Saturday 8th August 2009 – A Hot Day

A great many buildings here have very ornate ceilings.  I had naturally assumed they were moulded plaster, but I'm told they're usually pressed tinplate.  It must have been a big business a century or more ago.  And it would have been quite skilful getting the standard sizes they must have come in to fit a room in a regular pattern.  I expect they do it in plastic now, if they do it at all.

 

It is getting much too hot.  Since everywhere is air-conditioned, it's hard to tell what the weather is like before I go out.  I have to go out before I go out, if you see what I mean.

This is the same latitude as Madrid and Rome, but I think the continental climate (rummaging about in distant memories of geography lessons) means it can get a lot hotter.  And it has today.

I still haven't mastered how to dress for this.  Basically, I want to go out in clothes that serve as factor-100 sun-screen.  But, eventually I have to step inside, and then I need my thermals.  I need to dress like an Arab outdoors, and an Eskimo indoors.

I think the ideal arrangement would be if bars and restaurants had a doorman operating a flexible tunnel, like they use to get on and off aeroplanes.  They could hold it against the car, and I could step from one controlled environment to another.

Since I spend more time indoors than out, I just accept being far too hot when I'm out, so that I can be comfortable when I'm in.

 

I managed to spend some time today with the bandleader from last night.  I was out organising my Mediterranean lifestyle, and it turned out he was doing the same.  They enjoy me sounding British, so I tried to dredge up the language of my old latin master, and asked him if he was carried shoulder-high from the scene of his triumph last night (my latin master spoke like that all the time).  "Of course, of course", he says, waving his arm graciously.  They had been kept at it till after one. 

          I have found another good local brewery.  It's only 'local' in the American sense that it's in the same state.  It's Millstream, from Amana, about a hundred and fifty miles north of here.  When I look it up later, I realise it's quite close to the 'historical' Glasgow I'm going to next, on the outskirts of Waterloo.

They don't keep it too cold, so I am soon wafted off to the Mediterranean.

Friday 7th August 2009 – Big Dusty Books and Old Writing

They have pretty serious storms here in the Mid-West. One back in Missouri took the power out for several hours. We had a fairly noisy night last night, but no apparent damage.

The nice Californian genealogical ladies (when I use that adjective about ladies I'm always worried I've spelled it wrong) were worried at breakfast about getting back to the library. Their racial stereotyping lobes told them that I had an umbrella concealed about my person, which, of course, was true. I told them loftily that my Stetson had been rolled for me by an expert in Montana, so as to protect me from the rain. But I took my umbrella anyway.

They wee a bit miffed to discover I was going to the Courthouse. There is a particular joy in finding that somebody kept a record of things a hundred-and-eighty years ago, and wrote it all down; in great big dusty leather-bound books; in copperplate.

It turned out I was looking for the second book in the series: and it wasn't where it was supposed to be. We eventually spotted it standing in a corner. It was the wrong size, and too big for the shelves.

I think these records were copied out laboriously for people who wanted their deeds entered into the court record. There don't seem to be as many as you would expect. And they seem to have a lot of errors in them.

But the thing that really surprises me is that the writing is so bad. There is the odd spot, here and there, that looks just like an old Bank of England fiver, but mostly it is very difficult to decrypt. Sometimes, I think, they didn't really understand what they were copying (or the original was also badly written), and the words aren't quite right.

Anyway, having found the book I wanted, all I then had to do was turn to the page the index said, and there, copied out one-hundred-and-sixty-nine years ago, was the plat map of Glasgow, IA:

[6296]

"from", as it says, "Thomas Miller and Ephraim Glasgow and Co".

Mind you, little more that a year later, in November 1841, Miller seemed to sell nearly the whole place, and, not long after that (I forgot to write the date down!), Glasgow, by this time in Dearborn County, way over on the Ohio/Kentucky edge of Indiana, is selling a piece to Miller.

So this place got called "Glasgow" sort-of 'en-passant', as though it hardly mattered what it was called.

Later that night, I went out to listen to the band. The local band is called the Jefferson County Green Band, and they were playing in the Red Rock Saloon. It followed in my mind, therefore, that they must be a blues band. But they weren't.

A young lady who seemed to be a groupie told me it was 'classic rock'. I told her that the early set seemed to me to be more 'tobacco-road-meets-bob-marley' but she wasn't impressed. What do I know, anyway.

I had to go outside to hear them clearly. My ears simply refuse to work at that volume. Then they seemed quite good. (A bit like the bagpipes, really.) Then the police came by, to enact a little play on the main square with a young man who had been flaunting a sports car at them, and the bar owner made me go back inside with my beer. So I had to go home

Thursday 6th August 2009 – Just for the Record

Fairfield Library is full of lovely grown-up ladies digging up their ancestors.  When I mentioned a name, they gleefully suggested a website called "findagrave".  It all seemed a bit macabre to me. 

They were a little puzzled that I wanted to dig up an old town.  I explained that ancestors were really too personal: a town was a much more comfortable abstract idea, much more history than genealogy.

Before I knew where I was, they had showered me with appropriate books.  Grown-up ladies are suckers for the 'little boy lost' routine.  In minutes I had a whole day's reading ahead of me.

There is something quite satisfying about reading quietly in grown-up company.  Especially if everyone is researching something of no possible interest to the others: hours of quiet pleasure.  I even missed lunch (although, as a result of American breakfasts, I do that quite often).

 

Glasgow was set-up about 1840, by a couple of traders called Miller and Glasgow.  One can only guess at why it was called "Glasgow" rather than some variant of "Miller" (Millerston, in Glasgow, Scotland was where my school sports ground was, so it's not a terribly awkward name).

It was never very big.  It never got incorporated, never had a mayor, or police.  But by the end of the nineteenth century it appears to have run to a school, two churches, two doctors, two blacksmiths and a post office.  There were even Masons' and Oddfellows' lodges, and no doubt several stores.

By the nineteen-thirties, the Fairfield Ledger was extolling the virtues of Glasgow Airport.   They named it as somebody's "field", as they like to in the United States, but I feel, in this case that that may have been exactly what it was.

It seems to have faded rapidly in the late fifties, early sixties, no doubt in common with similar-sized communities all over America (and Europe, too, come to think of it).  If you look at it now, it's a sad thing to have happened, but it was inevitable.  People prefer their Wal-mart to the village store.  Of course they say they prefer the village store, but they sneak off to Wal-mart 'cos it's cheap.

 

One of the books I read ("read" is a bit of an exaggeration) was written about 2002 by Amber Aplara.  I think she wrote it as a High School or College Project, and if that is true it was really, really good.

Later that night, I was regaling some unfortunate with my story, when the young lady sitting next to me (out on a girls' night: "he's looking after the little one") suddenly said: "Did you say 'Glasgow'?  I live in Glasgow" (we're in Fairfield: Glasgow is about 12 miles away).  Now I've just been reading through the history of this small place, so I want to know her name: "No, your second name".  And, believe it or believe it not, she says "Aplara".  Amber turns out to be her husband's cousin.  And she thinks Amber is coming to visit next week.  How about that, eh?

Wednesday 5th August 2009 – North to Iowa

It only took three hours to get from Glasgow MO to Glasgow IA. Dulcie was determined to make me go and look at the Mississippi on the way, but I have become quite artful at distracting her with intermediate points to make her do it my way. She was obviously unaware that US 63 and US 34 had been significantly improved. At one point on 34, she refused to admit the road existed at all, and believed us to be spinning miles off-road in the middle of nowhere, shouting "recalculating, recalculating" over and over again. I have decided it's a mistranslation, and she is actually trying to say "repent".

..........It does illustrate, however, that the four hours of overnight brain surgery I indulged on her in Minneapolis did no good at all. But even if the poor old girl doesn't know where we are, and won't always choose a sensible route, she does let me see her map, so I know where we are.

Women! They insist you look at maps, then keep trying to tell you you're getting it wrong.

.

Glasgow, Iowa, is now a sleepy crossroads hamlet of about eleven houses. But it used to be somewhere: it's supposed to be the first settlement in Jefferson County, two counties away from the Mississippi:

[6285]

While I was taking photos, a farmer came by and stopped to talk. He was, maybe, in his fifties. He said he could remember the gas station, the store, the doctor's house, and the telephone operator's house (you had to wake her (he said "her") to make a call out-of-hours). The town seems to have degenerated quite rapidly in the late fifties, early sixties. If this (untypical, but irresistible) example is anything to go by, it degenerated quite rapidly:

[6288]

..........Here we are looking down Unicorn Avenue into Glasgow, from the Glasgow Road (County Road 46). The roads are still signposted "First Street", "Second Street", and so on.

[6290]

..........Tomorrow, I shall see what the county library has to say about what it used to be like.

.

Later that night, I made a foray into downtown Fairfield, the county seat. There appeared to be only one bar (Fairfield has a population of about 10,000, but is much influenced by the Maharishi University). The instant I stepped though the door, a man at the bar looked straight at me and said "come outside and fight me". The racial stereotyping lobe of my brain instantly identified him as Irish. Thickening my accent, as one does in these circumstances, I asked him if he knew what a Glasgow Kiss was, hoping his racial stereotyping lobe was up-to-date.

That little bit of male bonding having been taken care of, we fell into each other's arms. Well, he fell, I wasn't in falling mode till much later. He insisted on his friend buying me a drink.

He claimed to be German, not Irish. Actually, of course, he was American, but Americans have this strange need to have a nationality, as well as being American.

I let him get on with that while I updated and rebooted my racial stereotyping module. Actually it's a good job I got it wrong: if I'd got it right, I might have mentioned the war.

Tuesday 4th August 2009 – A Great Sporting Moment

The Volunteer Fire Department in Glasgow, West Virginia had to shut down over the weekend.  They had been notified that their staff liability insurance had run out.  They tried to contact the insurance company, but it was Saturday, and nobody was home (or, rather, everybody was at home).  The fire chief couldn't risk the volunteers, just in case.  So he had to pass their responsibilities to the county volunteers.

Of course, it was a computer error. 

The Insurance Company is called Brickhouse.  Am I the only one who finds that funny?

 

Later that night, we were watching the Cards (that's the St Louis Cardinals, the local Baseball team) playing the New York Mets.  They weren't doing very well.

But as the evening wore on, the bar got quieter and quieter, as the Cards began to pull back.  Until everyone was riveted to the screen.

The game came to a magic climax.  Let me try to explain it to you non-baseball fans.

The Cards were batting at the top of the tenth.  That means they're away from home (they bat first), and that they're playing extra time (the game was a tie at the end of the regular nine innings).

Albert Pujols, the greatest hitter in the current game, steps up to the plate.

The bases are loaded.  That means there is a cardinal payer on every base.  If he makes a good hit, they are going to score.

He is on two strikes.  Everybody, even people who know nothing of baseball, know that "three strikes and you're out".  He has one strike left.

The Cards already have two out.  That means the innings ends if he is struck out or caught.  This is absolutely the maximum pressure on both the hitter and the pitcher.  Everyone in the bar can vouch for the fact that no pins were dropped, since we would all have heard them.

And he hits a home run: he runs in the three players on base, and, of course, himself, which is called a 'Grand Slam': the Cards are now four runs up.  The Mets will have to score at least four in the bottom of the tenth just to stay in the game.  Which, of course, they fail to do.

The cream on the cake for these Mid-Westerners was that it was New York who got it stuck to them.  There is an especial pleasure in beating New York, particularly with such style, particularly in New York.  They all went home feeling really, really good.  And so did I.

 

I'm all packed up and ready to go.  At crack-of-dawn, I shall be off to Iowa.  That was a really good night to end my stay.

Monday 3rd August 2009 – Beware of Asking for a Kiss in a Foreign Language

Having got myself roughly organised for departure, I thought it time to take myself and my six-pack to say farewell to some people who have been especially hospitable.  You can do that here: "Don't be a stranger", they say, "call by when you like."  So I did.

And very welcoming they were too: put my six-pack straight in the fridge.  And we talked of travels done, travels being done, and, most importantly, travels yet to do.

We exchanged stories of the history of any number of Glasgows.  I had some copies of papers I took at the Western Heritage Manuscript Collection, which I had no need to take with me.  They pulled out papers and books and pictures from their family collection, which goes back to the beginning of this Glasgow.

As we were getting into our stride, the cellar door opened, and a young man came out and sat down with us: without any word of explanation.  I was reminded of that wonderful Emo joke about being told by his parents never to open the cellar door, but when he inevitably did, he discovered there was daylight outside, and lots of people.  Since they didn't seem to see anything unusual about it, I thought I'd better not, either.

Then it happened again: "do you have a supply of young persons I your cellar?" I asked.  They explained that that was the way in from the parking space round the back.  Which was not nearly such a good story.

 

The subject turned to the extraordinary amount of roadkill one sees here.  I confessed to having killed a squirrel on the way there.  This seemed to meet with general approval: apparently there are a lot of people who go out of their way to kill squirrels.

I said that it seemed to me that the problem was that the squirrels were not actually crossing the road, but stopped in the middle, presumably indulging in a bit of cannibalism.  But the prevailing view was that squirrels were herbivores.

"In which case", I said, "the ones I hit must be undertaker squirrels, out there measuring up, or collecting dog-tags".

 

As the evening meandered to its conclusion, and people who had work to do felt that must be preceded by an adequate amount of bed, it came time to take my farewells.  One of the soon-to-be-grown-up ladies suggested that, in the circumstances, a nice Glasgow kiss might be appropriate.  I told her that would not be at all a good idea, if she wanted to go to work tomorrow.

For my American readers, I will explain:  Glaswegians (as natives of Glasgow, Scotland are known) have a reputation, among the effete English, for pre-emptive violence.  We accept this entirely unmerited reputation, because, truth to tell, it has a certain utility in difficult situations.

Anyway, the archetypal act of violence which defines this mythical Glaswegian, is known throughout England as the 'Glasgow Kiss'.  It is a manoeuvre which involves stepping forward, and bringing your forehead smartly down on the bridge of the other party's nose.  Correctly executed, it produces temporary blindness, a broken nose, and, usually, copious amounts of blood; without the perpetrator suffering any pain at all.

I suggested a French kiss might be better, but the looks I got suggested that that was viewed in much the same light.  So we settled on the international standard 'mwah, mwah' air kiss.  Not quite

Ae Fond Kiss and then we sever

Ae fareweel and then forever

But it will just have to do.

Sunday 2nd August 2009 – A Great Spectator Sport

There is an organisation here a bit like the BBC.  It's called National Public Radio, NPR for short.  Rozzie doesn't have a satellite radio, which allows you to listen to one station as you drive across the vast distances of this country, but NPR is available most places I've been.  I have to keep retuning every twenty miles or so, but it does seem to work better than a cell phone out in the sticks.

Most of its programming is available at http://www.npr.org .  Yesterday morning I was enjoying "Wait, Wait … Don't Tell Me!", which is a bit like the BBC's "News Quiz".  At the moment, I'm listening to something uniquely NPR, the Del McCoury band's session yesterday at the Newport Folk Festival (where I learned 'Quarters' a few months back).  This is Bluegrass music at it's best.

Of course, there is one major difference between NPR and the BBC: whereas the BBC has billions coming out of its ears, NPR is as poor as a church mouse.  It seems to spend half its life begging from its listeners.

 

I have discovered another great American spectator sport, to stand alongside baseball: it's gambling.  I was talking the other day about watching the poor souls chained to their fruit machines.  But, in another part of the casino you will hear a lot of whooping and hollering.  If you head towards the noise, you will find the Craps tables.  This is sport, indeed: with seriously active audience participation.  The casino needs four people to run each table.  And they have to change them frequently (they march a new team in, just like Buckingham Palace) to avoid them going native, and joining in the fun.

Like baseball, it's pretty obscure, unless you study the rules and have a good idea what's going on.  Of course, it's pretty 'hardball', as they like to say here: you would risk serious injury to your wallet if you joined in without knowing what you're doing. 

Fortunately, in the internet age, there are any number of sites where you can play online, and most of them seem to offer a free training area, where they give you pretend money, and you pretend to lose it (what am I saying – you actually lose it!).  But you can doggedly follow some betting strategy until you have some understanding of what the players are doing.  I can't quite understand why they give you this experience, since it's certainly made clear to me just how fast the pretend money can go south while I'm having fun.

The conventional wisdom has it that the name comes from the French crapaud, a toad, in case you thought it a purely American origin.  What it has to do with toads, I can't imagine, but that's what the French called their version of the old English Hazard, which is where it has its origins.

 

Did you know American beer has no protein, and no fat.  It solemnly lists all the contents, declaring there to be 0.00% protein and fat.  Which comes as a relief , at least to me.  But they don't (usually) tell you how much alcohol there is in it.  Doesn't make sense, does it?