems they have are the water supply, which can dry-up in the summer, and flooding, since they are right down on the flood plain.  At regular intervals, they can join with the Ancient Mariner and cry "Water, Water everywhere, nor any drop to drink."  A poem written at just the time the founder of this Glasgow was arriving at this place.  Although in those days thay certainly could have, and would have drunk from the Ohio.  I wonder if they still can.  It seems very industrial now:

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Saturday 31st October 2009 - A Little More About Ezekiel

           I stopped in what is now my usual spot in Beaver Falls for breakfast.  As I settled into my book, a group of young men, accompanied by an older man, sat down at a nearby table.  When their food arrived, they indulged in an unnecesarily loud grace.  Well, it's a free country.  When they finished, the older man led them through a bible lesson, at "preacher" volume.  They seemed, otherwise, nice enough people, but it's really the people who assert their rights like this who help form the constituency which ultimately acquiesses in their removal, isn't it?

 

           Then it was off to the Historical Centre in the Carnegie Library to see what I could dig up about the Rev. Ezekiel Glasgow.  Saturday seems to a day for gentlemen volunteers.  There wasn't a grown-up lady in sight.  Gentlemen just like to help in a different way, don't they?  It's all a bit more, how can I put it, competitive, isn't it?  One of them liked to tell stories about the 18th century Pennsylvania frontier wars (it said so on his card).  He knew this wasn't what I wanted to hear about, but, just sometimes, a switch got tripped, and he couldn't stop himself.  Of course, it was very interesting, practiced, and enjoyable.  But I kept having thoughts about it being Saturday, and them shutting early.

          Ezekiel was appointed minister of the Beavertown and Salem (Presbyterian) church in 1813, and promptly upped and died in eight months.  But he was a 'licenciate' of New Lisbon (where I've just come from in Ohio) presbytery.  And he ministered among the people throughout the area, including, in particular, Ohio Township, where Glasgow was to come into being, for some 12 months before his appointment.  Glasgow Presbyterian Church was founded and built some 35 years after his death, on land donated by George Dawson, who platted Glasgow back in the 1830s, when the canal was coming.  It was attached to the New Lisbon Presbytery. 

          George and Ezekiel would have been the same age.  They must surely have met.  When George laid out the town, petitioned for it to be a borough, and formed a church, where else could he have got the name?  And what impression must George have carried through the years of a friend fated to be forever young?

 

          Later that night, in the local cafe, I was joined by the owner.  The cafe specialises in 'kolaches', a Czechoslovakian delicacy.  It is a high-carb cross between a cake and a pasty.  Not having quite made the full thirty-one days yet, I was unable to try one.  I deflected criticism by making him choose whether it was, in the modern world, Czech or Slovakian.

          But what he really wanted to know was whether I knew what a "Glasgow Kiss" was.  I'm not sure whether he was checking out the veracity of some tale he had been told, or thought I might not know.  So I entertained him with the Music Hall preamble of "Can your mother sew?"