Daniel Webster’s Year Abroad

Is This England?

“Is this England, Daddy?” asked Charlie, our three-year old as the airplane landed.

John, our oldest boy, who had been literally shaking with fright all the way from San Diego said, “No, Charlie, this is Phoenix.”

Then Charlie asked Tom, our seven-year old, “Did you see the toy cows down there just before we landed?”

And agreeable Tom said he had. So started our trip to spend a year studying in Cambridge.

Actually of course it started much earlier, when I applied for my fellowship. Not much was said to the five boys then because of the odds on chances the fellowship wouldn’t be granted.

I suppose we can say the trip started six months earlier, 4 December ‘58. On this day, one day before I expected to be on pins and needles awaiting the outcome of my application, the phone rang at work during my noon hour. The phone always seems to ring during our relaxation period after lunch, and right in the middle of our dart game. In fact we had gotten in the habit of taking it off the hook, since nobody took seriously my solution for telephones, namely that all telephones the world over be connected to make outgoing calls only.

Anyway the phone rang and after letting it ring long enough to find out it was an “outside” call, I finally answered it. You see calls from inside the laboratory had regular rings since they worked off the automatic switchboard while outside calls were handled by an operator who rang longer and seemingly louder, the longer you tarried in picking up the phone.

Back to the call. It was Mary, my wife, who seemed to know exactly when our dart game was in progress. Although she phoned only about once every second week she always caught us at darts. So I wondered which boy had just broken our kitchen window again. But no, she said I had a letter from Washington. This was really not too surprising, my mother lived there, I work as a scientist for the navy and they have some sort of office in Washington. I couldn’t yet see what occasioned the phone call, and anyway it was my turn to throw the darts. Then she said it was from the National Science Foundation. That stopped the dart game, but as a disinterested spectator I asked if she had opened the letter and she allowed as she had. From the obvious lack of enthusiasm I figured I needn’t ask her any more questions. But with obvious relish she stated was just a form letter. I had expected a form letter telling me the sad news but thought it would come to me at the laboratory the following day. I figured successful candidates would receive long distance phone calls and duffers like me form letters.

So with dejected resignation I asked the final unnecessary question, what did it say? Never raising her voice once she read “you have been selected as a Senior Post Doctoral Fellow and will begin your tenure on or about 1 July at Cambridge University.”

Even Mary couldn’t pull that serious a hoax on me so I just about believed what she read must be so. After a stunned period of dead silence I finally quizzed her again and she continued “details follow.”

On returning home that afternoon John 10, Tom 6, Bill 5, Charles 2, and Dan, that is Daniel Webster age 6 months, were beaming from ear to ear. Charles wanted to know if he could take his tricycle to England, which he figured must be as far as Uncle Harold’s, 10 miles away.

Then came the hard work. Johnny wouldn’t fly across the ocean no matter what, and all tourist space on ships in June was already taken; solution we go by ship in May.

Our up-to-date cars, ‘40 Dodge and ‘49 Pontiac Station Wagon wouldn’t get us, not with my nerves, all the way across the United States; solution fly to Iowa, visit relatives and filter on to east coast.

If flying, our present luggage was too heavy; solution buy new light-weight luggage.

To see Europe with 5 small boys on scientist’s earnings cheap transportation and lodging would be needed; solution order a Volkswagen Microbus complete with camping equipment. This required correspondence to Germany where the camping equipment installers decided we should have their longest luggage rack for “with these many boys you will have much luggage”.

Getting rid of our cars and arranging to rent the house were just part of the logistics problems encountered.

The boys’ rolling stock, 4 bicycles, 4 tricycles, wagons, scooters, 4 baby buggy wheels, etc., also had to be loaned out.

We decided to have mom and four smallest boys on one passport. The photographer earned her money that day. A witness was needed on our passport application (and our friends have children too) so seven of us plus another mother and two children started off to the court house. It so happened passports and marriage licenses were issued in adjacent offices and the passport lady was gone when we arrived. The marriage license lady was handling passports. It didn’t occur to us that this created quite a sight to the sailors and their girls who came after we had been ushered into the marriage license office. I saw a few whispered conversations and felt awfully sinful somehow but we did get our passports.

Actually we gave the oldest car to Harrell and Dion Hurt, some church friends (at least they were our friends) with instructions “If it lasts till we get back we want it back, if it doesn’t it has long since paid for itself.” As a matter of fact, like Old Ironsides or the One Hoss Shay that car never gave a moment’s trouble and on many occasions we used it to get our new (1949) car and many other new cars started.

The station wagon we gave to the church as our pledge for the rest of the year and besides “with these many boys” I hadn’t the time to try to pawn it off on any one anyway.

Finally:

T’WAS THE EVE OF DEPARTURE

T’was the eve of departure

And all through the night

Was poor mama at packing

With morning in sight

The children were tossing

Too warm in their beds

While dread visions of’ flying

Thrashed through their heads.

At first there was flying

And relations to see

Then miles of driving

And a ship cross the sea.

Since the flying was first

And the bags need be light

With five children to pack for

Did mom have a fight.

To get clothing and playthings

For one year abroad

She was sorting and stowing

And would not be awed.

When out on the porch

There arose such a clatter

That we stopped all our work

To see what was the matter.

There were neighbors and church friends

With candy galore

And we sat and we chatted

Till back to the chore.

From seven to thirteen

The bags did increase

And then to our sorrow

We just had to cease.

Then laying our fingers

Aside us in bed

And getting two nods

Up for traveling we sped.

We looked like some peddlers

Just closing our packs

When up got the children

For breakfast and snacks.

Our friends now arrived

In two cars for to carry

Our family and baggage

Down to the air ferry.

As into the terminal

The bags they did carry

The agent just smiled

And said “Please do not tarry.”

Although overweight

And completely befuddled

We parted from friends

While our Danny was cuddled.

As we got on the plane

And prepared to depart

We said to our friends

“Goodbye” from the heart.

Above the Clouds

After our first stop in England and a walk in the hot Phoenix sun (and a trip to the restrooms) we were off again for Denver. The feel of solid ground did wonders for John and he almost enjoyed the next leg of the trip. He even looked out the window. The boys got one of their few views of snow as we crossed the Rockies. They were quite fascinated. What concerned me however was the fact that we were a half hour late and we had a half-hour plane connection to make in Denver.

Originally it was an hour and a half wait and I figured this would give us time to eat lunch. However, that great institution Daylight Savings Time came into effect two weeks before departure. United changed their clocks but not their schedules thereby advancing their flights an hour (by the clock). Western flew by the sum and changed both clock and schedules so we left a clock hour later than planned. Now we were a half hour late so I gave up the idea of eating. I began wondering how to notify our relatives from Des Moines who were going to pick us up at Omaha that we might be slightly (about 4 hours) late. Of course, I couldn’t work up a first-class stew complete with anti-acid stomach pills because Charlie, now perched on my lap, kept wondering what all those buttons were above our seats. I just became aware of his curiosity when the Stewardess showed up and asked us if she could be of assistance. I could think of fifty dozen things she could do; answer Charlie’s questions, get the candy off of Bill’s jacket, calm John’s nerves, or rock Dan to sleep. However, I answered in the negative and wondered what brought her along at this time. After all she had already made John, Tom and Bill Honorary Pilots and since the management miscalculated on the ratio of boys to girls in the “children’s emergency packet for stewardesses” she had made Oblivious Charlie Honorary Stewardess. They wore their badges proudly.

She left with a somewhat bewildered expression only to appear again ten minutes later. About now it dawned on me why she was “on call” and it dawned on me that maybe I wasn’t aware that she had been called. So five cups of milk were distributed all around. Then I told Charlie you don’t just punch every button you see (as I turned off the seat lights.) I was just telling him for the twentieth time that the plane was not going to fall out of the sky when the “Fasten Seat Belts” light went on. After getting him fastened in I had to start the old routine again that this was not England but Denver.

As the door was opened the gateman said “all passengers for Omaha follow me”. We joined, in fact we were the greater part of, the parade (as well as being the least disciplined). Except for six well distributed single seats the new plane was already filled with impatient passengers. John found a seat well forward, Tom well aft, Bill amidships, Mom and Dan were inseparable in a single seat, the stewardesses gave up their double seats to Charlie and me. This was, of course, to be expected but nevertheless I was a little annoyed. I am a 100,000 miler on United and had made reservations weeks in advance. In the past I had often been quite put out at seeing double seats roped off “Reserved for People Traveling Together”, and thought this would be my time to benefit by their custom. But, in any case we were lucky that they waited for us.

In fact the wait had just begun. It seems there was one more seat and two potential passengers. A corporal on emergency leave and a woman who for some reason preferred stopping at Omaha, Milwaukee, Cleveland, and Philadelphia before arriving at New York instead of transferring to a plane that left one half hour later but arrived in New York non stop an hour earlier. After much persuasion (80 minutes worth) and promises of many telegrams, etc. she was convinced, the corporal got on, and we took off.

The candy we had received before take-off now became our lunch and Charlie and I dozed off. I was awakened by some well-known bumps and looked out to see clouds and rain. Luckily we were close to Omaha but not close enough. I looked around to spot Tom and saw an ashen-gray face, an anxious stranger, and a hurrying stewardess. We were strapped in for landing and I could do nothing. In fact, upon landing we couldn’t compete with the crowds and had to wait for the plane to clear before we could get to Tom and help him gain his composure. We sent John off to tell our relatives we would be along (but of course he didn’t recognize them nor they him). However, we soon got off, met our relatives and while I guarded our thirteen pieces baggage my uncle and cousin went off for their cars to get us (and bags) loaded into.

Many hours, words, miles, chicken dinners and rain drops later we were carrying thirteen bags and two boys into a large farm house in the middle of Iowa. The slightest touch on the locks of the largest bag caused it to pop open of its own accord. Then John’s green, Tom’s purple, Bill’s blue, Charlie’s red, and Dan’s yellow cloth sacks with sleepers, socks and underwear were duly issued. It didn’t take long to get Tom and Bill settled in bed in an upstairs room.

Charlie and Dan were now awake and had discovered the staircase. They proceeded to explore this novel new plaything. Charlie confided that he liked this England. John soon gave up and finally only the 2 oldest and 2 youngest remained awake. The oldest on habit alone, the youngest to run off the undissipated energy resulting from being cooped up all day inside moving vehicles.

Finally welcome sleep came only to be rudely interrupted by Iowa’s famous thunder and lightning storms. Luckily all boys slept through it except Charlie and he wanted to go home to San Diego right now. We had lived in California long enough now to have five “native sons” and they hardly knew of thunder and lightning and we had forgotten how frightening such a storm can be. The lightning lit the room well even if only sporadically but the noise, Charlie’s was continuous. We could occasionally hear the thunder above Charlie and we could sympathize with him in his desire to “go home”.

So ended our first day, and our first 2000 miles. There is nothing like a three year old’s cry wanting to go home to make you wonder about the wiseness of the decision to tear up seven roots, five young ones, and transplant them for a year. At this point four were oblivious, one was vocally and two were tacitly doing some serious thinking about home in the placid air-conditioned state on the Pacific. And more than 4000 miles yet to go and sixteen months. Wonder what the ‘49’ers thought after a month’s travel westward?

Farmer Jones

The boys loved the farm, although farms aren’t what they used to be. Whereas I rode the horses as they pulled the corn cultivator, the boys rode with Uncles Art and Glen on the tractor. In fact, John made a quarter “helping” Uncle Art on his tractor pull a car out of the ditch (after the rain).

Long before any sensible Pacific Timers (only 1 day but 2 hours removed) should be getting out of bed, the Central Timers and three boy Pacific Timers were up romping around. What with hay lofts, mud, cellars, mud, tractors, mud, a real working pump (water, that is), more mud to explore and develop, there was no time to tarry in bed. So when we got navigating again the boys already had gone through one breakfast and one change of clothing (mud, you know). Before lunch all the pigeons had been frightened out of the hayloft ten times, the squeak had almost been worn out of the pump, the cellar had been explored and discoveries of potatoes, pickles, and mouse traps made, and Charlie had gone exploring, quite unknown to anyone else. We soon became aware of a curious lack of youthful continuous questioning and decided someone must be missing. Sure enough Tom spotted him giving the neighbors hens a good chase. Charlie had never wandered off before, but, of course, he hadn’t the provocation. He found the “chicklies” on the neighbors farm, a quarter of a mile down the road, quite more attractive than the large rather over-friendly dog at Uncle Arts.

A trip to Uncle Glens found more wonders of the world, cows, not the milking kind, the eating kind, and pigs and chicklies. But still the dairy delivered milk, butter, and eggs to the door. It wasn’t like the good old days.

However, one thing hadn’t changed. Wherever there are pigs there is mud not just ordinary mud but hog wallows. And wherever there is mud and boys, especially city boys, there is magnetism. We soon heard a wail and looked out to see a boy, it turned out to be Bill, already tarred waiting to be feathered.

To say he was covered with mud was doing him an injustice, he was dripping mud. He had done the pigs one better. He wasn’t out of action long.

One of my cousins was old fashioned enough to milk cows and gather eggs and this saved the day. We arrived late, (with five boys you usually arrive late), and the eggs had already been gathered. But since little boys with big eyes don’t come often, they ungathered some eggs and took the boys around to regather them. Our orientation seemed to fail on Charlie on two points. Why don’t the chicklies eat the eggs? He couldn’t be convinced that “hens lay eggs for gentlemen” to eat and not for hens to eat. A similar misunderstanding occurred with milk and cows. Charlie saw little calves drinking milk from a bucket and wondered why they bothered to feed the older cows corn, oats and hay. Why not milk? He obviously had ideas of his own about perpetual motion.

Another aunt and uncle ran a small town variety store complete with cap guns, squirt guns, jaw crackers, milk shakes, and of course books (coloring and reading). We had never bought guns, cowboy outfits, hula hoops, nor Davy Crockett hats for the boys. We figured, and quite correctly, that Christmas and birthdays, relatives and friends, would see to it that our boys would be boys. And so the blanket invitation, one toy for each boy, caused quite a raid on the arsenal armory. We drew the line on squirt guns, the range is too great, the missile too dangerous. But we did hear bangs and saw assorted gun play for many a day.

So much for Iowa. We left dad’s folks on farms for mom’s folks in a small river town in Illinois. River barges and trains took over from tractors and haylofts. And Uncle Dodd had a pony (why not with five small children of his own) and a pony cart.

But the climax came when,

There were two families seven in each

Whose fathers read Mark Twain

Our oldest boy, too, had read

Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn

So when in Illinois one day

The families were together

Said Dad to Dad why not today

In station wagon gather

Two moms, two pops, two babes eight kids

For Hannibal departed

To see Tom’s cave and Clemens’ house

In wagon were they carted

Before proceeding very far

The clamor rose for food

So in they drove at drive-in

For hunger of the brood

Two dozen hot dogs, mustard please

One dozen chocolate shakes

To make the menu quite complete

Six packs potato flakes

For that one car the waiter said

Then looked or rather listened

Then set to work at double speed

With sweat his forehead glistened

While mamas kept the cups upright

And daddies ate the extras

The kids again began to play

Then started in the questions

Were Tom and Huck and Injun Joe

Real folks or story people

Will we get lost in Tom’s big cave

Is there a tall church steeple

Then finally cross the Mississippi

A broad majestic river

And in the bluffs south of the town

Tom’s cave in which we shiver

Judge Thatcher’s room and Mark Twain’s house

Museums and statues too

Then heavy eyelids old and young

The sky an orange red hue

So once again like sardines packed

Yet thoughts of food did gleam

So homeward bound in Pizza shop

Six pizzas, then ice cream

Then miles and hours later on

A quite car at last

When small limp figures off to bed

The great adventure past

Our Empress

We had no difficulty oversleeping (we hadn’t for eleven years) and missing our ship. Even so we weren’t the first on board. Preening up five boys isn’t done fast or easily. We had but one bad moment when I couldn’t remember where I had put the tickets. But a thorough rummage through all pockets located these and so began the parade on board. It had aspects of Cub Scout day at dockside; a Memorial Day parade (tears for the departed or departing); and an African safari (14 bags, one up, since my mother had brought one full of emergency foodstuffs).

The Empress of England is a new and beautiful ship and our tourist class cabins were elegant. Uncle Dodd, who had been a purser in the Merchant Marines, soon showed us topside, the afterdeck, the promenade deck and in general was in his glory answering all Charlie’s questions.

But soon the “All Ashore” call came and after hurried pictures and parting words, seven of us remained onboard and three found vantage places on the dock. Ever since my short visits to Montreal and Quebec during World War II I had looked forward to sailing down the St. Lawrence, and especially the leaving of Montreal. When Uncle Dodd, Aunt Marilyn, and Grandma Webster were out of sight and John was sobbing (he didn’t like major changes in his environment) and I was getting a good vantage point to see the sights the announcement came, “All first sitting diners report to the restaurant”. Half way to Quebec I got topside again.

Our first lunch was quite trying on our table companions and a little disturbing to our steward. He was prepared with high chair but hadn’t all the answers for Charlie. Our major problem was understanding our waiters English English and the general routine of English meals. Children’s high tea baffled us most. So the children have tea at 5, then what? Also which children? And who feeds them? The idea is fine and standard British operating procedure. In theory it works this way. The children, assisted by a nanny of which we had none, eat early and go off to bed. “Daddy and mother dine later in state, with Mary to cook for them, Susan to wait.” On board it worked something like this: Dad and Mom and all five boys report at 5 expecting tea and biscuits, and find hard boiled eggs and/or cereals and cream with bananas, apples, oranges, etc. and milk, and then biscuits (cookies) cakes, or sweets (candy). The trouble was on the first day we didn’t know this meant no supper or that this indeed was the boys’ supper. In fact, we wondered why they wanted to spoil the children’s appetite just an hour before supper. Also how do you eat hard boiled eggs? The British children went right to it, but we didn’t know how to de-shell it and with what implements to attack it. And who wanted cereals and milk at 5 P.M.? Guarded questions to our fellow, but British, passengers soon gave us the clue this was the children’s supper. The children WOULD NOT be expected at our supper. This gave us 15 minutes to see if Tom, Bill, and Charlie would like the chaperoned playroom. They wouldn’t. And if John thought he could entertain Dan (age 1 year 2 weeks) in our stateroom. Dan would have been acceptable in the play room if asleep. But as crying is contagious, he wouldn’t otherwise be welcome. I don’t remember exactly how we got away, leaving all five boys in our cabin, but needless to say we hardly enjoyed our first six course dinner.

By the second day we knew the meaning of high tea and introduced the boys to the play room early in the day. They were neither completely averse nor adverse, but we did get Bill and Charlie there while we hurriedly feasted.

Dining aboard the Empress of England

John liked the swimming pool and cinema best. Tom and Bill the afterdeck where ropes and pegs were available and occasionally shuffleboard. Charlie liked to walk around or sit in the deck chair and ask, “What happened to the hair on that man’s head?", "When will we get across the ribber?”, “Does that man have more cake?”, “Why is that lady so fat?”, “Why can’t we go in there?” Dan liked to crawl on the deck and especially to play in the water in the scuttle. Dad would have liked to sleep. Momma was perfectly happy. No cooking, no dishes, just washing and ironing (which she says she enjoys). She saw her first movie, except for Ivanhoe at the drive in, in eight years and found many English mothers to talk to.

On the fifth day came sea state 8 and ashen gray boys. My cure, Dramamine and a horizontal position, was not working for the boys so at their insistence and much against my better judgment we went to the afterdeck for shuffle board. There were very few people about. John, Tom, Bill, and I played while Charlie collected the pucks. It was fun trying to counter the roll of the stabilized ship. And the mist on cheek (and glasses) felt good (but looked misty). The cure worked, the boys kept their food down and so did dad.--(who still preferred his horizontal method).

Johnny couldn’t go swimming alone, so although mom was an excellent swimmer, dad got to go in--glasses and all. Without glasses I couldn’t tell which boy I was supposed to be watching. With glasses I couldn’t have done much had he sunk from sight. Not to be outdone, John wore his non-waterproof watch in. It hasn’t worked since. Charlie, Bill, and Tom watched and in the shower room Charlie asked, “Why does that man have hair here (chest) and not here (top of head)?”

The cinema turned out to be marvelously timed. Charlie was much too engrossed by the ship for an afternoon nap. But after 10 minutes in the cinema he was asleep.

From the second day on we were, you might say, well known. We made the longest passenger list, the longest parade, and Charlie made the most continuous sound. We were approached by grandmas, granddads, moms, dads, the whole lot. Without our five socializers we probably would not have met a soul, but with them we were called by name by half the passengers.

Perhaps our trip across the Atlantic can best be summarized by the letter I wrote back to my colleagues and church friends while on board:

Empress of England

Sunday 24 May 1959

0930 Brit Summer Time

0130 Pac Daylight Time

Dear Dave et al

Glad to receive your letter which I received on boarding. Sailing is wonderful except for changing the kids internal clocks. Each night for 5 nights we set the clocks (the ticking kind) ahead one hour. Each night the kids get to sleep about an hour later. Last night by 2330. This morning (which is no different than all others) Mary and I, with the aid of those infernally noisy stewards and stewardesses (who keep knocking and saying cheerfully its seven thirty, with a rising inflection yet, all hands are British) flop out of bed and THEN get the kids up. This morning we fed them (midnight your time) but were never sure whether we were shoveling the food into their otherwise closed mouths or eyes.

Now all but Tom are back asleep. Yesterday it was all but Charlie - in each case, Daddy likewise happily stayed up since the sign reads, “No children allowed on deck without their parents”. Dan is the worst; he got to sleep at 0300 yesterday, but by 0130 last night. He and mommy are now asleep in the adjacent cabin.

I began taking Charlie to the 1415 movie so he would get some sleep which helped him, but at least one of the kids enjoyed the movie and I’d have to sit through it (Onionhead, Gidget, etc.). Of course, when they showed Richard III, everyone was sick so I missed it.

None the less, this is really the way to travel. For the same fare as by air we get 3 x 7 = 21 meals. Last night I had Tomato juice, Salmon, Roast Mutton with vegetables, scones, caramel sundae and tea. I skipped the soup and salad courses since I took the fish course and Mary keeps thinking me a pig (especially when Alec Guinness, our waiter) brings me a piece of layer cake to go with my dessert. Dave would love this. I still don’t completely understand the menu - it has an appetizer course olives et al, soup, fish, then an entree and a joint and a releve. Then salad, dessert and tea. The releve seems to be fowl but the difference between entree and joint I don’t get. I’ll have to ask Alec at noon.

The deck steward sidled up to me last night and whispered something which, upon explanation, turned out to be, “Do you want to take some spirits ashore”. He strongly advised it since a fifth of Scotch would cost me 27 shillings, but 35 ashore. A shilling is 1/20 of a pound which is equivalent to $2.80 ± depending on which way you’re sailing; expensive going to England, cheap when coming home. I told him no thanks, my boys are too young.

I’m king on board; no one has as many children and Dan always smiles at the right time and Charlie keeps saying, when showering after a swim, “Look Daddy that man has no hair” in his usually 100 db voice, or “I don’t like this ice cream” (which is the chef’s special pineapple, not the vanilla he has at all other meals), etc. Charlie who landed in England first at Phoenix, then Denver, Omaha, etc. now wants to know “When are we going to get across this ribber?”

The bath steward just stood with his mouth open when I requested 5 towels with my bath and as J, T, B, C and Dad filed out of the bath (bahth) he had 2 other stewards watching just to prove how big the bathrooms are on his deck.

Time to wake them up again and go to Church. I can hear Charlie now, “Daddy where’s the choir” or some such apt but loud remark.

JOHN

Even with five boys however we agree with the travel books on sea crossings. They say you wonder before you board what you’ll do with all your spare time. Once on board you wonder how the hours slip by so fast. And the night before landing you wonder what happened to those short glorious days.

At all previous stops we had told Charlie “No this isn’t England” so by now he was wary. He didn’t see why Liverpool should be England if all the other places were not. But we soon persuaded him and he concluded that England is across the big ribber. For the next few days his troubles began again. Cambridge was not in England. It wasn’t on a big ribber and our Empress wasn’t there. To this day Charlie insists Cambridge is pronounced with an a as in lamb. He heard us say the city was named because it was the first (or last) bridge across the Cam (as in lamb). To him (and more power to his logic) the name is Cambridge (a as in lamb).

Celebrating in Stateroom on the Empress of England

Keep Left

Driving in England is a not to be forgotten experience. As the travel literature says, you do not rush through England, but around every leisurely corner you have the opportunity to see the quaint countryside. They are completely correct in saying you do not hurry, but getting the opportunity to see anything other than the road is virtually impossible. Unless, of course, you are foolish enough to do what every tenth Englishman does as his God given right, namely just stop right smack in the middle of the traffic lane to see the sights, to adjust the headlamps, to eat lunch, to sleep, or just because he fee1s like stopping.

They have signs on major highways (the ones they paint center lines on) that say “Layby 1/4 mile”. This means that the road will widen by about half a lorry width and a trash can (dust bin) will be provided for those desiring to walk 20 feet after eating their sack lunch (tea that is) to deposit their litter,. These laybys are well patronized, much more so than our “Roadside Tables” and for good reason. After driving through English traffic for say two hours (40 miles) one does feel the need for a rest. Parking is completely impossible in towns (except by just stopping in the middle of the road which is universally done) and roadside “Dairy Queens” or “Steak and Shake” shops are non existent. The pubs are only open for some very limited times and so everyone packs “tea” and stops at a layby. However, since more people want to stop than there is layby space, they just stop on the road.

To show how deep rooted their tendency is to just stop in the traffic lane on the road let me cite the first two fatalities on M1, their one and only freeway, which opened after our arrival. It came as no surprise to me to read: 1) That a van had some minor ailment and had stopped, not on the verge which some reports said is not wide enough for a vehicle to pull clear of the traffic lane, but as on all English roads, in the traffic lane, 2) That a repair vehicle had come and stopped in the traffic lane; and 3) that two lorries free for the first time of traffic worries were running “flat out” in a slight mist; and 4) inevitably had crashed into the repair vehicle in the traffic lane. This must have caused a minor revolution because soon after this, and I quote from a Cambridge newspaper account “DRIVERS SLEPT ON Ml, Five drivers said by police at Luton today to have been found asleep in their vehicles on the M1 were each fined 5 pounds for parking on the Motorway”. I have since driven on M1 and find they are, belatedly, widening and strengthening the verges (with crushed rock) so that disabled cars (and sleepy or hungry drivers) can experience the novelty of pulling off the road to stop.

Our first experience was as follows: We got off the boat in Liverpool and paraded down the gangplank, and through customs in jig time. I am sure they figured anyone traveling with five small boys is too busy to smuggle. We had arranged in the States for a rented car to meet us at Liverpool (much against the advice of all our English friends). After all Cambridge is only 160 miles from Liverpool, at most a four hour drive. We soon saw a small man in a large overcoat (on a sunny very warm day late in May) who had obviously spotted our entourage and was making his way toward us.

“The car is just down the street" he said. "How many bags do you have”?

“Fourteen”.

“Fourteen”?

“Well, actually three are brief cases, and two are little overnight bags”.

At this point we didn’t tell him one was a footlocker and one a duffel bag with three sleeping bags packed inside.

“Righto, I’ll get you a porter”.

"O.K"

So Mom, Dad, John, Tom, Bill, Charles, and Dan, plus a porter with 14 bags arrive with the by now somewhat anxious little man at England’s newest and largest Consul complete as per instructions with luggage (roof) rack on top. The porter sort of shook his head and as quickly as possible made his exit, dumping all the bags in a heap on the kerb (curb).

The little car hire man now saw he was in it for better or worse and he actually accepted the challenge in good grace.

First the boot (English for trunk). Yes it held middle sized bags, the contents of the duffle bag (by taking the sleeping bags out and stuffing them alongside, over, under, and around the other bags).

By standing all bags upright instead of laying them down, we finally coaxed the footlocker and three large bags in the luggage rack. This added about 3 feet to the height of the car. I say about 3 feet because by the time all bags and boys were in, the car was at least 4 inches closer to the ground than when it stood in all its polished splendor unsoiled by our presence.

The three briefcases and two overnight bags went in the back seat with John, Tom, Bill, and Charles.

And now came the instruction period (if Mom and Dan could just stand outside a minute). This was the key, it went here, the brake was still right and clutch left, but the gear shaft was on the left since the steering wheel was on the right. After much explanation I got the idea the gears were like ours except left handed.

He started to explain the hand signals but soon gave up. Instead of three simple signals like we have; arm down meaning I am slowing down or stopping, arm straight out, I’m going to turn the direction I’m pointing; and arm up meaning I’m turning the way I’m trying to point (but cant reach up over the top) and in any case means O.K. for you to pass, they have, among other things, two waving signals, one of which means “I am ready to be overtaken” (English for passed) which is the same signal truck drivers in the States (and lorry drivers in England) give you when they can see the road ahead is clear even when you can’t and means come on around old buddy and be kind to truck drivers when the next request for a pay raise (American for rise) comes around. The other wavy signal means something else (I’m still not sure what). It doesn’t much matter what it means anyway, because if you are more than 10 feet back you can’t tell one wavy signal from the other. And later experience has convinced me that in any case, don’t be fooled by the wavy. It means I’m ready to be overtaken but it doesn’t mean the road is clear, except when given by lorry drivers on the open (and I use the word loosely) road (I won’t use the word highway). So as far as I can make out the English hand signal means about what a woman’s hand signal does in America, namely that the window is open.

Anyway we compromised. He finally said “Use the turning indicator lights.” This I did.

Detailed study of my road map (helped by ten hands and six voices) convinced me the shortest way to Cambridge from Liverpool was to drive west. That is, cross the Mersey River to Birkenhead and avoid all the large cities, including Liverpool. Our dining steward in the Empress told me the way to cross the Mersey from the dock was by tunnel.

So knowing how to drive from the wrong side of the front seat, and where I wanted to go, I was ready to bid our little man farewell.

I had noticed that we were parked on the incorrect (English) side of the street, namely where we should be, on the right. The little man said that was O.K. You parked on whatever side of the street you wanted to in England. I later found that truer words were never spoken. You not only park where and when you want, you also wait (park for less than 20 minutes) anywhere you want, including the main traffic lane of the main highway, within 3 feet of intersections with traffic lights and turning lanes, and in fact any place other than on verges (English. for shoulders). As far as I can see, verges are used for absolutely nothing, the only unused land in all of England.

After politely refusing my offer to drive him to the nearest bus stop or railway station, the little man vanished. Mary said he crossed himself and ran. We were ready to go. John said why didn’t we take the train. Tom just gasped. Mary clutching Dan tighter than usual, climbed (down) into the front seat and we were off.

Within a block we hit our first round about (English for traffic circle). The English Highway Code says there are no right of ways (or left of ways) at round abouts. In other words, they don’t want to be responsible. The only real highway law in England is if you are in an accident and were moving you were wrong. We later read of a case where a bus driver was fined because he couldn’t stop soon enough to avoid hitting a car that had stopped, not on the verge, but right in the lane of traffic, to adjust his headlamps, right over .the brow of a hill. The man that had stopped was not fined.

We finally decided, since cars were overtaking (passing) us on both sides, to disappear into this maelstrom. Our problem was where did we want out. We chose the third exit. We crept along at the average pace, about 15 m.p.h. until the next intersection and then found the secret. There are so many cars per street that at every intersection there is a Bobby (policeman, you see Robert Peel established the constabulary years ago and these were Bobby’s boys). Our system; at every corner as we crept by the Bobby, we looked bewildered, spoke American, and asked for Mersey Tunnel. He always answered in some completely unintelligible speech that ended “You can’t miss it” but luckily he always pointed. Finally instead of pointing straight ahead one pointed left, and we saw hundreds of vehicles concentrating on one poor little double laned street.

Once committed to the tunnel, the fast lane since we were not a lorry (at least in name) I became aware of three things: first Mary was getting closer and closer to me and saying “Do you know how close you were to that truck”? (American for lorry). Second, unlike American tunnels, this one was not lighted (except conceivably for cats) and again, unlike American tunnels where if there is no light you put on headlights, here no one had on headlights but instead they had on side lights (parking lights and actually the closest thing possible to no lights at all). Driving in virtual darkness, in fumes as thick as fog, with candles borne by lorries busses, and cars coming at you at 30 m.p.h (about the only spot I’ve ever found in a metropolitan area where traffic can move that fast) had even the captain of the ship a little uneasy. Then Mary said “The gas gauge says empty” and so it did. Anyone knows when you rent a car it has a full tank of gas, but.

We did emerge safely from Dante’s Inferno, we did find a petrol (gas) station, and our next problem was a rope to secure the bags on top. Who sells rope? Hardware stores of course. We saw green grocers, chemists, and finally obviously an ironmongers. So a rope and our first experience of stopping (behind an already stopped car) and making a one lane road out of the major artery out of town. This turns out to be more rule than exception.

Now our pulse rate could return to normal. We were tied down, full of petrol, on the road to Chester, and it was only 11 o’clock. We’d be in Cambridge easily by 4 or maybe 3.

We now had time to realize that England is indeed a foreign country. The cars including our own, were a sensible size, not domesticated tanks. The average age of car, lorry, or bus was ten years older than ours. There were people, bicycles, cars, houses, everywhere, no wide open spaces. Houses were dotted with chimneys, and chimneys were full of chimney pots (flues). We next saw a goods (freight) train with a steam engine. This really stopped us. Four wheels per wagon (car) many of them spoked. Chain and bumpers for couplers, and wagons about one third the size of our eight wheeled freight cars. We actually couldn’t believe it and thought it must be a small and branch line. It wasn’t.

Then came the strange signs. Acute Bend, Road Up, Dead Slow, Road Works, Layby ¼ mile. And Free House, No Coaches, Tea now being served. On a car ahead, Please Pass Running In which means I’m breaking in a new motor (or car). Free House means we are not a pub (tavern) that sells only Tolly, or Worthington, or Bass Ale, but whatever we please.

Our fist near miss came in Chester, an ancient town with city walls, overhanging first (second) floors, etc. It happened like this. In the States and California in particular, there is one golden rule of driving, never just change lanes. Since it is legal to pass (overtake) on either side (preferably on highways with painted traffic lanes, but actually anywhere where vision permits) you soon get conditioned (by the loss of a fender, or at least by loud honking and squealing brakes, not your own) to move forward in a straight line. Before moving to left or right you look in one, two, or three mirrors, signal, and pray, and in general you don’t swerve. In fact the only accidents I’ve ever had were two gentle bumps on cars who pulled over or stopped to make a U turn in my lane of traffic. In both cases I could easily have avoided them by pulling into the next lane. But since I knew I would just barely tap them, and by pulling out I might get myself and others killed, I maintained straight ahead.

Back to Chester. Being new to the left hand side of the road I was staying very left, about 18 inches from the kerb (curb), when no cars were parked there (which actually wasn’t very often). As I was half way across an intersection what should dart out from the side street which in America would be a STOP street but a lady on a bicycle. She looked neither left nor right, which I’ve since found to be an almost universal rule. During my twelve months in England I saw only one bicycler who looked before turning into the line of traffic from a side street. Anyway, this lady in Chester turned the corner to join me in my direction of travel. Obviously Englishmen have been conditioned for generations to swerve to miss such obstacles. I’d been conditioned to accept a known risk rather than swerve into possible oblivion. She and I arrived at the opposite kerb in a dead heat, me 21 inches from the kerb, her 3 inches from me. I was listening for the crunch on my offside since I did deviate 3 inches, but all I heard was unladylike speech from my onside. This really didn’t unnerve me much since I’m used to missing objects by narrow margins. I’m not sure what it did to her, but I’m willing to bet she still doesn’t look before turning a
corner into a busy street. After all statistics are statistics, and as I’ve said I’ve only seen one person, a school boy about 15, who has ever looked and in fact he slowed down.

We soon learned the only thing you don’t see in England is an open road. You can expect over any hill or around any bend in country or city to find a car or lorry stopped in the road. And bends they have plenty of. It is an axiom in England that if a road is straight the Romans built it. I guess Romans either didn’t have cows or else had highway engineers who considered themselves the equals of cows. That they were good road builders is attested to by the fact that many of their roads, paving bricks and all, are still in use.

I heard one story over the B.B.C. news about a village who couldn’t get the shire road people to come and repair the ancient Roman road through their village. The reply was something like this: “We didn’t build it, we won’t repair it”. Whereupon the ingenious parish council wrote to Rome, the Italian government, and asked if they could come to beleaguered Britain’s help; copy to shire hall. Result; the shire was shamed into fixing the road.

By the time we figured out that tea was the generic word for food it was two o’clock. We were about 60 miles out of Liverpool, 100 miles from Cambridge. We were hungry and I, the driver, was about a nervous wreck. Instead of peaking between 65 and 75 dropping to 35 in towns, we were peaking at 50 and then not often, and dropping to zero in towns where parking and waiting brought cross country and city travelers down to one lane so you wait for one direction to pass and then you sneak through.

A phone call to Cambridge, we’d be a little late, then lunch. Then more creeping on.

At all of these minor emergencies, that is a car stopped in the traffic lane to have tea, I noted one trouble for Americans in English cars. Every time I intended to shift from high to second, as I always do where when slowing down, I succeeded in signaling a left turn, this because I was reaching for the gears with my right hand and found the signal indicators and shifted them instead. Other Americans have complained of looking in the wrong place for the rear view mirror, but for the most part these are easterners who can survive without outside mirrors. I tend to look left into my outside mirror before overtaking in the states and found no difficulty finding the mirror in England’s backward cars.

At first I gave them the benefit of the doubt and considered it just a wrong choice to drive left not right. But after months of thinking it over I believe they are wrong. First historically; knights in shining armour afoot or ahorse carried shields in left hands and certainly bore right on any path when meeting and passing anyone head on. To this day I believe pedestrians prefer to keep right, keeping their right hand free for emergency uses. Ships, even in England keep right. The most important lever in a car is the gear shift, it should be handled by the right hand. When giving hand signals you should sacrifice your left hand and continue steering with the right.

I didn’t find it particularly difficult to keep to the left since actually in any tight situation there was just room for one car and it could be anywhere left, right, or center depending on where others had parked. I came to two conclusions before arriving in Cambridge. The English road system would be more catastrophic to California than a major earthquake. And English drivers, pedestrians, and cyclists would not last one week in California.

Plan Ahead

We had been spectacularly unsuccessful in finding a house to live in. We had some good leads but no lease in our pocket. We assumed that when an estate agent (realtor) gave us the address of a house (they never take you to see one) we could expect to move in if we liked it. It doesn’t work that way. If you like the house he puts your name on the list with others who also like the house, and then contacts the owner to see which tenant the owner prefers. This takes anywhere from a day to a month. With five children we knew how many times we were apt to be preferred.

We dearly loved one ancient and rambling thatched roof ‘cottage’, six bedrooms, large garden (yard) quarters for nanny, cook, and whoever else you could afford, and obviously designed for large families. We were put at the top of the list by the estate agent. He realized that a house built for families should be lived in by families. He also realized he had one and only one house commodious enough for our entourage.

The cottage (actually called Byrons Lodge) had always been rented to large families (2 or 3 children) and he told us we could expect to get the house. “Go off to the Continent and we’ll advise you of the owner’s decision and tell you when you can move in”. In any case we liked Byrons Lodge so well that we didn’t seriously look for another list to put our name on.

So off to the Continent we went with a hope but no promise. Early in March I had contracted (and paid for) a Volkswagen Microbus to be picked up (by us) in Hanover on 1 June. I had asked our La Jolla travel agent not only to book us across to England but also on to Hanover. She had stated that would be unnecessary. Such a short trip and so early in the season. Just book it in Cambridge.

Well, as is usually the case when I buy travel tickets I had spent hours in advance looking at ferry and train schedules and knew precisely how, when, and where I wanted to go. My travel plans had been firm since April, and I had written the VW factory to the hour when I’d be in Hanover. So, as is also usual when I want some tickets, I get in line behind someone who knows to the closest two weeks when his holiday (vacation) is, and knows in general which direction he wants to go, and how much money he has to spend, but no more. For a half hour I stood listening to “Switzerland is nice in August”, “It would cost you 30 pounds to fly but you do save so much time on the channel crossing you know”, “However you can go by rail, crossing between Dover and Calais”..... My thoughts and blood pressure were near the breaking point. Finally my subconscious mind heard “Thank you, I was just making enquiries, I’ll contact you later if I don’t take my usual holiday to Brighton”.

In a not too pleasant voice I said “I want two and four half, second class, tickets from Harwich to Hanover”. He answered something in English, which after reverberating around in my mind for a while came out to be American for “when”. I said 3lst May. His composure which he had kept during the previous half hour of nonsensical generalities, suddenly left him. “Why that’s only three days from now”. I assured him I was aware it was three days hence, but that American travel agents don’t like trifling trips, that the railway representatives on the Empress are not interested in getting anyone beyond the range of the British Railways, and that yesterday I was looking for a house. Well, he couldn’t promise anything but he’d see.

After much hustling and bustling he returned to say “Sorry no second class berths on the night ferry, only first”. Since I was in no position to be fussy I succumbed and said “I want one four berth cabin or two two berth cabins”. He replied “Sorry, all fare paying passengers (4 years and above) must have a berth. And there are no 4 berth cabins, only 2 berth cabins are available. You will need two of these and an additional berth in a third cabin”. I asked him in a slightly irritable voice, “How would you suggest I divide our family up into 3 independent self sufficient groups”. After a moment’s thought, he said, “Put the two youngest with their mother, you take the next older ones, and the 11 year old can stay alone (with a stranger in a different part of the ship)”. I asked him if he had any young children. “No why?" he replied. I thought back to the airplane where if someone had been with Tom we could have talked him out of his air sickness, or at least comforted him. I thought of many other things too, and told him that while traveling Mom and Dan slept together in one berth, Dad and Charlie in another, Tom and Bill in a third, and John alone, 4 berths.

He said “Sorry, you must have 5 berths”, which we got. I don’t know who got a private cabin at our expense.

Now as to the train; I agreed second class was O.K. Did we want reserved seats? Of course we did. We didn’t want a separate boy in each compartment. Anyway the cost is ridiculously low.

One half hour later, the tickets were ready. You see in certain countries children under 3 ride free, in others under 4. Likewise half fare ages vary from 10 to 12 to 14. Then of course, part first class, part second. One and a half hours after entering to transact a simple business I came out cursing American and British travel agents, British and Continental Railways, and myself for not having my Volkswagen delivered in England.

Sunday noon, 31st May 1959 (Memorial Day) we again loaded down our overburdened Consul, but not as in Liverpool. Two bags of permanent things (like winter clothes, technical books, and papers, etc.) were left in Cambridge. We had our last lunch in our guest house, and set off for the American Military Cemetery outside of Cambridge for Memorial Day Service. Mary and I had taught (and in fact met) in an Air Force Communications School at Yale University during World War II. We felt we owed a debt of gratitude to some of our ex-students who had graduated with gold bars into operations out of England, never to return. It was a nice ceremony flowers dropped from bombers, military bands, and speeches (we left early).

We had to drive 60 miles (3 hours) to Harwich. Most of the goods lorries (freight trucks) were off the road on Sunday (but more sightseers were parked on the roads gazing) and our pace was better than planned, that is, better than our revised plans made in England not quite up to our original plans made in America.

In any case we arrived in Harwich in good time with only one stretch of typical English Sunday traffic. In late afternoon every third car in London is returning from an afternoon (or weekend) at the seaside (beach). Since we were going to the coast we just gazed in wonderment at mile after mile of bumper to bumper, five-mile-per-hour traffic struggling home through Colchester.

We arrived in Harwich about 6:30 and hungry. At Parkeston Quay, where we were to board the ferry, there was no place to eat so we drove into Harwich for a snack. We picked a place that looked common enough to tolerate 5 children, but we were wrong. They informed us they were closing. So we crossed the street to a more exclusive looking place and ate in leisure, watching the poor unsuspecting potential diners approach the closed cafe, and indeed enter it and eat.

Ridding ourselves of our rented Consul was no problem at all. A younger small man was waiting at the quay, walked around it once, hailed a porter for us to unburden it, said we’d hear through the automobile club about any additional charges or rebate, bade us bon voyage, and was off.

The porter carried our footlocker, duffle bag, and matched set of fit-inside-each-other bags (when empty) and three brief cases (mine, the boys school work, and the boys car games) to the customs man and ticket takers. We asked about registering (checking) most of the baggage to Hanover and did so. From what I’ve heard since about letting baggage out of sight I am probably the only traveler in the world who registered his luggage and claimed it upon arrival without incident.

We were then ready to board, and on sight of the cross channel ferry, Charlie’s eye lit up and he shouted “There’s our Empress”.

The Empress of Arnheim is no Empress of England. It is older, smaller and dirtier. Our first class cabins wouldn’t hold a candle to our previous tourist class accommodation. This was to be expected but it required much explaining to the boys. Our extra privileges (going forward on the deck below the bridge, and eating or drinking in style, which we had neither inclination nor time to do) were short lived and we were soon nested in. We never did see the cabin where our fifth berth was.

Sprechen Sie Englisch

After a hectic and rushed breakfast we boarded the train to claim our reserved seats. We found the right coach and were proceeding towards the seat numbers indicated when we came to a glass door marked “First Class”. Sure enough our reserved second class seats were in the first class potion of the coach. And there we were. No seats, and no likelihood of seats since all second class seats except singles here and there were taken. The conductor (guard, Schaffner) saw the difficulty and indicated he would straighten it out once we were underway. So we stood holding boys and bags until half way to Rotterdam when he escorted us back to another quite ancient and quite deserted coach and gave us a whole six-seat compartment.

We were fairly happy until we made a few discoveries. Namely this compartment, unlike the ones in our assigned coach, had no rug on the floor. Once Dan started crawling on the floor we remembered why passenger trains improved so much when diesel engines replaced steam engines and sealed windows and air conditioning replaced windows that opened (and like ours usually could never really be closed). His hands and knees were blacker than coal. Soon his face and clothes as well as our clothes began to turn first splotchy black, then smudgy gray, and finally rather polka-dot; dark spots on dark gray background.

The scenery was wonderful, especially the haystacks with moveable thatched roofs. When full the roofs were way up high and as the hay was used up the roof kept pace by dropping down on the poles that supported it. The scenery inside was getting darker by the moment.

Up to this point (two hours inside our first non English speaking country) we had no real language difficulty. English is not American, but except for a few (thousand) words that mean different things, broad a’s, a rapid pace, and soft voice level, everything could usually be deciphered. Except of course the English money system (or lack of system), but more on that later. And we were now on a train that met the cross channel boat from England. Anyway everyone says every European knows English, especially on trains, in hotels, etc. I hadn’t even bothered to take my German-English dictionary out of the luggage and put it in my briefcase. Then came our first shock and minor setback.

A young man wearing an apron entered our compartment and started spreckend Deutsch. I looked a little startled but rose to the occasion and asked “Sprechen Sie Englisch?” To my utter amazement he answered “Nein, Sprechen Sie Deutsch” and there we were.

Actually I had studied German two years in high school, and a year in college. I also had taken a special German course and translated a short book on the history of the clarinet and had easily passed my German “reading” test in qualifying for my Ph.D. I had also attended night adult school in San Diego (at a school two blocks from my home) and had a delightful time listening to Frau Busch telling auf Deutsch of her impressions of Germany. I had even been teaching German to my oldest boy (and three of his school mates) so that he could better appreciate our trip to Germany. Nevertheless I hadn’t expected such an abrupt nor decisive change of gears into a foreign language.

After a lengthy conversation where my most used words were “Ich nicht verstehe”, and “langsamer bitte” I gathered he wanted to know did we plan to eat in the Speisewagen (diner); ja. Did we want the erste (first) oder sweite (second) sitting; erste. What did we wish zu essen (to eat), followed by a series of words about every fifth of which I understood, like eggs, potatoes, and sauerkraut. I chose something which included the word Eier (eggs) and he gave me a piece of paper with a table number etc. and departed much more tired than he had entered (and much later than he’d planned, I’m sure).

Then John, to whom I was “Herr Schulmeister” himself, eagerly asked what transpired. I regained my composure and triumphantly told everyone would eat at 11 o’clock and have eggs of some type, probably an omelette.

Not long afterwards as we approached the border between Holland and Germany, some uniformed men boarded the train. Very shortly thereafter the Netherlands immigration officials, after looking at my boys and my own short hair cuts and my rimless glasses, asked in perfect English for our passports. And then the German customs man in perfect Deutsch said something of which I extracted the words cigarettes and spirits, and I answered "nein" just as if I knew what he had been saying.

Somewhere in the next ten miles we must have crossed into Germany. I had seen no massive concrete pill boxes, barbed wire, nor even any ploughed ground. In fact I hadn’t the vaguest notion when we entered Germany and believe me I was looking, for four voices kept asking “Are we there yet”. It was somewhat disappointing not even knowing. After all, every movie you see shows barricades, guard houses, sinister looking guards, and you somehow expect a change in something or another.

The change soon came, we stopped in the first German town to change engines (and about everything else). I expected things to really get efficient now. So we sat, and sat, and soon noticed it was 11 o’clock and so I stepped off the train to spot the Speisewagen and it was gone. Part of our train was going to Scandinavia and part on toward Berlin. There must have been some mix up as to which cars were going where, and maybe they had only one engine. It seemed as if this engine must have gone to Copenhagen and back and was now ready to take us to Hanover. After a forty five minute wait we were again eastward bound and also walking toward the Speisewagen. Because of the delay they must have telescoped the two sittings into one. In any case when we arrived our assigned table and all its four seats was already one-quarter occupied.

I am not sure yet how we did it but somehow our seven got themselves in the remaining space. Luckily our unfortunate dinner companion spoke excellent English and either had a good sense of humour or was exceptionally well mannered and well poised. He seemed to half way enjoy the consternation threw into the diner crew and entered into the festivities with gusto. He suggested and in fact ordered two German brews for Mary and me (kind of a nerve tonic) and reordered one for himself. Then after a chat with the waiter he asked if we had really ordered a dill-pickle and potato omelette. I acknowledged that we probably had.

Not too long afterwards (in fact I often had the feeling that certain parties were anxious to see us on our way) a giant sized platter came with the aforesaid omelette, with ham yet. Actually we couldn’t have done better, it was wonderful and even the boys relished it. All except Dan. He went to sleep. The dead weight added nothing to the ease of devouring that typically huge German meal. Before the ice cream came around Charlie was also asleep. We knew this might happen, that’s why we chose the first sitting. Unscheduled events cause havoc in families with small and many children.

Our meal was really quite a success, thanks to our unexpected interpreter, baby feeder, spirit lifter, and companion to the end (of the meal). We succeeded in waking both Dan and Charlie on the way back to our coal-floored compartment and so had the pleasure of entertaining two cross boys the rest of the way to Hanover.

It was apparent to me now, that not just everyone in Germany spoke English. So since I didn’t really expect a Volkswagen representative to meet us at the station and escort us to our new home on wheels I looked up the address of the factory. I was right on both counts, no representative, and no one who knew English. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to leave Mary and the boys at the station while I got the car, nor whether to claim our substantial luggage and take it along. After noting that waiting rooms in Germany seem to be tied up with eating, and needing moral support anyway, I suggested they come along. We had enough problems, I left the luggage strictly unclaimed.

We left the station and made for the nearest policeman and as usual said “Sprechen Sie English” and as usual heard “nein”. So now with somewhat more confidence I asked the way to the VW factory. He was giving me details on this and the other tram when I broke in and pointing to the boys said “Ich habe funf kinder mit mir” and he seemed to get the idea and pointed a different direction and said “Taxi”.

We walked over to the taxi stand and noted what looked like two or three taxis deciding they weren’t going to pick up passengers at the station after all. It could all be imagination but that’s the way it looked. Anyway, the next taxi driver was looking in his rear view mirror and stopped automatically at the stand. Before he could size up the situation, we had the door open and were half loaded. I then went through the usual “Sprechen Sie Englisch” and heard the usual “nein” and proceeded auf Deutsch to tell him where we wanted to go. Somehow Charlie and I got to sit in front with him, leaving only Mom, Dan, Bill, Tom, and John in the back. So with much forethought and confidence I began asking questions.

The trouble with learning a foreign language is not in the speaking but in the listening. After all in two minutes by sub audible rehearsal I could get out a quite decent five to ten word question. The only trouble was that in the next two minutes I would hear a one or two hundred word answer, usually only about one tenth intelligible. I noted however that the proportion of understanding increased daily until it got between a quarter and a half on first hearing.

We soon got to the new, beautiful, and large VW Werke, then came the usual difficult decision, which gate. We were wrong first but soon found the correct one. After a few phone calls and runnings back and forth between taxi and guard shack we bade farewell to our last link with the dependent past. We were on the threshold of independence from hotels, travel agents, trains (much to John’s regret) and eating in cafes, restaurants, pubs, hotels, and the like.

VW Werke

After a short wait in the guard shack we saw a man walk out of the factory and knew our language exile was temporarily over. Something about the whole surroundings made him appear to be a prisoner released from prison. The giant, beautiful though stark building, the fences and guard shacks, the absence of any people except guards, and I suppose our sense of lingual imprisonment. However it was our release, not his. We could now talk again to someone other than our family. Our lingual imprisonment had not been ‘in solitary confinement’. In fact in many instances our English speaking contingent was numerically superior. And of course Charlie was not bothered by the fact that be got no answers. He continued his usual questioning of our captured audiences. And now he had some new questions, “Why do they talk so funny?” “What did he say, daddy?” and finally he learned “Does he speak English?” But it was nice to speak English to an outsider again.

We were soon escorted into a palatial waiting room, circular stair cases, very high ceiling, gorgeous rugs, and modern furniture. Each of the boys was given a toy VW and proceeded to scoot them across the bare spaces between rugs.

Our transaction was quite typical. Even though everything had been specified and paid for in advance, I still ended up giving him a substantial number of newly acquired Deutsche Marks. He said they had figured my insurance for the small VW, not for the Microbus.

He then gave me two keys, a packet containing instructions for operating VWs, coupons for regular inspections, maps of VW service dealers, and our insurance spelled out in all its detail, auf Deutsch. Then came the carnet, the papers that get export vehicles across borders without tariffs, in perfect French. Some paper to give to the guard as we drove out, another to give customs officials as we left Germany.

And then the routine question, “I suppose you know how to drive a Volkswagen” and the not so routine answer, “I’ve never even been in a VW Microbus” (except in the show room in San Diego). After ascertaining that I had driven other cars for 20 years in America (and five days in England) he figured I shouldn’t have any difficulty. He’d show me how outside the factory and it was only a short easy run to the Autobahn where I could get better acquainted. “Fine” I said, except that all our luggage was at the railway station right smack in the center of town (and it was now 4:30). This created a slight emergency (for me, it needn’t have really worried him but it did). “Wait til I phone my office, perhaps I can arrange to have someone drive you downtown. You’d never make it alone with a strange gear shift and sitting five feet forward and two feet higher than usual”. Here was a man really sold on his product. He had made his sale. But obviously he couldn’t bear the thought of his nice new VW getting crinkled and disabled with less than ten kilometers (six miles) on the speedometer.

My driving lesson was swift and simple; the lowest gear was like the usual reverse, all other forward gears as could be expected. Reverse itself (push down, pull back) was, and remains, somewhat of a problem. Always shift down when slowing down, and in general shift when the speedometer needle crosses the red lines marked on the speedometer.

At the VW Werke in Hanover (note the dirty knees from the train)

So we loaded boys and bags inside (and unlike the Consul we still had some room left over). Then I remembered my camera and lined them up outside beside the only new car I’ve ever owned and recorded the event. About now the English speaking sales manager reappeared and said he would drive us downtown in person and we were off. This was a hair raising experience. Apparently VW engines are most efficient at near top speeds, and gas mileage is obviously best in the highest gear. We soon discovered that 36 horses under expert guidance can cause heads to rock on necks, eyes to bug out, feet to push on imaginary brakes, and stomachs to rise to near mouth level. Unlike English traffic which never exceeds 30 mph in towns, German traffic never is less than 30 mph except for the few seconds it takes to achieve this speed. It is well known that personalities, especially hidden aggressions are reflected in a person’s driving habits. The reserved, tradition bound, polite, and ever enduring British put up with traffic conditions no American can understand, (nor tolerate), with unbelievable restraint, patience, and apparent good humour. Germans, efficient, intolerant, self important, always in a hurry wear themselves, and their countrymen, out by never giving an inch, nor slowing down for any obstacle (cyclist, pedestrian, or other car). Our heads continually rocked back on green (and yellow) lights, jerked forward on red lights, and rolled sideways for stationary or slow moving objects. I learned in the space of two minutes that Microbuses are a foot narrower on each side than they appear, can turn on a dime (or English 3 penny silver bit), are powered by an engine highly underrated by horsepower engineers, are never to be run at less than Top RPM, don’t require any breaking in (running in) time, and can run equally well on streets, curbs (kerbs) or sidewalks. I also learned that there are events such that even Charlie is speechless and that this type behavior in German drivers must not be out of the ordinary since our driver carried on a normal, reserved, conversation the whole trip.

The taxi ride hadn’t been nearly as nerve racking, possibly because the taxi wasn’t my brand new sparkling car, or because the taxi still had an engine and hood (bonnet) between me and eternity, or because the rush hour traffic hadn’t started, even possibly because the taxi driver couldn’t keep up such a pace all day and subsided into somewhat saner habits. In any case we did get to the station, and in jig time (and rhythm). A few words auf Deutsch to a policeman and we were parked and were trotting over after our baggage. At this point the difference between my inexperience with the German language, character, and personality, and my host’s knowledge really became pronounced. Whereas even in England or the U.S.A. I stand back trying to decipher unintelligible signs and go to the baggage room only to find it a place to check parcels, then to the checked baggage counter, to find this is where you check outgoing baggage and finally find the incoming baggage counter (where I would have brought my bags when I came in to start upon a trip), my host (with me three feet in arrears and panting quite somewhat) read no signs but spoke up boldly from behind two layers of people asking some questions auf Deutsch got us to the correct counter before I could hand out my claim tickets. In a twinkling we were behind the heavy iron fencing telling the baggage man which were our bags and loading them in a dolly that miraculously showed up from somewhere with a man pushing it. Before the baggage man, who was really not just a clerk but a customs official, could catch his breath and become officious, my host was telling him the contents, the destination, and the valuation of the luggage, and that we were in a hurry. How he knew the contents I don’t quite know, he didn’t bother checking with me, but in any case I was signing some release papers and being pushed out before the customs man could really show me what authority he had. And believe me Germans in positions of petty authority delight in making this fact felt upon the slightest provocation. Before I could gain my composure and tender a ten mark tip to the porter my host had given him five and dismissed him. This was real German efficiency.

Whereas this same luggage had doubled the subjective size of our rented Consul getting to the boat in England it was swallowed up over the engine inside the Microbus practically unnoticed. Five minutes, and many suppressed gulps, later we were sitting on the approaches to the Autobahn bidding a fond farewell to our super charged efficient, self sacrificing, bi-lingual friend. Actually he drove us directly to the autobahn and walked home (he said only a few blocks, probably a mile) rather than having us drop him off and finding the autobahn ourselves. I was never quite sure whether this was graciousness carried to the extreme, the desirability of getting us out of Hanover (and his responsibility) as fast as possible, or a certain pre judgment of my mental facilities relative to navigating and driving his obvious pride and joy. In any case I take my hat off to him. After being plagued by inefficiencies, bad judgments, unscheduled delays, coal black train compartments, and general complacencies for 24 hours this true salesman (he aims and succeeds in pleasing) made us very happy to be in Germany, in a VW and alive.

Pied Piper

Everything was rosy now. Our independence was nearly complete. No more transport problems and only one more night of lodging problems. We were on our way to Wiedenbruck to have our new bus converted into a ‘campster’. We were on a typical American highway in a new and clean car, no coal smoke nor remains of such, driving at a slow but still more American than English speed of 50 m.p.h. which we could expect to maintain for miles on end. No more cars stopped on the highway in front of us around every bend or over the crown of every hill. Driving on the right side of the road, shifting with the right hand, signaling with the left. Things were indeed rosy. Is this our car daddy? Can we keep it? Can I ride up with you? Dan’s asleep".

Before we hardly became aware of the trademark of German motoring we had covered twenty miles on the Autobahn and were ready to take some lesser roads to Hamelin to check on the current population of rats. Even in the thirty minutes we were on the Autobahn we did discover the famous German blinking light signal. Fifty m.p.h. is not a fast speed on an Autobahn but it is faster than many vehicles and we did have occasion to pass (overtake) some cars. It was then I noticed in my rear view mirror the blinking lights. It would appear that cars in Germany, at least those driven by Germans, have just one speed forward, namely the fastest speed the car can possibly go. When you pull out to pass someone you quite normally pull into the passing or fast lane. If any car no matter how far back sees you pull into “his” territory he immediately starts blinking his lights. This is to notify you that you are trespassing and you’d better be quick about getting back into the driving lane out of the passing lane, because “here I come and I don’t intend to slow down”. Of course no sane driver attempts to overtake without checking his rear view mirror, and if any car is in sight to signal his intended move into the passing lane. However in most mature civilized communities the rights of other people are respected and car overtaking another car half a mile ahead of where you are is ordinarily not even noticed. In Germany one gets the impression that any time one usurps the passing lane it is a personal affront to that whole cult of drivers in both America and Germany who use nothing but the passing lane. To challenge everyone who dares enter the passing lane seems to be the new national pastime in Germany. I now knew in England roads are to park on, in Germany to speed on. Normal, medium speed, straight line driving has yet to be learned in both countries. Enough philosophizing, back to Hamelin.

Johnny, our oldest boy, had been the Pied Piper when his class presented the story to the P.T.A. back home. Obviously we had to stop to see the Weser, the hill, the lack of rats (and children). We arrived just before dark and started hotel hunting. Actually it was only 1 June no tourists yet, no problem. Just one, five children. That is just one big problem, the other problems were speaking German, and recognizing potential hotels when you pass them. Every time I thought I spotted a hotel I’d walk into a bar, tavern, or beer garden. And usually it was a hotel of sorts but either for permanent residence, or not enough rooms or beds for five children. Actually five children aren’t as awful as they sound. Two double beds could suffice. After many trials and much advice we did find a place, one large room, a double and three single beds. As long as we left by 0830 we could leave the car on the street. They served dinner and breakfast. All was well. The dinner was no more delirious than usual. Difficulty in reading the menu, gauging the boys hunger, keeping Charlie awake, and keeping Dan’s hands out of the soup were by now accepted hazards. In fact we found German waiters and waitresses much more tolerant of children than those in America or England. Maybe our lingual plight made them more agreeable. We were soon upstairs again looking out the window at the curious and envious populace admiring our shiny new bus.

Actually I’m sure the whole rationale of America’s post war prosperity is based on the American’s desire to outshine his compatriots with the newest, gaudiest, largest, and most outlandish car. Each year the cars get more, i.e. larger, wider, heavier, more expensive to run, etc. I had never succumbed to this illness and in fact rebelled and profited from it. My two cars were nine and nineteen years old, purchased at low cost, cheap to run and with very low maintenance costs. You see I only wanted transportation and even then for short distances. I didn’t need a status symbol. I just didn’t care what my neighbors thought. Anyway now I was the possessor of the only new car I will probably ever buy. And here were people actually “ohing” and “ahing”. I should have felt very proud and boastful. Actually I felt ashamed. I knew the Europeans concepts of rich American tourists, and I was not rich and didn’t want to be considered a tourist. My Z license plates told one and all this was an export VW and I only wished it were old and dirty so I could be one of the folks again and not a rich American tourist.

With these thoughts and knowing full well there would be no street music nor rats to disturb my dreams I and six other mighty tired people fell asleep at the end of our first non-English day.

The journey of Daniel Webster, his four older brothers, and father and mother was really just starting. Let us summarize his trip to date and forecast highlights of his forthcoming summer’s itinerary in what might be called the Land of the Midnight Sun:

LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN

There was a family seven strong

Who sailed across the sea

From U.S.A to Europe bound
To see what they could see.

They landed first at Liverpool

And stepping on the shore

They said, while dodging left-hand cars

This country we adore.

It was but six days later on

At Harwich (Parkeston Quay)

That all were ready once again

To sail across a sea.

For Hook of Holland bound were they

And hence by train to buy

In Germany at Hano’er town

A car with which to hie.

A green and white Volkswagen bus

To serve as car and home

With beds inside and tent attached

And luggage rack as dome.

Then heading North again they came

To water cross their course

So once again but now they drove

On board for land of Norse.

In Copenhagen ships they saw

While cruising harbor round

In Elsinore upon the shore

Prince Hamlet’s castle found.

Across the water once again

To Sweden’s lakes they came

In Stockholm with the clock at twelve

The palace guards changed name.

By now in land of midnight sun

In June the days came round

When even in the midst of night

Sun’s light did yet abound.

The children this indeed did love

And tarried from their beds

But Mom and Dad with chores to do

Awoke with eyes of lead.

So off for land of setting sun

To Oslo and its hills

An old stave church and Viking boats

And many other thrills.

Off west again through lands of trees

And rising heights to mount

Until in winter playground land

Snow Patches can they count.

Across a barren tundra land

Until great falls they see

And then the fiords come to sight

And roads drop down to sea.

Again at Bergen boat they board

And to the purser’s grief

A personal check their passage pay

For cash was very brief.

Across to Hadrians wall they sailed

And first in weeks to see

Was mist and grime and rain and fog

For they in England be.

The rain did go the sun did shine

And beauteous weather came

The likes of summer fifty-nine

Will not be seen again.

At Sherwood Forest needs they stop

For Robin’s tree to see

And then to Nottingham they go

For there a castle be.

And then to Cambridge town they came

A house for them to find

So study could both dad and boys

Alas no house unkind.

For yet lo oer the whole wide world

With children yet to house

Landlords for ages past have said

‘Indeed sleep with the cows’.

So caravan they rent and park

Together with their bus

They sleep and eat in camping style

While house they seek, and fuss.

In Fulbourn village close hard by

What used to be the Manse

I guess because in God they trust

Became their habitance.

And so half way around the world

From sunny Californ

They settle in their eight room house

To see what brings the morn.

Their travels for one summer done

School starts for dad and boys

When summer heat returns again

They’ll look for greater joys.

J.B. and J.C. Webster

Fulbourn, Cambridge.

20 January 1960.

Sleepless Days

3 June 1959, Wiedenbruck, West Germany. As of this date we were by definition full-fledged campers. We possessed one two-day old Volkswagen Microbus and one one-day-old campster modification. Our converted VW now called ZW (Zigeunerwagen or Gypsy Wagon) included a full length luggage (roof) rack complete with canvas rain cover, tent that attached to roof rack, camping box which allowed car to be large bed at night but seats in day, 2-burner benzine (petrol or gasoline) stove, and assorted foam rubber mattresses; three sleeping bags and three wool comforters of varying sizes (brought from U.S.A.); two pans, a kitchen knife, and assorted paper plates, cups, and eating utensils (just purchased in my best German the preceding day), and one batch of very dirty clothes, some still surrounding only slightly cleaner boys, and some beyond foreseeable help.

After clumsily getting the car; bedroom, metamorphosized into car; traveling, we set off to find breakfast, and ended up in a hotel restaurant. I was never quite sure that this hotel intended to serve breakfast to transients (non-residents). Nor was I sure whether breakfast in their eyes was some set combination of foods including milk (hot for children), coffee, bread, and butter or whether they intended one’s imagination to turn to such things as pancakes, sausages, eggs, and tea. In any case since I was fresh from America where freedom of choice is a virtue zealously exercised. (But actually highly overrated when it comes to ordering breakfast since one might as well just specify small, sweet (coffee and sweet roll); small, toast (coffee and toast); medium (coffee, fried eggs, bacon and cold white toast); or large (coffee, pancakes and sausage). To get, for example, tea, or whole wheat toast, or milk, or poached egg is possible, but actually ostracizes you, at least from the cooks and waiters viewpoint. Usually even the other clients move away or unfold a newspaper between themselves and you, which lets everyone else in the establishment know in a manner far superior to words that they are not in your party.)

Anyway being a non-conformist (at least at breakfast) and being hungry, I ordered in my by now polished (3-day-old) German assorted milks, coffee, tea, pancakes, sausages, eggs, cereals (to each his own). About a half-hour later we got 5 milks (hot), 2 coffees, and 6 large German pancakes. I’m sure this is exactly what we would have received if I’d not said a word, which I must assume is essentially what our host thought I had said; nothing.

Finally, after a final round of shopping for bread, cheese, bananas, and other essentials for lunch, we set off in the direction of Hamburg. Our first, stop for gasoline (benzine) was fairly routine except for getting some gasoline into our stove. The tank had an opening of about a quarter of an inch. We soon decided we needed either a funnel or a separate container, with a larger opening, or both. Or German service station attendants needed calmer nerves, lower volume pumps, or finer nozzles. We put “gasoline carrier” on our list.

At one o’clock one thinks very hard about what one had already thought about at eleven or twelve, namely lunch. Lunch time with five children means milk. Milk means grocery store. Grocery store means window with tins of food, boxes of cereal, maybe bread together with an open door. We found after much looking that the sign “Lebensmittel” probably signifies the equivalent of a grocery, but we also found the sign “Geschlossen zwischen 1230 and 1400” on a locked door means “out for lunch.”

With tighter belts and drier throats we continued our journey when to my pleasant surprise I saw a traveling dairy wagon. A man selling milk, butter, eggs, cheese, etc. to the neighborhood women. I stopped, waited my turn, spoke my piece, and returned with a liter of milk. We traveled a few miles out of town, found a nice place to pull off the road alongside the Weser River, and had our first meal on the go. We also met for the first time our continual companions, the wasps. They liked the jelly best.

Since we wanted another night of practice on changing from car; traveling, to car; eating, to car; sleeping, before hitting the big time, we stopped short of Hamburg. We bought powdered potatoes, beans, sausage (wurst), and drove down a side road to a camp listed in our book as possessing a store, restaurant, showers, flush toilets, trees, and guarded. We arrived at a German tavern or pub and were herded into the adjacent pasture, fenced and forested, and full of chickens. The store-restaurant, was the pub, which also housed the flush toilets. The shower? Well, it was out in the pasture with us. It consisted of an old oil drum, perched on high, and a concrete apron below. No walls, no curtains, no roof, .i.e., no building of any sort. Hot? Yes, after a hot day in the sun. Cold? Yes, most of the time. Used by us? No.

We had no more trouble than expected getting the tent up for the first time by ourselves, but found the stove quite a challenge, more of a smudge pot than stove. But since smoked sausage is indeed a delicacy, we feasted, turned Charlie off, and went bed.

About a week, and seven unused cold showers, after starting our camping trip, we arrived at our first real destination, Stockholm. Not that Hamburg with its harbor ride and zoo, Lubeck with canal ride and torture chamber museum, Copenhagen with harbor-canal ride and Tivoli, Elsinore castle with torture chamber (and Hamlet’s ghost), and the trip through Sweden’s lake country were uninteresting and not appreciated. These were just frosting on the cake that was Stockholm where I was to study for two weeks.

By now, in Denmark and Sweden, there was virtually no oral communication. Travel books and bureaus may say everyone in Europe uses English as a second language, but they fail to mention that proprietors of village grocery stores and fellow campers don’t really get a chance to use English except maybe once every twenty years. And they tend to get a little rusty in understanding things like, “Do you speak English”, or “Have you a loaf of bread”, later shortened to, “Have you bread”, then “Bread, bread”, and finally, “Bread, brot, pane, pana”, followed by a game of charades. Actually as we found out later, Scandinavians as a whole do speak more English, than say Italians, Spaniards, or Portuguese, and in fact, occasionally a gas station attendant might actually point out the telephone instead of the toilets when the telephone was indeed what was wanted.

The long distance call to my English speaking (and MIT trained) colleague at the Royal Institute of Technology was most gratifying. I especially liked the part about the camping site being located adjacent to a motel. Our first week of camping thus ended in said motel where I was inaccessible for a half hour in the hot bathtub. My boys showed their true colors however, and had to be coerced into said bathtub.

Buying groceries in village stores was no more challenging than buying a meal in a Swedish cafeteria. My first faux pas was getting big bowls of tapioca pudding (at the soup end of line) only to find they were sour cream. The meat dishes were not displayed, just listed on the menu overhead. When you know not what is available, and know not what might be acceptable, and know not how to speak the words that you know not, ordering becomes difficult.

After two days to recover from our first week of camping (at $10/day) we moved from the motel into the adjacent camp site and settled down in Stockholm for two weeks. Our biggest problem was dirty clothes. My Swedish colleagues, with whom I was studying, took charge and dropped them off at a nearby laundry with “rush” instructions, i.e. 5-day service. Apparently these were the only instructions given. Five days later I went to pick up the laundry and was presented with a bill for 105 krona ($20). To say the least this stopped me cold. But as I couldn’t translate the bill nor very well argue, I retreated to my ivory tower and had my Swedish colleagues explain to me about laundries. It seems they iron everything unless told contrariwise. So the laundry bill was only $1.50, but for ironing 40 underpants, 28 pairs of socks, and numerous undershirts, the bill was $18.50. We decided forthwith and we told the boys, “No more dirty-clothes”.

Our real problem in Stockholm was the sun. We couldn’t get rid of it. Come eight o’clock and time for the boys to go to bed, there was the sun. Come ten o’clock, time for me to go to bed the sun again. Come two o’clock, time to take Charlie to the potty clad in pajamas and walking through the camp, and again the sun. Granted at midnight there was no sun, but you could read a newspaper. I got sleepier and sleepier. We couldn’t get the boys to bed and although all seven of us slept in the ZW, it took a certain amount of cooperation. The ZW worked well as a car, as a kitchen and dining room, as a living room or as a bedroom, but not as a car and as a kitchen; nor as living room and bedroom.

We pretty much led a completely communal life, what one did we all did. But boys seem to think darkness precedes sleep and no darkness, no sleep. I, on the other hand, knew that sleepiness precedes sleep, darkness or no. Contrariwise I know from years of experience that the dawning light means wake up, and off to work. Contrariwise, boys know that waking up follows 8 or 10 hours of sleep. The routine, if there ever got to be any was, “I’m ready to go to sleep, boys, GO TO SLEEP”. Come morning, “Time to eat, boys GET UP”. This in contrast to years of mornings where the conversation was more typically, “Boys, keep quiet so we can sleep an extra half hour”.

After a week of this no sleep routine, I was dead tired and we moved into the motel for a night so I could go to sleep at eight o’clock, sun or no sun, and boys or no boys. It’s hard to say which the boys liked best; the boat ride around the canals and harbor, or the trip to Skansen, the park with typical buildings from all over Sweden congregated in one huge park. Watching them put up the pole for midsummer’s day in Skansen was great sport as was watching the polar bears and Dan.

We were invited out to a colleague’s house for dinner one night and sat talking until dusk, that is until midnight. A great deal of the talk was about when and how do people sleep in summer and stay awake in winter. Since Ulf was a native Laplander he said it wasn’t at all bad in Stockholm but further North, oh. He said many people had blackout curtains or shutters and that most were sleepy. After we played the Mozart Clarinet Concerto (I had brought my clarinet and he was a good piano player) we converted car to bedroom in his front driveway and our usual 4 hours sleep.

As we left Stockholm for Uppsala it was still Midsummer’s Fest and we stopped along the road at a small village to watch the festivities. Before we knew it, the villagers had the boys in line for refreshments and games. The holiday spirit is contagious and the refreshments were good. If only I hadn’t been so sleepy, I would have thoroughly enjoyed the day.

Our remaining camp sites in Sweden were all on lakes but the mosquitoes never quite outnumbered the wasps. Johnny got the idea that with lakes there should be fishing and since he picked up languages faster than any of us, and therefore did the grocery shopping, he ended up a few days later with some string, cork, weight, and hook.

The other boys were more interested in wading and were all fascinated by the birthday suits worn by the Swedish children when swimming (or wading). Charlie was never one for shoes anyway, and we always had to find them laying around somewhere before decamping. In fact, that was usually our last act before leaving a camp site. The word would be passed, “Find Charlie’s shoes and we’ll be ready to go.”

Our last camp site in Sweden was not only on a lake, but also on a creek that fed logs into the lake. Log rafts were made and at sunrise (2 A.M.) we heard the chug-chug of a tug pulling the rafts away. Much later in the morning (6 A.M.) we were out taking pictures of logs and loggers unsnarling jams. All in all, we got so absorbed in observing Sweden’s greatest industry that we deviated from our usual routine. Many hours later in Norway, we noted Charlie had no shoes, nor were any shoes to be found in the car. Two days later when we were finally convinced that Charlie had no shoes, we stopped in Honefoss, Norway, to purchase a new pair. Actually he wore them so seldom a two-day wait meant nothing.

After buying Charlie’s "Norwegian Shoes" we proceeded straight ahead on the street we had been on. The road soon changed to gravel and kept going north. I assumed the Oslo-Bergen highway would be hard-surfaced and in general would proceed westwardly. I kept looking for a highway marker to confirm my belief that we were on the wrong road. No markers. It was lunch time so we stopped in a grove of trees and I studied the map while Mary made the sandwiches. I determined that even if we were wrong we were not too badly off. In general we would be taking two legs of a right triangle instead of the hypotenuse.

I was soon convinced we were on the wrong road but the scenery was lovely and we were far enough along we decided to stick it out. Before long we came to some “Road Works”. I was perhaps traveling a little fast for a gravel road but in any case I pulled too far toward the edge and got mired down in loose gravel. Before we could even get out to see how badly off we were four husky construction workers were shoving and we were gone with no noticeable delay.

Further along the road at a small hamlet a man who looked like another construction worker flagged us. I presumed he was going to stop us while some approaching traffic came through. He had no red flag and there were no warning signs but after the lecture I got from Mary about the last little construction incident I was being extra careful.

He approached the car and the ensuing futile conversation was held first in English, answered in Norwegian and then in sketchy German answered by equally sketchy German. I surmised at about the same time Mary did, who knows neither Norwegian nor German, that this was no flagman but a hitchhiker. And here we were stopped, talking, and so to speak trapped. We never pick up hitch-hikers for at least two reasons, no room, and fear of consequences. But in these circumstances we welcomed him aboard.

Actually I’m sure he was as nonplussed as we. He could see we really had no excess room. And I’m sure he really didn’t intend to flag down someone with whom he could not talk. He was obviously a local farmer or forester, about medium build, and probably in his thirties. He had a simple, kindly, though weather-beaten face, and was dressed in the rough and ready dress of the region.

Mary scooted over and our new found friend crawled in hoisting a back pack we had not noticed before. The pack gave some trouble, namely there was really no rooms for it on his lap, since Dan was on Mary’s lap. So we hoisted it over into the back with the boys. And we started forth again through this hilly, river valley country. We soon surmised, more through osmosis than through conversation that he had walked, or hitch-biked, about 10 miles into town for a few provisions and some socializing. In the process he had partaken of some form of spirits. He was not at all tipsy but his breath gave away his secret. He was in fact just far enough gone to be at ease in this somewhat bizarre and potentially embarrassing situation.

He and I tried some rudimentary German conversation of which Mary seemed to understand more than either of us. After a few miles I thought ZW was smelling of beer, not rebreathed beer but spilled beer. The boys mentioned something of a strange smell and in our consternation our friend became aware that something was rotten in Norway. After a few minutes of this bewilderment he pointed to a high bridge and a cross road and stated this is where he wanted off. As the boys were handing him his back pack, they remarked that it was dripping wet. And so it was. Apparently in passing it into the back seat and stowing it away it got turned upside down. Also apparently the pack contained a partially empty (and partially full) bottle of beer that had not been securely stoppered. At this point our friend looked like the main character in a Laurel and Hardy comedy.

The leaking pack had made a puddle in the car and he in the interest of good international relations wanted to clean up his mess. He opened his pack to get a mop rag (a big handkerchief) but it also was dripping wet. So after a few futile gestures our friend sort of backed away blushing from ear to ear. His obvious embarrassment was the only thing that kept us from laughing. We contained ourselves until we drove off. We kept wondering if the main purpose of his trip to the village had not been drained away in his ride home.

Our camp in Bergen was again on a lake and there was a raft about five feet offshore which could be tortuously and precariously reached via rocks and tree stumps. John had no particular trouble getting aboard, but I had an awful time trying to help Bill and literally depositing Charlie on this child’s paradise.

John soon found some cheese and had his baited hook in the peaceful duck-infested lake. We were so busy getting the tent up, cooking, and watching Dan, who was just learning to walk, that we didn’t pay much attention. Soon Tom came running back to report that John had caught a fish. I really couldn’t have cared less, I Was busy and tired and thought fishing a silly pastime anyway. I never minded setting in a boat or ashore, holding a string and reading a book, but always got annoyed when the string pulled and I had to put my book down. Usually I was careful to see that no hook got placed on my line, then if I could find a shade tree, I liked to fish. Mary, on the other hand, had been raised in a fishing village on the Illinois River and her family had in fact run the fish market. (The go-between from fishermen to retail stores or cafes.) She could see I wasn’t much account at instilling manly virtues into my boys and so she encouraged the fishing and went over to help John unhook his fish.

I belatedly carried Dan over in time to see Mary unhook an ugly-looking eel, and much against John, Tom, Bill, and Charlie’s wishes, she threw the eel back. About fifteen minutes later just I was about to round the boys up for supper, Tom came flying back and screaming, “John caught a duck.”

This did disrupt our hectic routine and Mary and I (and Dan) ran over to see what this was all about. It seems after the cheese ran out, John used bread for bait, and of the numerous ducks on the pond, one was unduly hungry. Now we saw one very unhappy duck with a fish hook through his bill, and one unhappy boy with a duck on a leash. This situation stopped even Mary and we just sort of stood, feeling sorry for both the duck and John. It finally became apparent we must do something, so we called in outside help. The camp manager was soon rounded up and with a look of utter amazement as “how could this happen to me”, he went off in all directions at once. Within a few minutes he had his teen-age son, a pair of dikes and some gloves, and proceeded to hold one unhappy squirming duck in both hands while his son took the dikes and cut the curved end off the hook. Then they extracted the by now more or less straight wire from the duck’s bill, and threw the squawking duck back into the pond.

At this point I was very happy that I knew no Norwegian and that our host knew very little English. John hasn’t hankered to fish to this day.

Lloyds of Cambridge

No trip, in fact no facet of modern day life, is without financial worries. As Parkinson has stated, “....expenditure rises to meet income...". No matter how much or how little a person’s, church’s or government’s income is, there is always the tendency if not the outright necessity of spending just a little beyond said income.

Our trip was no exception. I’m sure there is no more liberal paying fellowship than my NSF fellowship; salary matching plus up to $2000 toward travel. However as usual in these types of things the expenditures always occur before the money is available. Also no one in his right mind would study in Europe without doing some sightseeing. With five smallish boys, traveling and/or living abroad presents planning, financial, and just plain ordinary problems. Months before we ever left San Diego we had ordered and paid for our VW become ZW (Volkswagen to be converted into Zigeunerwagen, or Gypsy Wagon), our air tickets to Omaha, our steamship tickets from Montreal to Liverpool, a hired car to meet the ship in Liverpool, new lightweight luggage, and twenty dollars worth of English pounds, Netherlandish guilders, German marks, Danish, Swedish, and Norwegian kroners, and a large cashier’s check with which to open an English bank account. Needless to say, we did not leave feeling financially free and easy.

Our first extra came at Hanover. Someone had figured the insurance premium incorrectly and there went some of our precious travelers checks. Since we figured things pretty close anyway this extra expenditure made it necessary to stop on our way to Hamburg for more marks. It took a full two hours to find a "Wechsel”, get a parking place, return to get my passport (why they needed to see a passport beyond me), and finally walk away with enough marks to get us out of Germany.

By the time we got to Stockholm we were flat broke and had to borrow money from my international colleague, Dr. Gunnar Funt. Luckily before we left a big fat travel cheek from NSF arrived and temporarily relieved our plight. The only trouble was I got overconfident. Instead of keeping out about twice what I figured I would need to get back to England I kept only just enough. With the rest I wiped out one of my big debts and deposited a substantial amount to my English account.

All was well the rest of our Scandinavian stay (except the 105 kronen, $20, laundry bill). However another misplanned event caught up with us. Since we camped out we didn’t plan in detail how far we would drive each day. That is, we had no advanced reservations in hotels. I might put it in reverse, because with "funf Kleine Jungen" it was impossible to schedule in advance, we camped. In any case I looked at the kilometers between cities and figured we could drive from Stockholm, to Oslo, to Bergen, and back through Denmark, Germany, and Holland and get back to England easily in two weeks. One week and five days later as we drove into Bergen I could see that something had gone awry in my planning.

I knew that an overnight boat service ran between Bergen and Newcastle and figured maybe this would solve our time problem. There still remained a money problem, the fare, and a reservation problem, namely we had none. To top it off we arrived in Bergen too late on Friday to see about reservations. On Saturday the steamship offices were closed and the boat sailed on Sunday. Actually the offices weren’t completely closed. A young clerk was around who found out by marching through other people’s files that there was room for a ZW and an 8-bunk cabin available and he proceeded to sign us up. I told him that I had no cash nor travelers checks to pay the passage and would have to write a cheque on my English account. He wanted no money, no cheque, let the purser on board worry about it. I asked if be could warn the purser to expect a cheque. He couldn’t care less. He said he’d see that everything would be OK. Just don’t worry, let the purser worry.

Our five weeks of near-perfect weather came to a close as we drove up to load ZW and occupants on board. The motor clubs got the Carnet, insurance, etc., checked and the ZW whisked away before we had hardly finished our picnic lunch inside and gotten our baggage, papers, potty, and spare food out. We then filed into the terminal, loaded down to the gills with baggage, sacks, and boys.

On one of the very few occasions where our multitude caused a difference in the usual routine, the purser saw us at the end of the line (we always were, since we couldn’t keep them lined up and at the ready) and told us to come to the head of the line and go right on board. When he asked for tickets I told him of our late arrival and arrangements with the boy in the office yesterday. He looked at the bottom of his list and sure enough found our names. When I muttered something about paying for the passage he said, "Later, on board." I started to explain about personal cheques, etc., but he paid no heed.

We got aboard, found our spacious 8-bunk cabin, hot shower, and clean towels and were really reveling in comfort. We were soon sailing out the fiord toward England. About this time the purser had finished his other business and called over the ship’s PA system for me to come to his office.

He verified the ages of the boys, the volume and weight of the car and figured out we owed him 588 kroner ($112). He then turned his smiling countenance to me and asked how I planned to pay, cash or travelers check? I hesitatingly said that I planned to pay by personal check. His jaw dropped about two inches, color came to his cheeks and he fairly shouted, "Personal check, we don’t take personal checks!” I said meekly, “That’s all I have." "But the company won’t allow me to take a personal check. Didn’t the man who made the reservation make that clear?" "On the contrary, I tried to pay him yesterday so he could wire Cambridge if need be to verify my account:" "What did he do?" "Nothing, he said to let the purser on board take care of the passage money." "He must have been insane, how much cash do you have?" “We counted out about 5 pounds, 100 Danish, Swedish, or Norwegian krone, a few coins from the Netherlands, etc., and came up with about $30. And with the most despairing look I’ve seen on anyone since I’d told my boys a year ago they couldn’t have a dog for pet, he asked, "And you have no travelers checks?" "No." "Nor anymore cash?" "NO." I thought he was going to collapse. Then in a weak, sickly voice that could hardly be heard, he asked, "And with what bank is your account?" "Lloyds Bank in Cambridge." "Do you know the address?” "No, but I could show you on a map I have in the cabin where it is located." And in an almost inaudible whisper, near a state of complete exhaustion, he said, "Yes go get your map and let us find the address of your bank."

About ten minutes later I came back with map (and cheque book which I didn’t even have with me before) and we continued our conversation. By now of course I felt terrible seeing the man so put out. After all I knew I had money in the bank. At least I thought I did. I wasn’t positive I had 40 pounds ($112), since my original deposit was $100 and I had no positive assurance that the money I had the Swedish bank send was actually deposited. But anyway I was quite sure I had money in the bank.

Leaving Bergen on board the ‘Leda’

Upon my return however he was happy as a lark. He must have had some narcotic or some spirits hidden away that he had partaken of in my absence. Or seeing he had no alternative perhaps he had put on his happy mask. He was probably practicing the part the old Chinese proverb about relaxing and enjoying those things that are inevitable anyway.

In writing the cheque I just about brought on his state of collapse again. You see this was the first English cheque I’d written and I didn’t know how to do it. Where we write, "z and y hundredths" Dollars, where y can be “no”, the English write, “X pounds y shillings and z pence”, where if z or y and z are zero, you write “only”. Once he told me about the “only” we were all right. I wrote Forty pounds only. Then he asked me to cross it. “Cross it? What’s that?” “You don’t know about crossing cheques?” “Never heard of it.” Vertically across the cheque you draw two lines, about half an inch apart, and write ‘and Co.’” “Why?” “This means no individual or company can receive cash from the cheque. Instead it is deposited in some bank to the account of whoevers name is on the check. They then draw the money out of their account.” “Oh!” “This is to protect against forgeries and/or lost cheques. A crossed cheque is not negotiable.” “Two lines, you say. Right on top of the writing?” “Yes, that’s it, thank you.” At this point he probably realized no cheque artist could be this stupid. Being thus assured he was my friend for the remainder of the trip.

This was a very pleasant trip. We really hadn’t found our camping “wings” yet and getting back to bunks, hot showers, and served meals was a real luxury. The food was both wonderful and inexpensive. We found another family with a boy flush, but only four of them so we were still kings.

The purser’s lecture on the crossing of cheques was my first lesson in English banking. I had much more to learn about English banks, and I will add it was all quite pleasant. To begin with I found that George III is still king in England. Whereas we fought a revolution over the stamp tax, the English still pay tuppence for a stamp which is duly affixed to all cheques when they are cashed. Maybe this is why cancelled cheques are never returned, at least mine weren’t. Instead, the bank statement (which was mailed not every month, nor every second month but when the page was filled up) told to whom the money was paid. That is, the statement told you this if you knew the code: For example, CCC was Cambridgeshire County Council, for taxes, licenses, etc.; EEB meant Eastern Electricity Board; CQS or CHQ meant check (cheque) i.e. something deposited to the account; Stamp, or Stamp on CHQ told of the tuppenny stamp tax deduction; AMT Dusseldorf, or MT Bonn meant some marks had been sent to Germany.

There was no bank charge for deposits or cheque transactions (other than the tuppence stamp tax) but instead each book of cheques was purchased 24 for 4 shillings or 2 l/3 cents a cheque. The thing I could never get used to was that I never knew how much money I had in the bank. I had arranged my finances so that my NSF stipend check went directly to my San Diego bank who had my power of attorney to deposit the money to my account. My life insurance payments were deducted from my account automatically each month. The bank was instructed to send to England, upon receipt of the NSF check, a fixed amount to be deposited in Lloyds (of Cambridge). What I didn’t know was when the check from America arrived and what the exact rate of exchange was on that particular day. So I was always phoning Lloyds or going in to check on my balance. They weren’t supposed to tell me over the phone but I soon became such a familiar voice that few verifying questions were asked.

However this incessant phoning was both embarrassing and time consuming so after five months of having things work out OK, i.e. having money on deposit before I wrote cheques I got careless on the sixth month. I wrote several good sized cheques without phoning Lloyds bank, assuming NSF, the U.S. and U.K. postal systems, and my bank in California were performing in accustomed efficiency. To my utter amazement one morning in the 7 A.M. mail I saw this letter from Lloyds marked quite conspicuously on the outside of the envelope, “PRIVATE”. I opened the envelope and read,

Doctor J. C. Webster,

The Manse,

Fulbourn,

Cambridge. External Account

Dear Sir

I think you would like to be advised that cheques have been paid making the above mentioned account overdrawn L87.15.5d.

You are no doubt aware that under the Exchange Control Regulations overdrafts are not permitted on External accounts and I shall be glad therefore if you will kindly let me have a remittance to place the account in credit.

Yours faithfully,

(signed) W. de W. W. Symour

Sub-Manager

This was the politest letter I had ever received that told me I was overdrawn to the slight amount of $245.77. The letter appeared to me to be absolutely apologetic. They seemed somehow to be sorry they had to remind me of this insignificant oversight.

Two mishaps occurred together to cause this misfortune. For some reason my NSF check was late, and secondly some new clerk had sent my English bank deposit to me, not to the bank. I received it the same day I got the distress appeal from the bank.

Of course in the confusion my automatic insurance payments came due in California before the NSF stipend check came in and this of course made my California bank downright neurotic. The reason I hadn’t heard sooner about their psychosis was that apparently the same new clerk who sent my English bank deposit check to me, not to Lloyds, had put only a surface mail stamp on the nasty letter. I’m sure they gave her one air and one surface stamp and she failed to realize which was the important letter and had sent money by air and dire warnings by ship. In contrast to Lloyds reticent reminder of an insignificant oversight my California bank was right to the point. In fact beyond the point. They stated that my fixed commitments (insurance premiums and deposit to England) exceeded my NSF stipend check and my residual balance couldn’t maintain a favorable (black ink) balance. This was not true, in fact I accrued $60 a month from my NSF stipend. The trouble was that our renters had failed to pay the rent for 2 months and I had to make my house payments out of the fat. All in all, no rent and late NSF check resulted in much consternation to everyone except me. Before I could answer my California bank the NSF check had come in and got me cleared. But what really burned me was that while I was in the red in California the date to pay “costs” on deposit and withdrawal transactions came due and instead of waiting 2 days, they put me doubly in the red, at $1.50 per transgression. Of course Lloyds charged nothing for my financial sin.

I was really quite unhappy with my California bank especially when I remembered my other experiences with banks and bankers. Incident one occurred after WWII when I was a newly married, and not very solvent graduate student back in the hometown I had grown up in. I had my account in the bank my mother had patronized during my childhood (she no longer lived there). I had played clarinet in the same band with the bank’s president in high school and one of the senior tellers was the father of one of my oldest and best friends and classmates. My account was never very flush and I was always estimating the “cost” to be sure I wasn’t overdrawn and one month my estimate was in error. I received a three cent letter, dictated by a $3 per hour teller to a $1 secretary to tell me I had overdrawn my account by one cent. I somehow thought I could have been trusted.

Incident two occurred with my self-same California bank just after moved there. I have always traveled a lot and wasn’t always home on pay day so I gave the bank my power of attorney to deposit my pay check without my endorsing it. Our secretary often mailed my check in. On returning home from one such trip Mary was fit to be tied. We were still living in the house trailer we had drug to California from the University and were in a big camp with a community type mailbox. She had been embarrassed by the postcard read by one and all in the camp stating we were overdrawn. Of course the trouble was, the check was at the bank but some new clerk hadn’t bothered to see if I had a power of attorney and just didn’t deposit it. But no one in the trailer park knew the details, only the results.

So much for banks, but not for bankers. My final year in college started within months after our new house was built and we had to rent it out. We told the realtor to keep the rent reasonable and get a “good” renter. We were informed by mail that the manager of a newly opened bank in our neighborhood was our renter. We were overjoyed. Overjoyed that is until we started getting postcards from the water company, the gas and electric company, and the phone company, all with the same story. Pay your bills or the service will be discontinued. We replied, the lease says renter pays utilities, go ahead and shut them off. This went on the whole time I was in school. On our return the neighbors told us our renter couldn’t pay his bills because of his wild parties. He had a high and riotous time in our new house (and in addition his dog scratched the paint). All in all a very bad tenant. And a year later we read in the paper where he drew a suspended sentence for embezzlement. Suspended because he was “such an upright citizen”. We didn’t testify.

Personally I like English banks and I always waved with enthusiasm to the Foreign Business Clerk (the clark with whom I had most of my dealings) as I passed him riding his bicycle to work every morning. I was confident he wasn’t living beyond his income. And by the tone his letter to me on my transgression he wasn’t really very worried about my solvency.

Settling In

Our second arrival in England was more somber than our first. After a month of near-perfect weather in Scandinavia, we hove into Newcastle in a dismal fog. It was reassuring to see our ZW lowered by sling onto the quay. But the sickening feeling lingered that there by a string hung our home, our transportation, our accumulated savings, and some bread and cheese for lunch. In Liverpool five weeks earlier, the day was bright, our hopes were bright, our expectations high, and our pocketbook relatively full. Now our first fling was over, our pocketbook relatively empty, (its contents were held dangling over our heads in the form of our ZW), the serious business of finding a house and starting in earnest on fellowship business was at hand.

Even so, the night’s rest on the “Leda” had perked up my spirits, got some pink back into Mary’s cheeks, and really charged the boys up. Even Charlie was convinced this was England; we had crossed a big “ribber”, we were disembarking from an Empress, and this time we even had the weather we had told him to expect.

The hot shower on board (and the hurriedly washed socks and underwear) had set me straight again, although the boys could still neither see nor experience any real material or spiritual uplifting by said showers. The fact that they now looked tannish-white instead of grayish-brown meant nothing to them. Nor did the slightly errant-looking bushy blond hair standing upright in true “crew” fashion, as compared to yesterday’s used-broom appearance, mean anything to them.

The two chief items of business were to restock the food locker and on to Hadrians Wall. We cleared customs in our usual short order. The British officials are sticklers; efficient, polite, and somewhat pompous, but with five boys and a ZW loaded down with luggage, sleeping bags, half-eaten loaves of bread, and half-empty orange squash bottles, no unnecessary delays were encountered. Of course, the custom officials were as anxious as I was to keep the process simple; in fact, as subsequent events will show, one or the other of us erred somewhat on passing ZW through on a carnet describing a VW only.

Hardly had we left customs before the road changed from pavement to cinder, indicating to some that we were lost. However a few twists, turns, railroad tracks, and dingy warehouses later we were on a road toward Newcastle. We replenished bread, cheese, sweets, orange squash, and capped sterilized milk, and were soon headed for Hadrians Wall. Within a half hour and about four “left, top of the road . . . straight away . . . and you cawn’t miss it’s . . .” later, we saw through the mist a sign and a stile over a stone wall and a muddy path. While Mary sliced bread and cheese, the boys and I sloshed through a pasture to a coherent pile of rocks that formed what used to be a turret (sentry room) along the wall. John and I in turn shaded our camera lenses to keep the condensing mist off and took a picture of our first Roman ruin. We soon retreated over the stile and noted the stone fence looked as if it were made of the same stuff as the Roman wall. As we ate of our picnic-in-the-car, we noted a nearby farm building also looking strangely Roman-stone-like.

We were soon headed south through some of the most dismal looking stone villages in England. It’s hard to say whether the weather or the barren age-old poverty-stricken villages contributed most to the dismal, melancholy pervading atmosphere in and out of the ZW.

Spirits and clouds continued low through the afternoon. We still, after a month’s driving on the continent, had not lowered our sights on our accustomed 50 miles covered for each hour of driving. One of the contributing factors was the rate at which `kilometers in Germany and Scandinavia passed by. It was quite customary to see kilometer signs, to say Stockholm or Oslo, read about 50 less per hour (corresponding to 30 miles in said hour.) Without giving it much thought, we kept thinking in terms of Cambridge by sundown; after all, the distance between Newcastle and Cambridge is only 229 miles and we had started south from Hadrians Wall at about noon. However, 100 miles and five hours later we camped.

Our first camp site in England was a portent of things to come. At a pub coming into Bouroughbridge we found a camp site. The weeds were a foot high, it had not stopped misting all day and the ground was mighty soggy. The store, as our first in Germany, was the pub and they were lacking on many essentials. The restroom facilities were of the proverbial “red brick” variety. Other inmates consisted of a caravan of WWI vintage permanently bogged down on this dismal moor. We met a new traveling companion at this site to add to the wasps and mosquitoes; namely, a slimy variant of our silver fish. We met them on folding our tent and silently fading away early next morning.

The conglomerate spirits in the ZW perked up considerably when John noted that Sherwood Forest lay between our present position and Cambridge. Tom and Bill were soon singing about Robin Hood and Little John, and as our spirits soared so did the clouds, and by mid-morning the sun was out and we were shopping for our “Merrie Band” picnic to be consumed out of reach of the Sheriff. This stop was a great success. Dad, me that is, was sheriff, and the boys were the band. Luckily their ambushes cost them the excess energy they had to burn. My path, pushing our treasure (Dan in his stroller), was straight, narrow and energy conserving. Our Merrie Band, momma included, easily got inside Robin’s “Major Oak”. At the time telephone-booth packing was in vogue in the States, and I’m sure the verger’s story of 17 members of Robin’s band hiding from the sheriff inside this tree could have been tripled by any good U.S. college fraternity. Sherwood Forest was such a success that nothing would do but a stop at the sheriff’s castle in Nottingham.

After many false starts, and at least five “You cawn’t miss it’s”, we found the stronghold of the enemy and were soon marveling at old armour, dishes, coins, and the like. While Mary tended Dan, the rest of the boys and I took a guided tour through all the underground passages out through the cliff on which Nottingham Castle stands. We heard tales of kidnappings of princely charges and the like, but my most vivid memories were steps, down, then up, then down and up, then up and down, and finally up, up, and figuratively and literally out. We soon became aware it was late afternoon and we were still 84 miles from Cambridge, so we were off at the usual English bicycle pace.

In Sherwood Forest

Although we had looked for houses in our previous 4 days in Cambridge, we had not looked for a camp site. After finding the “Red Lion” full we came across one of our most fortunate choices of our whole trip, Waverly at Great Shelford. Waverly was really a Caravan Park, but transients in rigs as ours could be put up for short stays. Waverly was well tended, well located, well run, and turned out to be a welcome and pleasant haven for us, especially now that the mists were behind us. We really hadn’t intended to make Waverly our summer home, but tides and taxes you know.

We folded camp as usual on our first real day in Cambridge and reported in at the Unit to find which house they had rented for us. Then the sad tales, “... 5 children ... not vacant until August ... 5 children .... owner back by May …. 5 children …. rented in June while we were in Scandinavia …. 5 children ...”. We then went to many estate agents, many houses, and heard many times “.... 5 children? …. 5 children! .... 5 children ....” We pitched our tent many evenings, folded it many mornings, and drove many miles, and were getting nowhere. Finally Mrs. Watling, the proprietor of Waverly noted we were weakening, and we were. It is one thing to travel and camp, and quite another to make and break camp each day so the car can be used to get to work and to look for more houses. We were not only tired but weary, disheartened, discouraged, depressed, dispirited, dejected, downcast, disheveled, dismayed, despondent, distressed, doleful, and disconsolate. Mrs. Watling said, “I know it isn’t much but if you find a house that can’t be occupied immediately, we have a caravan here that you can hire (rent) to wait out the interval.” At this point, even a permanent tent would have looked good, and we lost no time in agreeing to a week by week hiring of said caravan. Now with time on our side, we took new heart and went house-hunting again. We also cast caution to the wind and went to the most expensive estate agent and within 2 days had found an 8-room house in Fulbourn that would be vacant on 17 August, six weeks hence. At this point we would have agreed on a Christmas moving-in date. We were particularly happy because Mrs. Laurence, the estate agent, said we needn’t worry about the landlady refusing 5 boys. The landlady had given her, Mrs. Laurence, complete liberty in leasing to anyone.

So started our six weeks in a caravan (to sleep 4). Obviously we weren’t concerned with the limited sleeping facilities. Our ZW slept 7; the trouble was it wasn’t there during the day and the family had no roof, no stove, no table, no napping facilities, or in general, no home. Our ZW, marvelous as it was, was either a home or a car, not both simultaneously. So now we had sleeping accommodations for 11, and a permanent roof, stove, table, silverware, and plates. What could be more ideal? Possibly an 8-room house right now.

Luckily the British summer of ‘59 was unbelievable, even the historical weather records fell; more sunny days, highest temperatures, less rainfall, in general the best summer in 200 years. The weather, Mrs. Watling, Waverly Park, Great Shelford, and the British Railway made the month of July very pleasing. You see, the mainline to Liverpool Street Station, London, was within two blocks of Waverly. The boys had a large garden (yard) to play in, and spent untold hours at the level crossing copying down the numbers on the “belly puffers” (steam locomotives) on the ”up line” (to London) and the “down line” (to Cambridge and points north and east).

A guarded level crossing with its gate is a marvel to behold. All “level crossing gates” on any road at all are manned. Very important ones like the mainline from Cambridge to Liverpool Street Station and its intersection with Station Road, Great Shelford are not only manned but are remotely controlled. The signalman sits in his glass tower with banks of levers and controls and manipulates not only the gate but also the semaphores in his section and the points (switches). These gates are not ordinary American-type gates. American gates stand vertically at the edge of the road when no trains are in the vicinity and lower to a horizontal position across the vehicle roadway to discourage automobiles from passing over the tracks. I say discourage, because any ordinary American auto with its excess mass, horsepower, and speed could easily negotiate said barrier with only a few dents and some broken headlamps. The British Railway gates are always horizontal, they either close off the railway or the roadway. They are true gates in that no pig, chicken, man, nor car can get through when the gates are closed. If perchance both the signalman and the engine driver (engineer) were asleep so that the gate remained across the rails and the corresponding semaphore ignored (a very unlikely combination of happenings), the gate would not contain a fully-charged and chuffing belly puffer (steam locomotive). However, those smallish, unpretentious slight English cars would have to have quite a running start to make much of a mark on said level crossing gate. A double-decker bus (fully loaded) or a large lorry and driver (fully loaded) might possibly negotiate both of the closed gates but it would be pretty messy and for the next few hours trains would probably be delayed.

These level crossing gates should really be the subject of a separate treatise. Britain without level crossing gates wouldn’t really be Britain at all. My guess is there is no other people the world over who would put up with level crossing gates ala England. It is my contention that the quality of the British people that allows level crossing gates is the same basic quality that won WWII (at least the Battle of Britain) and is now losing them the battle of the highway (or traffic, or automobile, or automobile traffic on the highway). Since the gates are true either-or devices (across the tracks or the road), and since they are coupled directly with a semaphore at least a half-mile away, they are closed well before the train is in sight (or in sound). The ever suffering, courteous, happily resigned, non-hurried British motorist quietly and patiently stops his little car, often turns off the motor, sometimes takes out a paper to read, and his boys often get out of the car to get a better view of the train (and copy down the engine number). Of course, the bicyclers and pedestrians, who usually outnumber the cars, continue crossing the tracks via a small gate at the edge of the roadway until finally at some crossing the signalman throws a bolt and locks this gate also. The remarkable thing is that the British motorist tends to accept level crossings and associated minutes of delay with the rest of his road burden and doesn’t appear to object to these proceedings. I can just see a north German, or an Italian lorry driver, or an American putting up with such time-consuming protective devices.

On farm roads that are seldom used the gates tend to remain across the road, not across the railway. At such crossings there is a bell to ring which rouses the gatekeeper, or his wife, or older child. Said gatekeeper will, not always happily, come out of the house still chewing his luncheon sausage (cold), or with lather over half his face, or his wife may have bread dough in one hand or lean the garden rake against the fence as he or she opens the gate.

Apparently, according to an article in the Cambridge News, gates in fields that line the tracks also act as either-or devices. The article stated that, Mr. Ian Whitehorse, a farmer from Little Wilbraham, was fined 5 pounds for leaving the crossing gate across the BR (British Railway) tracks. In his defense Mr. Whitehorse explained that he was only going in his field for a few minutes and since he neither saw nor heard any approaching train and knew that none were scheduled (pronounced sheduled) he left the gate across the tracks. Nothing was quoted concerning the comments of the engine driver; chances are it would not meet the criteria of the New York Times, “All the news that’s fit to print.”

Probably the majority of level crossing gates are neither remotely controlled as at Great Shelford, nor, farmhouse manned as on Teversham Road, Fulbourn, but are pushed by a signalman who comes down from his signal tower at the proper time to push the gates from one position to the other. Such was the gate on Station Road, Fulbourn, where Mr. Newman performed to the fascinated gaze of our boys later when we moved into “The Manse” at Fulbourn.

So much for level crossing gates in general and back to Waverly, or more precisely, three squares away at Great Shelford station with its remotely controlled gate. The daily routine at Waverly was: keep Tom in bed as long as possible; get up when Tom woke up John or Charlie; convert 2-bedroom caravan to kitchen and dining-room caravan (same 2 rooms); wash and shave and try everything from promises and coercion to threats and violence to get boys to wash; cook, eat, and wash dishes; convert one bedroom ZW to VW; convert dining room of caravan to living-room; encourage Dan and Charlie to get ball or toy trains on grass (in garden) and start playing; get dirty laundry, shopping list, etc., and drive VW to Unit; and watch John, Tom, and Bill start off for level crossing gate out of rear view mirror. On returning, the routine was to come by way of level crossing gate and pick up John, Tom, and Bill, and so reunite the family. This reunion was generally followed by a walking trip to the grocery to claim minerals (soda pop) especially placed in refrigeration for “those Americans who actually like minerals cold.”

Occasionally this routine was altered; for example in John’s words:

One day, while Dad was at the Unit, Mom finally gave in to our steady pleading to take a train ride to Cambridge. After much pain we got down to the Great Shelford Station, bought a sheaf of “return” tickets, crossed the tracks and waited. Soon semaphore signals began popping up and the infamous “level crossing” gate shifted from track to road. Unlucky automobiles began piling up behind the gates and bicyclers passed through the pedestrian gate. Then a distant horn sounded and presently a British Railways new two-car “rail car” hove into view. This was one case when it took no urging and it wasn’t very long before everyone was aboard her.

The only incident on this 3 1/4 mile trip was the discovery that you could see Waverly Park from the railway but unfortunately not vice versa. In practically no time at all, we passed under Hills Road bridge, bounced over points (switches) and cross-tracks, and screeched to a stop at the unique single platform of the station of the University City of Cambridge. With much urging we got the smaller children out of the train. After I had made my rounds and jotted down some more engine numbers, we found a southbound train which by amazing luck, turned out to be the right train. The train was made up of single compartments with no corridors between them. If you got in one, the only other way out was the other side. We pulled each other into a compartment and tried to make ourselves comfortable. After we got ourselves reasonably settled, we were surprised to see a man entering our compartment. It seemed rather unreasonable as there were other compartments not already occupied.

When the train started, we all had that uncomfortable feeling that goes with an intrusion of privacy. The train rumbled on and pretty soon we stopped at Great Shelford. We tried to get out but there wasn’t any handle on the door. All there was was a leather strap. It went into the same well as the window and appeared to raise or lower the window as required. We were getting desperate since the train didn’t stay there forever. Finally our fellow passenger got up and with a bewildered look, calmly lowered the window, reached out, and opened the door with the outside handle. After thanking him, we grabbed the stroller and quickly dismounted. No sooner had we got out than the train started again and we started home, wondering if we would have been in Bishops Stortford or London before we would have figured out how to open the door.

John’s tale sounds routine but momma was still in a state of shock when I got home, “What if that man hadn’t been with us; we’d have been on that train yet.”

Trains became the focus of all attention for the boys. We had brought along their baseball gear (balls, gloves, and bats), but they seemed to sense that in England baseball was not the summer national game. Whereas at home they played baseball hours on end in our backyard (we couldn’t keep any grass growing around the bases, plate, and pitcher’s mound), in England within a week trains were king.

It was probably the signalman or perhaps some English boys at the crossing but within a week John, Tom, and Bill had purchased an Ian Allen Loco Spotting book. For English boys no more need be said, but for Americans I’d better explain about loco spotting and Ian Allen. Whether it is because steam locomotives are still in use, because no British home is over 5 or 10 miles from railroad, or because the English as a race are born clerks (pronounced clarks), loco spotting is a national pastime for boys 7 to 70. In its simplest form loco spotting is merely copying numbers off the engines as they whiz past. But of course you learn that there are many classes of locomotives and each has a basic number and the early members of a class are also named. For example there is the King class whose basic number is 6000. King George V is 6000 and it often pulls the Red Dragon. King Edward V is 6001, etc.

Then there are the different regions like the Eastern Region which before nationalization consisted of the Great Eastern and Great Northern; and the Midland Region which was the Midland Railway; and the Western Region which was the Great Western. Since the Regions were once independent railways, certain older engine types are peculiar to certain regions and only the very modern engines are distributed among all of the various Regions.

In general each region has its own station in London; the Western region trains use Paddington; Southern region trains use Waterloo, Victoria, and Charing Cross; Midland trains come into Euston and St. Pancras. Scottish region engines do not come into London since the engines are changed at Newcastle or Carlisle but the Scottish trains come into Euston, St. Pancras, or Kings Cross. The Flying Scotsman goes between Kings Cross and Edinburgh and is ordinarily pulled by an engine of the A4 class. The Royal Scot leaves Euston for Glasgow pulled by an engine of the Al class. And the Waverley leaves St. Pancras for Glasgow.

Ian Allen has little books that describe all the engines in a given region and has a list of every single engine number in that district. The trick is of course to check each number you have seen until you’ve checked the whole list. In Cambridge you would start with the Eastern book and work on it until you knew that number 70000 was a “namer” called the Britannia and was of the 7P6F class, and often pulled the Fenman. After a few years of this, getting older all the time, you branch out and take the rail bus to Peterborough on Saturday and spend a day on the Eastern Main Line. Here you are apt to see the "Mallard," 60022, pulling “Queen of Scots” or a new Deltic Diesel pulling the “White Rose” which goes from Kings Cross to York. Later you take the Oxford Railbus to Bletchley which is on the Midland region main line to find that “City of Liverpool”, number 46247, pulls the Irish Mail, or that another diesel was pulling the “Red Rose” (to Lancaster).

Of course a trip to London is pure ecstasy. You have your choice of all the aforementioned large stations or London Bridge, Cannon Street, Charing Cross, Broad Street, and Blackfriars Station, which are primarily suburban stations or to the Goods Depots (freight stations) adjacent to Paddington, or St. Pancras, or to the Carriage Shed near Euston or the Carriage Cleaning Shed near Victoria. At Marylebone there is a Parcels Depot, a Carriage Shed, and a Goods Shed.

If you ever get all of Ian Allens British Railway numbers then you switch to the London Transport (underground) and find again that in general the Bakerloo line uses different equipment than the Piccadilly line and the Waterloo and City line is in a class by itself. At about age 80, if you have been diligent, you will have all the numbers of all the rolling motive stock in Britain. Before we left England, a year after our six weeks in Waverly, John had a stack of Ian Allen number books six inches high. He had timetables from all regions (weight 5 pounds) and had descriptive literature on all engines including the London Underground and every month he bought the trade journal, Trains Illustrated. In general we had half a tea chest full of John’s loco spotting books to pack when we left England.

Then there is the Dia Dema club. For 5 pounds a year you get 32 coloured slides (plus storage binders, etc.) of any type British Railroad. This club is really cosmopolitan because you can also get slides of locomotives of all the European Railways. Needless to say, we were soon members of the Dia Dema club.

Then there are the Lone Star Locos. These are Tom Thumb sized trains that run on ‘000’ scale tracks. These tracks have cross tracks and points (switches) that actually work and for about 2 pounds you can buy enough track to spend hours and days making every configuration an ingenuous mind can invent. Then of course the Lone Star makes famous locomotives typical of the more famous classes on the British Railways. We soon had a 4-6-2 Class A4, Gresley Streamliner, a 4-6-2 Princess Royal Class 8P, a 0-6-0 Tank Class 3F, and even a Diesel Shunter. We had a brake van, a cattle wagon, a tank wagon, a flat truck, and numerous just plain goods wagons. We had BR Express Passenger Coaches, and BR Midland Region Passenger Coaches, and in fact, most everything. We soon had as much track and rolling stock as the Kentish section of the Southern Region and the price of these was so slight that I couldn’t even really object much to their new hobby.

Within a fortnight the boys were torn between loco spotting at the level crossing and building Lone Star right-of-ways in Mrs. Watling’s garden (yard) at Waverly Park. Just like backyard baseball, Lone Star railroading got so that it interfered more than somewhat with mealtimes, bedtimes, and sight-seeing time. And of course, after labouring hours to make a rail layout that eclipsed the best of yesterday’s, or even just duplicated yesterday’s, loud cries of anguish followed such logical and straightforward pronouncements as, “Pick up the trains for the night,” or “Time to put the track in the box”, or more subtly, “What do you want me to pick up first?”

The boys were so engrossed in trains that they had no interest in driving to Kenilworth to see another old castle, “We’ve seen a castle, we want to play trains,” or cathedrals, “Who wants to see Ely Cathedral, we’ve seen churches before.” The only sightseeing suggestion that fell on willing ears was, “Let’s go to London” and the response was unanimous, “The train for London leaves Great Shelford at 8:45,” and the following Sunday we were on it. Our original thought was to drive to London but we soon saw the light and realized that only parents could be stupid enough to think it might be easier to take care of five boys from a well-equipped ZW than from a transitory train.

Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat

Our first trip up to London started at the crack of dawn. Tom had Charlie turned on before we could even crack one eyelid open. With Charlie spouting forth, even our one and only sleepyhead, Bill, was soon up and the metamorphosis from bedrooms to dining room to living rooms was accomplished in short order. Whereas ordinarily you can’t coerce, threaten, or inveigle Bill into getting his clothes on before Mom’s temper has but one remaining stop, and my blood pressure has assumed pathological proportions, Bill was dressed before Charlie. Charlie couldn’t stop talking long enough to get dressed; “Will we see the Queen?”, “Is there really a mouse under her chair?”, “I’m not going on London Bridge, it will fall down.” “I’m going to eat blackbird pie.” “John, will we go on a namer?” “Will it be a streak or a brick?" “Will we take Dan’s stroller?” “Can I take my Princess Royal engine?” “Do I have to wear my Norway shoes?” “Mom, are you going, or just us boys?” “Tom, will you take care of me?” “Is time to go yet?”

Everyone was ready to go an hour before train time except: John hadn’t shined everyone’s shoes, Tom couldn’t find the engine he wanted to take, Bill was dressed but hadn’t washed, Charlie couldn’t find one shoe, and Dan was playing trains and didn’t want to move. Mom was fit to be tied. After traveling in ZW for weeks, how do you get all essentials into a diaper bag, handbag, and boys’ pockets? Who would carry Dan’s stroller? Should we pack a lunch? What time does the train that stops at Great Shelford return?

We finally paraded down to the Great Shelford station and I exchanged some of my railway coupons (bought in America at a discount to get dollars for England) for tickets. Luckily we found an unoccupied compartment and were soon spread out all over it. During this trip we had time to examine the coach rather carefully. We marveled at the old-fashioned ingenuity of leather strap as window regulator. This two or three inch wide leather strap with holes punched every two inches went down into the window well, underneath the window and was fastened inside the well at the top but on the otherside or outside of the window. The strap made a loop underneath the window; by pulling the strap tight the window was raised, by letting all slack out of the strap the window was lowered. Holes in the strap fit over a blunt hook and kept the window at the desired height. This method was marvelously effective, as compared to, say, stuck bus windows I have come in contact with, but a little loose fitting, that is, drafty.

The history seems to be that when railways first replaced carriages and larger coaches, they merely put small flanged iron wheels in place of the spoked wooden wheels. Later they replaced the horses with steam locomotives. The carriage and coach furnishings still persist, although now they have in essence put 8 or 10 coaches onto one a single railway coach and call the individual coaches compartments.

Even in relatively flat southeastern England the train went through a couple of tunnels (between Cambridge and Bishops Stortford). Dan didn’t like this one whit. As the sun went down and he reflected train noise level increased, the noise level in our compartment really went up. Nor did Dan adapt fast. The second tunnel triggered him off louder than the first.

This was our first long trip (54 miles) on BR and we kept wondering when the conductor (guard) was going to collect our tickets. We still had our tickets when we arrived at Liverpool Street Station and luckily so, for no one got out of the track platform without said ticket. Apparently on some trains at least they look at your tickets to allow you onto the loading platform at your originating station and collect them at the terminating station. No collectors en route. Mary and the boys had observed this on their short (but nearly longer) train ride but attributed it to the distance, not the general accounting system.

Both John and I had studied the Underground System Map and knew that to get to Westminster we wanted the Circle Route. Mary being familiar with the New York Subway where the worst in man beast comes to the fore (namely push, shove, look out for yourself only and let the timid be trampled) was not looking forward to the tube ride. However, Sunday morning in any large city is a quiet time, the only time to really see a city. And Britishers, living shoulder to shoulder, have an inherent politeness and live and let live attitude (unheard of in New York City but strangely enough somewhat evident on the freeways of California), that made our first tube ride a pleasant experience. They actually stood back and saw to it that this rather numerous but midget-sized army stayed together as a single pocket of resistance.

As we climbed up to the daylight again we saw Big Ben in all its majesty and almost felt that already our little excursion was worthwhile. We had lunch at one of London’s equivalents to a Times Square snack bar and started our walking tour, Westminster Abbey, Whitehall, 10 Downing Street, Horse Guards Parade, the Mall, Duke of York’s Column, and up Regent Street to Piccadilly Circus. This took about 2 hours and 7 lollies (ice cream bars). It was rather hot, lollies are sticky, no drinking fountains were in evidence, and in any case after 2 hours with small children we were on the lookout for a "Public Convenience." Finding none on it fell to me, the father of five boys, to take same (except Dan, he was by definition still a baby and therefore not a boy) and descend into the depths of the Piccadilly Circus Underground Station for purposes of Public (and private) Convenience. Here is where the ZW would have been and ordinarily was invaluable. With all boy children, a tin can in ZW is a great public convenience. In the countryside there are no disposal problems. In the city there is always a sewer drain within a half block. So with boys, ZW, can, and modern sanitation (sewer drains) we were never beset with numerous, small, emergency, right now public convenience stops. However with ZW serenely standing under a shade tree in Waverly Park, Great Shelford, and us in the vicinity of Piccadilly Circus we had a problem.

We soon found ourselves in a great circle (circus) with spokes running inward and hallways running outward and upward, one great mass of confusion. By circumnavigating and with sharp lookouts we soon found our objective and since it was crowded the boys took off in all directions. When reassembly was called Bill was missing. This was not completely unexpected since Bill has a tendency to know a little more than he understands. Even if we hadn’t separated to find vacant conveniences, and even if Bill had been within my sight there comes a time in every man’s life when he does not stop what he is doing instantaneously and start out in hot pursuit of an errant wayfarer. John is just inherently cautious and we need never really worry that he will walk off a cliff or go in water over his head, or climb the Eiffel Tower with mountain climbing gear. Tom is inherently obedient, he has his wild streaks and can on occasion act more like Tom Sawyer than Tom Webster, but in any emergency, he will do what he is told or has been told in the past under similar circumstances. Bill is number three, he has two older rivals for attention, he will get none being cautious or obedient so he tends to be somewhat impulsive. A year earlier at a beach party he saw John, who can swim, run and dive into the ocean; he saw Tom run and jump in (carefully keeping his head above water and his feet on the bottom, all of this unobserved by Bill). So Bill, who had never really been in or near the water, figured this was the way to play in water and proceeded to run and jump in. Luckily John saw him and dragged him out, sputtering and crying. John, and especially Tom, also knew in general their capabilities and limitations. All Bill knew was if they can do it he could too. But of course he didn’t know what they couldn’t do and thought he could do these things too. Cautious John and obedient Tom wouldn’t have thought of exploring the subterranean reaches of the Piccadilly Underground Station by themselves. But Bill didn’t know this and figured he would too. Charlie wouldn’t wander off, he’d have no one to talk to.

Anyway there it was, Bill gone in a maze equaled by very few other mazes in London. The forces had to be mobilized and a strategy planned preferably without letting Mom know that Dad had done it again. Ordinarily she wouldn’t trust me to look after the family cat, let alone the boys. Probably the only reason we don’t have a dozen boys is that we have no close relatives living anywhere near us to look after the boys, and Dad, when she goes to the maternity ward. She never stays more than three days fearing that the dirty dishes would block reentry into the house, and worrying that one of the boys might wander off and I would never even know it. Anyway the great thing was to find Bill before she got all upset. After all, what was there to be upset about? He had to be somewhere in or around Piccadilly Circus, either underground or on the surface. He could only leave on one of four trains going to Charing Cross, Kings Cross, Hyde Park, or Baker Street. Or he could if he surfaced, go away from the circus on one of only seven streets. Besides there weren’t over about 20 halls and/or stairways leading away from the area. Why should we unduly worry Mom about little misadventures like this; after all he could have been lost at Times Square (the Piccadilly of New York), or Grand Central Station, or in the Louvre, or in any of a number of zoos. After all, he was 5 years old.

But to action, “Tom, you stay right here. Watch this entrance and put Charlie at the other in case Bill comes back looking for us. And, Tom, don’t let Charlie out of your sight, and don’t wander off. We will be back. John, you start around the circle clockwise and I’ll go counter-clockwise, and I’ll meet you part‑way around. Look into all inward leading halls or doors and up the outward leading stairs. Macht Schnell!”

Three minutes later John and I asked Tom if Bill had come back. No Bill. So plan number two. Tom and Charlie as before, but John and I would climb out of each of the nearest stairways and look in the immediate vicinity on the street level. But, “Don’t go up the one we came down and run into Mom.” Besides, I wondered if anyone knew which one we had come down. I did only because I made a complete survey of its environs when I came down, to be sure we wouldn’t lose Mom and Dan. But it was way around the circle from where we were and I couldn’t really imagine that any of the boys knew which it was. It had no particular special markings.

Five minutes later we decided it was time to face the music. We picked up Tom and Charlie and started toward the stairway up to Regent Street where Mom and Dan were. I knew with chatterbox Charlie along we needn’t act unconcerned as he was talking all the way up the stairs, “Do you think Bill went to see the queen?” “I bet Bill went on the tube train.”

As we gained the top of the stairs, we saw Mom pushing Dan and window shopping along Regent Street with Bill tagging along behind. I tried to slow the boys down and to act nonchalant but Charlie yelled, “There’s Bill, Daddy, he’s with Mom.” And then, “Bill, where’ve you been, Dad’s been looking all over for you.”

Mom’s comment, “Glad to know that you missed him. Must have had your eyes open today.”

The atmosphere was never quite the same for our walk down Haymarket, through Charing Cross and along Victoria Embankment until, another round of lollies to the contrary, our energy and time gave out. We boarded the tube train at Mansion House, got our Cambridge train at Liverpool Street Station, woke Charlie and Dan up at Whittlesford and arrived safely home at Waverly, Great Shelford.

The reverse order of living, to eating, to sleeping quarters was accomplished in nearly the record time of the morning, and soon all was serene again in the ZW-Caravan home.

Castles, Cathedrals, Trains

The pattern for the remainder of our stay in Waverly was now set. Trains for the boys, housekeeping for Mary and work at the Unit for me. We found that England had laundromats, including dryers and this was our American Express. Here we met our
fellow Americans.

Our sightseeing trips included our first visit to a cathedral, fifteen miles away in Ely, a trip to Oxford, Stratford, Warwick and Kenilworth Castle, and a trip to the British Railways (BR) exhibition of rolling stock at Peterborough. You might think that visiting a cathedral or at least a ruined castle would be the highlight of the summer for the boys. If so, you don’t know boys who have first experienced steam engines.

At the new Peterborough North Goods Depot was held an “Exhibition of British Railways Locomotives, Carriages, Wagons, Containers and demonstration of Mechanical Appliances.” The boys listened to old engine drivers tell them which lever was the throttle, which the brake, which gauge read steam pressure and which read vacuum.

It is hard to say whether the class V.2., Mixed Traffic Steam Locomotive, the BR Standard Class 9, 2-10-0, or the class A.4, “Pacific” was the star of the show. Of the V.2 the program noted: “Built whilst Sir Nigel Gresley was Chief Mechanical Engineer of the London and North Eastern Railway, the locomotive has many of the characteristics of his 3-cylinder designs. Introduced in 1936 the first locomotive was named “Green Arrow” to mark its association with the Green Arrow system of registered freight transits. Although not as suitable as the Pacifics for working heavy or fast express passenger trains, nevertheless, the V.2 Class gives invaluable service on passenger duties during the peak summer months and at Bank Holiday times.” The class 9 was “...one of a class designed as a British Railways Standard Locomotive after nationalization.” Probably the A.4 was the star since as the program said “The locomotive on view, No.60022 named ‘Mallard’ attained a speed of 126 m.p.h. in 1938 creating the world’s speed record for steam locomotives which it still retains. This class of locomotive was designed by Sir Nigel Gresley in 1935 especially for working high speed streamlined trains running between London, Leeds, Newcastle and Edinburgh. The corridor in the tender is provided to enable engine crews to be changed when working on non-stop trains between London and Edinburgh, a distance of 393 miles, the longest daily non-stop run in the world.”

After the initial haze of the steam locomotives wore off the boys even went aboard some diesel engines. Finally they inspected the goods wagons and had a guard (conductor) tell them about hand brakes and vacuum brakes. They saw the chains and bumpers that do the work of couplers. They then inspected the Bulk Grain Wagon, the Shock Absorbing Wagon, the “End-Side” Door Pallet Van, the Iron Tippler Wagon, the 24 Ton Covered Hopper Wagon, and the Hopper Mineral Wagon. That just whetted their appetite for the Bogie Bolster Wagon, Insulated Fish Van, and Tote System Demonstration Van. I was looking forward to the Tote Van thinking the British really had something if they had a railway van all set up for rolling into race tracks to ease the shortage of betting windows. However it turned Out that Tote Bins are for “...transporting powdered or granular traffic...” and are pre-loaded and then hoisted onto railway cars with fork lifts.

The passenger coaches were featuring Open-Plan Saloon Coaches (not the swinging door kind). Why all Englishmen ahed and ohed over these standard ordinary American type coaches and hardly looked at all those nice compartment type carriages remains a wonder to me. By brute force alone we finally drug the boys away from the exhibition and headed back over the fen country towards Cambridge again. And of course an additional stop at the Lone Star loco store to get a Pacific Class locomotive.

This visit and his year long interest in trains probably accounted for his choice of subject for his “pretend to be an inanimate object” theme in composition at Cambridgeshire High School for Boys later in the winter. He wrote:

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A RAILWAY ENGINE

My name (or number) is 62785 commonly called by railway enthusiasts “twenty-seven eighty-five.” I am an only son (that is to say the only engine in my class), born in 1891. I am much too old to remember where I was born for I’ve been most everywhere in the Eastern Region.

When I was born I was the pride of everyone, being one of the best engines in England at the time. Now, when I wait on the slow line to make way for a diesel, I think sadly of what boys at the last school I passed had said. “It’s twenty-seven eighty-five again,” some said. Others said “Scrap it” or “Bring a diesel next time” or “It’s a crate.” Obviously I’m out of date.

When I woke up in the morning my old pal and driver, Joe Bailey, poked up the slumbering fire in my dirty fire-box and set about oiling, cleaning, and fitting my underparts. When I’d worked up enough steam I tooted my whistle and chugged out of the smoky shed to the bright light outside. Then my driver got a message that a goods train was waiting at the goods depot so we chugged over to it. My driver talked with the guard while the shunter with his long pole hooked me to the first wagon. After a few minutes of checking we signaled to the man in the signal-box that we were ready to go. After waiting for a diesel to pass on the main line we saw the signal go “off” and so I tooted my whistle and chugged away. We went about quarter-of-a-mile on the slow line, then waited about half-an‑hour for the main line to clear. There is a rugby pitch next to the railway so my driver spends his time watching rugby but I am not interested in rugby so I must sit and watch the big trains pass. Then the signal goes “off” and I started off again.

When we arrived at the next big station we were routed through the goods depot where our cargo is inspected. Three of our wagons were meant for that station as Joe told the shunter, so he started uncoupling the wagons. About an hour later we were ready to leave and so departed from this station. This procedure was carried out several more times on the route and finally, about eight o’clock (seven hours after I started) I arrived in London (Kings Cross).

After shunting around for awhile I took a short rest in the goods yard while my driver had a talk with some shunters. Then he went to the office and arranged that I would pull another goods train back to Cambridge at eight o’clock on the next morning. Then he climbed into the cab and I chugged away to the shed where I went to sleep for the night to rest up for my trip next morning.

I had had a very hard day and slept heavily that night and dreamed of the good old days when there were no diesels to question my honour.

I could never truthfully say that I liked Oxford as well as Cambridge. We visited Oxford on official NSF business and since we had no house anyway, the whole family went along. I wrote my colleague, Neville Moray, to find us a campsite. We had breakfast in beautiful Waverly Park in Cambridge and tea (the evening meal) in a farmer’s field outside Oxford. I was assured by Neville that he really looked for a caravan park or campsite and that this was it. There were a few other pre WWI model caravans at the other end of our field so this probably was THE Oxford campsite. I found out later in my correspondence with the Camping Club of Great Britain and Ireland that this was the true way to camp anyway. It was back to nature and since the bull was in the other field, the friendly cows were safe enough, and the boys were fascinated by their pies. Anyway as I say I prefer Cambridge (Waverly) to Oxford (Potters Field).

Of course there were highlights to our trip. We found a Wimpy Burger Snack Bar, and had a delightful walk along the Isis (Thames) and Cherwell Rivers. We saw many old and beautiful colleges and the Experimental Psychology Laboratories had as big and pleasant a garden back lawn) as did the Unit at Cambridge.

Then there was the visit to Blenheim Palace. Americans visit because it was the birthplace of Sir Winston Churchill (and the English visit here because it is the ancestral home of the Duke of Marlborough). Dan had a little more vocal effort than our guide and Mary didn’t get the complete tour. Charlie wasn’t exactly entranced at the elegance either, he wanted to take the boat ride on the lake.

Stratford-on-Avon was interesting as tourist places go. We found the Mary Arden House, well removed from the town and beyond the time and distance range of many tourists, by far the most interesting place. Primarily because of the old couple who acted as vergers. They really liked the old place and took pains to point out the dovescot where the squire of the manor kept his eating doves. The doves themselves ate the grain from the tenant farmers’ fields. They showed us the garret where all the womenfolk slept and at the other end, but inaccessible except by going downstairs, the garret where the menfolk slept. Their museum also featured man traps (for poachers) and other niceties.

The castle at Warwick is worthwhile. It is still lived in but has a glorious past. The Earl of Warwick was very high placed and was known as the king maker. His descendants still carry on, but not as king makers. We saw trap doors, swords with hidden guns and all sorts of conveniences for gentlemen who may at one instant be on the inside track (and get buried at Westminster) and hours later be derailed (and get beheaded and thrown into a common grave at the Tower of London).

However the boys preferred the ruined Castle of Kenilworth, I was taken with it too, having read Sir Walter Scott’s novel as a child. John used this visit as the subject for his “descriptive” theme at school. He wrote:

My Adventures at Kenilworth Castle

It was about 3:30 in the afternoon when we saw a series of strange road signs: Acute Bend, Ford, and Kenilworth Castle. We rounded the bend, forded the stream and soon arrived at Kenilworth Castle.

We left my mother and two of my youngest brothers in the car and went in the gate of the castle. There we bought a guide book and some tickets and started looking around.

Once inside we saw that Kenilworth was indeed a ruined castle.

On the left hand side as we walked in was a Tudor barn, built much later than the rest of the castle. We went to the keep and explored the crevices until my father called us down. Then we went through the ruined dining hall to one of the towers. We climbed up the steep, circular staircase to another passage. This passage led us to another stair tower which brought us into the court below.

The first thing that caught my eye was a new wooden staircase which led up to an observing platform. I led my brothers up at top speed while my father waited below for the signal to come up (as we had turned back enough already). At the top I signaled that all was clear for him and he came up. I took a few pictures from the observing platform while I waited for my dad. I took a view of the mere (bed of the man-made lake which they used as a moat), and the ruined main tower.

We descended the creaky wooden stairs to the bottom and made for the gate that leads to the dam (not the entrance gate). We went through this gate and walked out on the dam. The middle of the dam had been blasted open by the Parliamentarians as had other parts of the castle. We stood admiring the place for a little while then went to the main gate via the wall. We went out the gates and drove away to Coventry.

Kenilworth Castle is indeed a beautiful place with its crumbly sandstone buildings and beautifully kept grounds.

Ely Cathedral didn’t really impress any of us much on our first visit. I hasten to add that later visits proved us wrong. We liked it more on each return visit. Our first impressions were: it was worn out, crumbly, maybe even unsafe, the outside was (smoke) dirty, the inside was cold, it was mostly empty and bare, all the statuary was defaced. The boys were even less enamoured but their spirits picked right up when we adjourned for fish and chips, with orange squash to drink.

It was in a restroom at Ely that the boys discovered they did not weigh 20, 30, 40, 50, and 80 pounds but 1 stone 6, 2 stones 2, 2 stones 12, 3 stones 8, and 5 stones 10. Be that as it may, their general comment was, “Let’s get back to Great Shelford and play with our trains.” A great bunch of sightseers.

Camping in London

We had been to London before and we had camped before. In fact we had camped for weeks on the continent, but we had yet to take our first camping trip to London.

Camping in Europe means well run camps almost always with a store for groceries, usually with flush toilets, and often with restaurants, washing and ironing rooms and sometimes with a large central kitchen (coin operated gas stoves) and coin operated hot showers. These camps are located all over; on rivers, lakes, and seas, in the middle of large cities, (Hamburg, Stockholm, Oslo, Stuttgart, Munich, Vienna, Rome, Paris and Madrid), near historic or legendary sites (Lorelei Rock, Bridge of Avignon and Toledo) and sometimes just beside inns, cafes, or restaurants.

Camping in U.S. usually means state or national parks or forests and, in general, rustic surroundings. In Europe the majority of camps are for one night stands on the way to or from somewhere. In the U.S. they are more often places to stay a week or two at a fixed location.

In England camping is rugged. Granted in Wales and Scotland and a few other vacation spots they have some organized camp grounds. But to a true Englishman camping means an individual or family finding a spot in a national forest or in a farmer’s field and roughing it. To quote from the Camping Club of Great Britain and Ireland brochure, camping....”is the spontaneous expression of a desire to....get away from towns and cities and fend for himself . . .”

I considered traveling with a wife and five boys aged 1 to 11 rough enough. Camping with the aid of a VW Microbus converted to sleep seven but with attached tent for washing, dressing, and cooking was to me a rugged and trying experience. Not wishing to share the secret of the location of England’s camp sites without sharing in the cost I wrote to the “Camping Club of England and Ireland” expressing a desire to join their club and to buy the “location booklet” (a desirable and necessary aid for finding sites). Since I was quite proud of our sleep-seven arrangement I stated our method of camping in my letter of financial aid and site request.

To my surprise and chagrin I obtained the following letter in reply stating in no uncertain terms that I was NOT a camper.

“We thank you for your, but have to inform you, however, that the Volkswagen Microbus comes under the heading of sleeping in cars, and as you will be sleeping in the bus, we could not in the circumstances accept your application for membership”.

In an accompanying brochure they had underlined “to maintain the recreational character of our health-giving pastime, the Club regards sleeping in motor cars as contrary to its standards of camping and caters only for recreational not residential, caravanning.”

In spite of this rebuff I thought the time had come to drive the family to London. To make staying out economically feasible when we drove we camped, or in English terms lived in luxury in our traveling hotel. You see we weren’t caravanners either. A caravan, according to the GB&I Camping Club brochure is,”....a vehicle built or permanently adapted for use as a mobile temporary dwelling which is immediately able of being driven upon the public highway where it will comply in respects with the law. The description ‘caravan’ can only be applied to a ‘van’ in which there is sufficient headroom for the occupant to stand upright.” This last statement explains why in the British version of our “Campster” the roof hinges on one edge and folds up at about a 45° angle with an accordion type transparent plastic covering the opened edge. This does allow one to stand upright. In our case, only five of the seven of us could stand upright, except under our attached tent. In England, we were neither fish nor fowl and obviously not quite human, preferring to sleep in the car instead of under a tent.

London has one camp site. Every year it fights for its life and in the opinion of experienced continental “campers” it just barely makes it. It certainly can’t compare to the facilities in any other European capital city except Bonn and Lisbon which have no in-city sites at all.

In the time of Queen Victoria, at the Exhibition of 1851 a Crystal Palace was built, the elegance of which is legendary. It was so well thought of that when its central location could no longer be justified it was moved to Sydenham Hill in south east London. Here in the year 1936 the fabulous Crystal Palace came to an inglorious end in a sea of flames.

Today, the “Site of Crystal Palace” is the home of motor races, a 1000 foot TV tower, and London’s only camp site. The LCC (London County Council) regulates the camp and yearly threatens to disenfranchise it. They impose rules such as no tents attached to cars (which just about disables us). This is a fire precaution rule that I’m sure the excellent camp site in Paris, that has about five times as many campers, would be glad to hear about, or for that matter most any camp in Germany where they are crowded in night after night all summer long. Of course, we, like most others affected by the no attached tent rule, just set up the stove in the car, in my opinion a more dangerous procedure, but anything to keep safe.

I’m sure the LCC would like to eliminate the camp also to rid the city of all the undesirable people who camp. I recall all the undesirables I met there, the Fulbright Fellow returning from Finland, the Grinnell college professor and his wife, the Penn State National Institute of Health Fellow, the 2 different public school teachers from the Los Angeles area, and I could go on. I also remember the desirable tourists I met later at a high class downtown hotel complaining about this, that and everything and in general making Americans abroad as popular as the plague.

Anyway, we drove to London. We camped in “Crystal Palace”. Then came the object of our trip, to see the changing of the guard. We endured the crowded facilities at Crystal Palace and headed for Whitehall. Charlie and Dan were not overjoyed at being stuffed in the bus again and so momma was very happy to spot a milkhorse complete with feedbag. Charlie’s eyes popped out. I’m sure San Diego hasn’t had a horse, except for riding for many decades. And to see one with his nose buried in a feed bag eating almost changed our days plan. The sight not only diverted Charlie and made him happy but immediately he was so interested he didn’t want to go on. Since, as usual, we were behind schedule we had to push on.

We arrived at Horse Guards Parade, found a parking place and went to see the great event. This was only August and less encumbered tourists had already found all the good locations. However, we were able to see the two mounted guardsmen in their little cubicles facing Whitehall. And they were fine specimens indeed, scarlet tunics, bearskin caps, polished brass and silver. The horses were no less resplendent, groomed to perfection with bridles and reins fairly glittering with silver. We pointed this magnificent sight out to Charlie, “Look at the soldier on the beautiful horse.”

Charlie answered, “Where is it?”

We said again, “Right up there, see the tall black bearskin cap.”

Charlie answered, “Where is it?”

I now picked him up and pointed and said, “Over there, see that shining black horse.”

Seemingly unimpressed, Charlie repeated, “Where is it?”

Tom now tried, “Don’t you see, there under that little roof?”

And John added, “Charlie you’re looking right at it, don’t you see the grenadier.”

Mom and Bill joined in the chorus, gesturing and pointing and adding, “the red guard,” “on the black horse.”

Finally Charlie almost in tears said, “Where is it momma, where’s his feedbag?”

We hushed him up as best we could and slunk out of earshot of the other laughing tourists and decided we’d come back some other day after the tourist season was over. Actually, we never did. Why go this weekend, we’ll be here all year?

Charming Charlie

One day as I was about to enter Alpha, our caravan, after my day at the Unit, I heard a strange feminine voice. This one was calm and British. The words pouring forth were too weak to be understandable, but every other word was not stop, or don’t, or no, nor Dan, nor Charles, nor Bill, nor Tom, nor John. Obviously we had a visitor, perhaps Mrs. Watling. Upon entering the caravan, I saw a pleasant looking, well filled out but not plump woman, who Mary introduced as Mrs. Whitehouse.

I was wondering how the English equivalent of the Community Chest had found us so quickly. Mrs. Whitehouse couldn’t have been a saleslady; she wasn’t dressed to the teeth, and she was neither painted nor polished like the women in soap advertisements. She was simply dressed and was obviously an English neighbourly housewife. A very pleasant lady, likeable on first sight. I had no sooner classed her as a potential friend, even if a collector for some charity, than Mary told me, “Mrs. Whitehouse is the owner of the Manse, in Fulbourn.”

My heart fell. Even in a split second it was not hard to figure that if our potential landlady was here in the caravan visiting us before we moved in, all was not well. To begin with, it was not easy to find us. Three people in all of England know we were at Waverly Park; Donald Broadbent, the director of the Unit; Mrs. Laurence, our Estate agent (real estate agent); and Mrs. Watling, owner of Waverly and our patron Saint. If Mrs. Whitehouse had found us, it had not been without some effort. If she had found us, it was not without purpose. She had indeed found us and all I could think of was, “There goes our eight-room, nine chimney pot house.” How could such a friendly looking person with such a melodious voice and inviting smile be the harbinger of such bad news?

My face must have fallen as much as my heart. My feelings of gloom were written all over my face. This was completely typical of my behavior. Because my mood is always expressed completely by the look on my face, I am about 95% honest; and because of this, I am a near total social failure. Upon tasting my first (and last) martini at a party given by the chairman of my PhD committee, I gulped, turned two shades of purple, and even without a word being said, I conveyed my complete opinion of martinis to the man who held my academic fate in his hands, and whose favorite do-it-yourself host fete was making martinis. His fame for this accomplishment was a well known secret among graduate students, and it was the thing to do to compliment him on his concoction. Obviously, socially I had flunked my first test. And then there was the occasion at the first party at the laboratory where I now work. I was playing bridge with the wife of my new boss. My facial expression at the conclusion of a “down two” performance of a sure game bid prompted her to ask the rhetorical question, “Could the bid have been made?” Oblivious of all social graces, I thought she was a student of the game and really wanted to know how she could have made it. I proceeded to tell her. I was informed months later that she had given up bridge.

Anyway, my look of “Let’s pack up and go home” prompted Mrs. Whitehouse to come straight to the point. She said, “I’ve come to talk to you and your wife about moving into The Manse.” I interpreted this to mean that she had come to tell us we could not move into our five-fireplace house. As the conversation proceeded, it became evident that this had indeed been her intent but ……. Well, this is what she said:

She agreed that she had indeed told Mrs. Laurence that as Estate Agent she could have the final word in renting the Manse. However when Mrs. Laurence had told her that her next renters were 1) Americans, 2) a Dr. of psychology, and 3) with 5 children (boys yet) she, Mrs. Whitehouse had exclaimed, “Are you out of your mind?” You see, that castle-like building set apart behind high hedges and according to the sign “Fulbourn Hospital” is really the Fulbourn Mental Hospital. The village of Fulbourn had seen many Dr.’s of psychology and had likewise seen many children of psychologists and psychiatrists. It is hard to say whether preachers’ children or psychologists’ children have the reputation for being the most incorrigible. And I will be the last to refute any such fairy tales about said children.

So as it turned out, it wasn’t because we were Americans with boys that had prompted the visit of Mrs. Whitehouse, but the fact that I was a psychologist. She was quick to tell us that other psychologists with other children had already lived in the village and had not made a good name for the profession. Not that they hadn’t made a name, it was just that it wasn’t good.

She was quick to explain she was not a social reformer or a hater of children; it was just that she didn’t want to be responsible for bringing trouble to the village. Had someone else been the perpetrators she would not have cared, but she did not want to be the instigator. Those were her thoughts when she started out on her journey that day; in short, “Why did this have to happen to me?”

She stopped first to see Mrs. Laurence to see what had unhinged her. Mrs. Laurence admitted I was a psychologist and therefore my children were indeed psychologists’ children. But Mrs. Laurence had told her I wasn’t a clinical (Fulbourn Hospital type) psychologist, but an experimental psychologist. Mrs. Laurence and I had gone through all of this earlier because she had the obsession that I was a professor. After all, she had been finding accommodations for Americans with families on sabbaticals or fellowships to Cambridge for years, and they were all professors; ipso facto, I was a professor. So I had to explain I carried on research in a laboratory. Then she got it, I was a chemist. No, I was an experimental psychologist. This stopped Mrs. Laurence. She had heard of professors, she had heard of scientists (chemists and physicists) and she had heard of psychologists. But what was an experimental (scientific) psychologist? Did I experiment with the mentally ill? No, I told her, I worked in sensation and perception; how we see and hear and how we make sense out of what we see and hear. My specialty was speech and hearing, and I worked with normal people in abnormal environments. My general problems were how do people talk and listen in high level noises (around jet aircraft), or underwater, or when everyone else is talking. She got the general idea. At least she got enough of the idea that she convinced Mrs. Whitehouse that I was quite normal, a scientist really and not actually a psychologist. This was a step in the right direction.

Mrs. Whitehouse next visited Mrs. Watling, our present landlady. Since the boys were so fascinated with trains and spent hours at the level crossing or with their toy trains, they hadn’t had any time left over for trouble. They did play some ball but again, no loud arguments; nor broken windows, hedges, or flowers. In fact the boys, one and all, were so amazed by their new surroundings and were so busy enjoying themselves they didn’t get into any trouble, and Mrs. Watling was nearly hypnotized by their good behavior. She had remarked to us of her fascination with our boys, but we figured maybe she thought we were thinking of leaving and she had no other prospects for Alpha, her Caravan. But she told Mrs. Whitehouse that she had never seen such well-behaved boys. Her remark was that they had been playing in her garden (yard) for 3 weeks now and she had never even heard them, she wasn’t even aware they were around. Of course silence usually forebodes danger, but in this case they were just plain so busy with Lone Star and British Railway Loco’s that they were indeed silent. That comment by Mrs. Watling, our patron Saint, just about turned the trick. By the time Mrs. Whitehouse came to our caravan, she was convinced we were either suitable tenants or so bad that both Mrs. Laurence and Mrs. Watling would perjure themselves hopelessly to get us out of their care.

When she knocked on our caravan door, she had almost decided we might be acceptable, but she was curious. She had seen American children in the village before, she had boys of her own, and she had witnessed psychologists’ children in action. How could an American psychologist with a family of 5 boys hoodwink two fellow Britishers into such good reports? In spite of our references, the battle wasn’t yet won. Although the summer of ‘59 was unequalled for sunny days, it was raining when she arrived and all 5 boys were in the caravan. It doesn’t take much knowledge of geometry to know that if the total floor area of an English caravan is x square feet and this is divided into 7 equal areas (5 boys and momma and Mrs. Whitehouse) that there is hardly room to sit down. Likewise it doesn’t take much knowledge of acoustics (and speech and hearing) to know that 5 boys, even if relatively quiet, in the same x square feet sound like a monkey cage at the zoo. Perhaps because there was no space left, Mary and Mrs. Whitehouse were in such close proximity that they could talk and listen in said monkey cage.

But you can’t keep monkeys either quiet or segregated. We had as yet discovered nothing that would keep our “uninhibited voice” Charlie quiet. And as Mrs. Whitehouse was coming to the end of her tale and was reaching the decision stage, Charlie sidled up to her and said, “She looks like my Grandma Bryant; I like her, momma; can I give her a cookie (biscuit)?”

That did it, Mrs. Whitehouse was now convinced that Mrs. Laurence and Mrs. Watling were excellent judges of character and that we would not drag her name into disrepute in the village. She said we were welcome to the Manse. She did have to convince her husband yet that she, too, was not crazy, but this she felt she could do. It was now just business details. They had wanted to take the fireplace out of the kitchen and replace it with an Aga cooker (coke stove). If we moved in the day the Halios moved out, when would they make the conversion? That was easy. We planned to move in on the 17th and we had ferry reservations for the 24th to go on a five-week business-pleasure trip on the continent.

And so it was we had a new patron Saint. Mrs. Whitehouse was not only convinced we were OK, but as it turned out, she had paved the way with comments to the correct people, so that when we did move in, we were met on the first day by friendly delegations of tradespeople and neighbors, who before our stay was over, were our fast friends. This was one day when our uninhibited voice, Charlie, didn’t hurt our cause.

August Holiday?

With our immediate future now secure, after nearly two months of looking and hoping, we could relax and look forward to moving into The Manse and getting our things unpacked. But just as the twenty year prisoner so looks forward to release that he tries an escape six months before his release (and gets 5 more years) so we now got restless.

As part of my fellowship duties I was to spend a week or ten days with Walter Lawrence at Christchurch, Hampshire (on the south coast). He had developed PAT (a Parametric Artificial Talking Machine) that I thought might be useful in my research. So we figured, why not the first two weeks in August? Our British colleagues told us, why not the first two weeks in August, but they weren’t living in a caravan and itching to get into a house. They told us everyone in England is on the roads during the August Bank Holiday and indeed for the whole month of August, since this is the only month the children are not in school. However we figured that for the Bank Holiday week-end everyone in London would head for the sea and we would take over in deserted London. We weren’t too far wrong and this part of the trip was a great success, except for Charlie’s misunderstanding about the eating habits of the horses of Horse Guards.

On Tuesday after the Bank Holiday we took the Great West Road toward Stonehenge, Salisbury, and Christchurch. At Slough we experienced the first of the famous 15 mile long queues of bumper to bumper cars. We later found others at Exeter, Polperro, and at the ferry at Fowey.

At lunch time we tried out the standard operating procedure of English driving practice; namely come time to stop, you stop right in your tracks. You stop on the carriageway (road), not on the verge (shoulder), since usually there are none or else you can’t get on them, kerbs (curbs) you know. So flouting a sure fire $50 American fine we enjoyed that typical British habit of stopping in one lane of traffic (on the Great West Road) to have a quick car picnic, potato crisps (chips) and cheese sandwiches. We felt quite important making all cars pull around us while we nonchalantly ate (pronounced et) our lunch. We doubly enjoyed our lunch; thinking of the $50 we were saving by doing this in England not America, and watching all the British drivers slow down to go around our lunch wagon. We thought this was only poetic justice having silently cursed, developed functional ulcers, and reduced our usual driving-speed by one half to go around the myriad of British cars enjoying the parking privileges of arterial highways. Of course we couldn’t really enjoy our revenge lunch, and in fact never did it again, in as much and we knew how completely silly, potentially dangerous, and deleterious to travel such unrestricted parking was. We were also chagrined because none of the British drivers even frowned, let alone visually or orally cursed us for our utter stupidity, lack of courtesy, or flaunting of the driving code. The reason is of course that if every second car in England is parked on the highways the remaining half are so accustomed to the inconvenience they think nothing of it. For that matter before the day is out the other half will be stopped in the middle of another highway at another place.

There is a cataclysmic difference between the California Vehicle Code and the British Driving Code. In California the code is the law. The vehicle code is preceded by the statement, “Drivers are required by law to comply with state traffic laws....” A point system is set up such that, “...any traffic conviction involving the safe operation of a motor vehicle upon the highways shall be given a value of one point...”, “…two points for...driving without...license…hit and run…drunk..(or)..reckless driving…a total of 4 points in 12 months causes suspension of drivers license”. Laws are strictly enforced with stiff fines for offenders; for example $50 for going so slowly in a fast traffic lane that more than 6 cars are bunched up behind you, $10 for following too closely, $10 for stopping (parking) in a traffic lane. On a Sunday ride, or for that matter driving to work, if you don’t see a police car every ten miles you are lucky.

The Highway Code (Her Majesty’s Stationery Office Price 6d Net) by contrast is a set of suggestions prefaced by the statement, “A failure on the part of any person to observe any provision of the highway code shall not of itself render that person liable to criminal proceedings of any kind, but any such failure may...be relied upon....as tending to establish or to negative any liability which is in question…..” Road Traffic Act 1930 Section 45.

Some typical “suggestions” are: “In traffic hold ups do not jump the queue.” “There are no rights of way in general at roundabouts”. “Use dipped headlights at night in built up areas, unless the street lighting is good.” They don’t say what to do if street lighting is good but what you do is to drive with side (parking) lights. “At railway level-crossings with gates but no gatekeeper, open both gates before starting to cross and do not stop on the lines (rails). Close the gates after you.” “Do not park or let your vehicle stand on (a) the carriageway; (b) the slip roads; (c) the central reservation; (d) the verges....” If they would enforce this last “suggestion” alone with some arrests and fines the Chancellor of the Exchequer could without fear of inflation, 1) cancel all income taxes for one year, 2) cancel all purchase taxes for a year since no one would have any money left after the fines were paid, and 3) have a surplus in the treasury. Likewise the Minister of Transportation could cancel all highway construction for five years (and build some car parks instead) because, without non-moving cars blocking them, British highways would almost be adequate for handling moving traffic.

After our foolhardy lunch was topped off with lollies we proceeded to Stonehenge. Later in school John had to write a theme on the origins, etc. of Stonehenge in which he states:

This ancient circular stone temple is situated near Amesbury in Wiltshire. It is not on any very large hill and so seems a strange place for an ancient stone temple. A possible explanation is that Stonehenge stands on sacred ground since another temple Woodhenge is no more than five miles away. Another possible explanation is that in ancient times the vicinity had a very large population. The soil is shallow making it quite an open land with few large trees but quite adequate for simple farming. This seems likely because of the number of early monuments in the vicinity. About 25 miles away are the two ancient lake villages, Glastonbury and Meare.

The New Stone Age men who built the outdoor temple thought it important to get the right building stones. The sarsens, which were the giant grey uprights came from a place only 20 miles away. But even at 20 miles it took 1,000 men 10 weeks to get the stones from the quarries to Stonehenge using rollers of hardwood. But the Bluestones and the Green sandstones came from Prescelly and Milford Haven., both in Pembrokeshire. Geoffrey of Monmouth, the XI century historian wrote in his books about King Arthur’s magician, Merlin. Geoffrey said that Merlin, by his magic, had taken the monument from Ireland and set it down in Wiltshire, not far from Camelot (Winchester) his master’s capitol. This may have been partly true but Geoffrey was not entirely correct. He wrote that the whole monument had come from Ireland. Actually the Blue stones and Green sandstones came from Wales.

The massive monument is surrounded by a ditch and Bank as can be seen in the drawing. Right inside the ditch and Bank are the Aubrey holes named after their discoverer. There are 56 Aubrey holes but we do not know what, if anything, they ever had in them. In the north-east section of Stonehenge there is an avenue and in the middle of it is the Heel stone. Some people call it the Hele stone after Helios (Greek for Sun). Many people who have seen the Heel stone think it used to be in line with the sunrise. However, astronomers say, it has never been in line but will be about AD 3660. The Ditch and Bank, Aubrey holes, and Heel stone were made between 1400-1700 BC.

There were 30 lintel stones at Stonehenge resting on sarsen uprights. They formed a circle of about 60’ radius around the centre. The uprights were raised by sheerlegs. They used manpower to tilt the sarsen and it would then slip into the hole. They had to account for the fact that when a five-ton sarsen landed at the bottom of the hole its impact would cause it to sink three or four inches. To get the lintel on the top they simply levered the stone up and built a platform under it. By repeating this process the lintel will gradually move towards its resting place on the top of the sarsens.

Incidentally for this effort, John scored seven of ten possible points and received the following comment from Master Warne, “There are gaps - perhaps because you did not listen carefully enough - but this work (which included 4 full pages of detailed drawings, a plan view, a close-up of how lintel stones rest on sarsens, and how sheerlegs and levers are used to tilt sarsen stones into upright positions) shows much more interest and determination.”

At the conclusion of our sightseeing, John begged a ten shilling note to buy some mineral bearing rocks. At the concession stand he had seen the sign “Minerals and Ices”. He soon returned with minerals for the whole family, orange squash for Dan, grape for Charlie, cherry for Bill, and Pepsis for Tom and himself. Mom and I had vanilla and chocolate ice.

We didn’t have much time at Salisbury but did get a glimpse of their very beautiful cathedral. We arrived at Christchurch (120 miles from London) at 6 P.M. exactly five driving hours (or eight total hours) after we had left London. Walter Lawrence had arranged with a farmer for a corner of his field for our ZW. This in the typical British Camping manner. Even though Bournemouth (adjacent to Christurch) is a holiday center there was no real campsite there (as there had been none in Oxford earlier in the summer).

During my week with Walter at the Signals Research and Development Establishment our routine was: eat early, pack up and drive to the commons (on a little inlet in Christchurch), leave the family and ZW and ride in with Walter. Mary and the boys lounged around all day until I came again in late afternoon. For entertainment they had pony rides, boats to rent, a miniature train, swans, and lollies. One day the boys conned me into hiring a boat and going up the Avon (Hampshire variety, not Stratford). The man told me specifically keep left and I nodded indicating I had driven left for many months now and knew the rules of the road in spite of my accent. Off we went upriver and to the left. Coming downriver we again bore left and were soon mired down on a sandbar. The hirer of boats seemed to know this would happen and was to the rescue in record time in his hip length Wellington boots. At this point he explained he meant keep left going upriver and on the same side, the right side, coming back.

On Saturday we picnicked with Walter and Ursula Lawrence in the New Forest (new in the time of William the Conqueror’s heir). Here as on Dartmoor wild ponies run loose and these gave the boys a new thrill, namely feeding them, all the signs to the contrary. Obviously the ponies were used to hand feeding. If you stopped your car on the road (not if, but when) to watch the ponies they came right over and thrust their heads completely inside the car.

As suggested by the Camping Club of Great Britain and Ireland we camped in the New Forest after Walter and Ursula had departed. We didn’t put the tent up but very unBritishlike we just slept in the car. At about midnight two couples of party happy individuals drove to within 20 feet of us. They obviously had partaken of many bitters and were noisy and perhaps malicious. I couldn’t make up my mind whether they were prowling or carousing. I was beginning to get concerned about their prowling when a torrential downpour started and they embarked and departed post haste. I slept easier. I also thought again of my basic disagreement in policy with the Camping Club of GB & I and reaffirmed my belief that with 5 children, I’d camp in car and in guarded campsite (if one could be found in GB & I).

Next morning we ventured into Thomas Hardy country. The boys had heard his “Trumpet-major” serialized on the BBC, but all I could remember was “The Return of the Native” and I kept looking for a reddelman. Outside of Colchester we visited Maiden Castle, another favorite subject of John’s history master. Of Maiden Castle John in his theme for Mr. Warne wrote:

Maiden Castle is a hill-fort near Dorchester in Dorsetshire. A hill-fort is a fortification built out of a large round-topped hill, covered on the outside with limestone. The New Stone age men made a trench by digging a ditch around the hill and throwing the spare earth up into banks. Then the men continued this process several times higher and lower on the hill until they had a good defensive position. In time of war both men and animals occupied it.

Maiden Castle was built by Stone age and Bronze age workmen and touched up by early Iron age men. Nearby is the camp in which the Romans lived when they were sieging the earthwork castle. The Romans over-ran this castle and made it into a fort of their own.

And of his History Master John wrote another theme for his English master, Mr. Cox, entitled, “A Bullied Time at School”:

It was just past break time and we were in the midst of a row when Mr. X (commonly known as “Whacker”) entered the room. Soon there was a queue by his desk waiting to get whacked. For no good reason I was among them and very soon it was my turn. They were all cool hands at being whacked but I was new and it was my first time. I walked up to him, bent over (by means of a slap on the back) and got the slipper. He was our History master and as our History droned on I thought of my aching back and what a cruel master “Whacker” was. Suddenly I heard my name called out and of course hadn’t the slightest idea what I was asked for. So I had to have another whack. Then I settled down and tried to keep my mind on my work but I couldn’t. “Whacker”, fortunately, was in a good mood and he only told me off and I soon was able to study again.

The bell rang then and released me from the power of “Whacker”. I doubt if I can possibly equal that for a bullying experience.

Our week in Jamaica Inn Country (Cornwall and Devon) was not an uproarious success. The summer of ‘59 was unusually sunny. It rained very seldom and then only for short periods. To my knowledge there was only one time when it rained more or less continually for four days, and these were the days we were in Cornwall and Devon. We did indeed see St. Ives (but not man with seven wives), Penzance (but no pirates), Lands End, and Tintagel (but no Round Table nor sword Excalibur). We drove along many picturesque roads where the hedgerows were higher than our ZW. We got involved in many August Holiday queues of cars and stayed in many water-logged and not overly satisfactory camps (the one at Tintagel was fine).

We returned to spend a longer time at Salisbury and saw a replica of King Arthur’s legendary round table at Winchester. If we hadn’t seen Alfred the Great in all his stony glory in the middle of High Street, we would never have realized that Winchester was the ancient capital of England (Wessex).

A quick ride through the rebuilding of Southampton, a few hours at Windsor Castle, a two step through St. Albans Cathedral and home for one last camp (without caravan) at Waverly. Tomorrow was moving day, on to the Manse.

This essentially completed our first summer in England, our nomad summer. We had learned about lollies, minerals, and ices; British Railways, loco spotting, level crossings, and Lone Star locos; caravans, camping sites (or lack thereof), and camping practice (GB & I Camping Club style). We were beginning to learn about cars (especially those stationary ones on all streets and carriageways), driving(?) habits, and picturesque but non-traffic moving roads. The housing disadvantages of having 5 children (boys yet) had been impressed upon us. We found that housing and being an American, and in particular being a psychologist from America with 5 boys were nearly incompatible. Charlie was learning the eating habits of milk horses but not Horse Guards horses.

However we were still American tourists; campers yes, but still Americans. The boys wore American clothes, spoke American English, and ate the English equivalent of American foods (cold minerals, lollies, potato crisps, and corn flakes). I still blew my top at cars parked at every conceivable unlawful, illogical, and dangerous place in the roadways, and was annoyed at waiting minutes for trains to whiz by guarded level crossings. Mary still washed at the laundromat. Thanks to the unusually hot and dry summer, we still had our California tans that had amazed people in late May when we had first arrived. We converted all sterling money amounts to shillings and divided by seven to keep track of our expenses. And we drove everywhere. Our legs were still in the American state of near atrophy. We were just beginning to settle in.

Tomorrow we would move into our English house (The Manse) in our English village (Fulbourn) and perhaps then we would start to become Anglicized.

The Manse

Fifteen weeks and two days after leaving home in San Diego we were moving into The Manse in Fulbourn, Cambridgeshire, England. The intervening one hundred and seven days could be accounted for roughly as follows: 14 days with relatives in Iowa and Illinois, 8 days and/or nights on ships (mostly crossing the Atlantic), about 10 days in hotels (in Cambridge and Hamlin) or motels (from Illinois to Montreal) about 45 days camping, and 30 days in “Alpha” (the caravan in Waverly Park). It is not that we didn’t think the ZW was the best home ever devised on wheels, but more that the companion caravan to “Alpha” namely “Omega” was more fitting to our mood at this point. To say the least, we were happily anticipating the end of our gypsy existence.

To say we were happy to be leaving Alpha (and Omega) and to let the mattresses in ZW rest for the first time in 75 days (even in Alpha, Tom and Bill slept in ZW) is an understatement of the first magnitude. After all Dan had been a gypsy now for one quarter of his whole life[2]. And of course the irony of the whole affair was that after 6 nights in the beds of The Manse we would be off for another five week camping trip on the continent where I was to give a paper at a professional meeting in Stuttgart.

Although bone weary we were up at the crack of dawn, and were packed up and ready to go by 8:30. Our usual departing time was 1100. The plan was to drive out to The Manse trade Mary and the boys the Halios, (Dr., Mrs., and two children), and while I drove the Halios to the train station, Mary and boys could start moving in. Luckily the Halios were ready for if they hadn’t been I am afraid they would have been stampeded in the exchange.

From the train station I drove to the Unit and picked up some of our larger bags, deposited there ten weeks earlier, and proceeded post haste to The Manse. Although there was no time, nor even a real mood for relaxing you could feel the relaxed attitude of the family in this hectic long awaited, busy, and fateful day. Even in the midst of making up 5 beds, unpacking 14 suitcases, figuring how to work an ancient electric stove, and an agitator-less pocket sized washing machine, worrying about lunch, and keeping watch on 5 boys just released from the captivity of the narrow confines of ZW and Alpha, Mary seemed somehow relaxed.

Of course the orders flew hot and fast; Tom, you and Bill go to the store and buy some cheese, butter, lunch meat, peanut butter and jelly; Dad, load Charles and Dan in the car and find some milk, soap, and clothes pins; where’s the bag with the sheets; take off those dirty clothes so I can wash them; how do you heat the water here?

Many of the problems answered themselves. Both Mrs. Whitehouse and the Halios had passed the word of our coming. In the midst of flying dust, words, calories, and boys a knock at the back door heralded the arrival of a stranger. A youngish, well built, medium sized man with a broad smile over his ruddy-to-red complexion. He stated he was the milkman, and he had been the Halios’ milkman. He delivered milk every morning and eggs upon demand. He had TB tested and regular milk, it came in English (oversized) pint bottles and he had some right now to start with. The early bird gets the worm and he had just increased his delivery route by an appreciable amount.

Mrs. Whitehouse was next to show up. And she was either pleased with her decision to allow us in or was making the best of a potentially dreadful situation. She was all smiles and full of interesting facts like, “You turn the stove on this way”, “This little heater keeps this large tank of water hot”, “The coalman lives next door”, “I told Mrs. Rodwell down at Myrtleberry’s store that you would be moving, in today, she will probably drop by to see you. . . . .”.

Shortly a Hillman van, or panel lorry, stopped in the street and in a sprightly gait, a woman about our age came up to the front door. Mrs. Whitehouse said, “There’s Mrs. Rodwell now.” Mrs. Rodwell was one of these “jolly fellows well met” whose enthusiasm seems to permeate the environment and carry the situation along in a light gay mood. She was the perfect “Welcome Wagon” greeter. She had heard, from Mrs. Whitehouse, about our five boys and wanted to meet them. She was also well acquainted with our backgrounds from conversations with the Halios and Mrs. Whitehouse. We had visited the Halios a couple of times. They also were from California. At the conclusion of this gay welcome I hopped in the van with Dan and Charlie and Mrs. Rodwell drove us to her store so that we could buy many needed staples.

Myrtleberries, about two blocks down Pierce Lane from The Manse was a typical English village store. The Rodwells lived in a two- story brick house set behind a hedge that fronted directly on the road. There was no sidewalk between the hedge and the road. Attached onto the house, probably at a later date, was a one-story rectangular appendage that was neither architecturally beautiful nor distasteful, purely utilitarian.

The store consisted of 3 rooms, one large sales, one small storage room and one tiny room for the refrigerator. There were two girl clerks a redhead and a brunette. Both mighty pleasant to look upon and both seemingly happy. Around the room were shelves of canned goods, fresh fruits and vegetables, toys, biscuits, and such things as hair curlers and shampoo. They had Edam and Welsh Cheddar cheese, lunch meat, canned orange juice (no one had frozen orange juice), Cadbury chocolate bars, tomatoes, lettuce, and cucumbers, but no peanut butter. Our lunch problems were solved.

After lunch we had time to settle back a little and survey our temporary home. The Manse could not have been simpler in basic design. It was essentially a 40 x 25 foot rectangular brick box two stories high. This solid box was capped by a peaked roof. Had the width of the house equaled the length the roof would have formed a pyramid. As it was the slopes from front and back met in a ridge, while the slopes from the sides just narrowed down at their apex to join the ridge. At their junctions, at the apex of the side triangles were two of the three chimneys. Scattered among the three chimneys were 9 chimney flues (pots). This would signify that there were 9 fireplaces. The count of chimney pots agreed exactly with the number of rooms, if the two bathrooms were not counted in.

Upstairs there were 4 large bedrooms and a complete bath. Downstairs there were two parlors, a dining room, a kitchen, a scullery and a small bathroom. The house was divided into two equal parts by a hall running from the front door to the back door. Along one side of this hall was the stairway. At the top of the stairs at the back of the upstairs hall, was the bathroom. The downstairs bathroom was below the upper one but wasn’t as large and didn’t block off the end of the hall. The scullery was appended onto the kitchen and spoiled the complete symmetry of the house. Each large room had at one time had a fireplace, but now only the five downstairs fireplaces were intact. Upstairs there was neither fireplace nor source of heat of any sort, except for the windows which in the summer would pass the heat of the sun. In the upstairs bathroom was a small heat lighting fixture tube up near the ceiling.

The Manse (gas streetlight in foreground, medieval church tower in background)

Symmetry was the key to The Manse. In the exact center in front was a doorway and above it a window. Equally spaced around this center were two windows below and two windows above. The doorway was really an arch built of bricks which protruded out about half the thickness of a brick. The door itself was set in about 4 inches in the center of this brick arch. The door itself was rectangular and the arch above was a window. At the top of the arch was a keystone built of bricks. One could easily predict that each front room both upstairs and down had a large front window.

What was not obvious from the front of the house was that none of the front rooms had any other or side windows. Contrariwise the back rooms had only side windows and no back windows. The bathrooms did of course have back windows.

The Manse was built about the turn of the century as a residence for the pastor of the chapel. It was occupied as such until WWII at which time the elderly pastor retired and the dwindling congregation could not afford a new one. Visiting pastors don’t need Manses and so The Manse was sold. As I look at this it must have been the fates acting in our behalf. I was not brought up in a church atmosphere, although Mary was, but we were both active in church work now. We could easily rationalize that our long and trying ordeal in the wilderness was and could only have been ended by our inheritance of heaven, in this case in the form of The Manse. This could also explain the change of heart of Mrs. Whitehouse on the road to Damascus (Alpha in Waverly) and her acceptance of our holy brood. In any case, fates or not, we did not desecrate the Lord’s helpers’ house, and in fact found ourselves in kindred spirit with it.

The Manse was not old as houses go in England. It had neither a thatched roof nor a tile roof, but a slate roof. Neither was it shiny and new. To our eyes it was old, venerably old however, and of musty old. The rug in the front parlor was relatively new and it shed on everything. It was light coloured, thick and somewhat ill-fitting and ill at ease. Two large upholstered arm chairs made the bulk of furniture in the front parlour. To finish the furnishings there was a coffee table and an ornate long dark stained oaken combination cabinet and bookcase. In August this was a pleasant room, warmed by the southwesterly exposure, and by the presence of the fireplace.

The back parlour was similar to the front except it was smaller, had only one large overstuffed chair and a regular sized table; no cabinet. Its window opened southeasterly and its dormant fireplace added to the August warmth of this cozy den. There was a writing desk in this parlour and undoubtedly this was the old pastors study (and our boys train room).

All the bedsteads, wardrobes, chairs, rugs, and dressers upstairs were old. In this case perhaps more antique old than venerably old. Beds are too functional to be venerable, when slept in. For viewing at Mount Vernon, or Hampton Court Palace beds can be venerable. George Washington and Henry VIII are not now interested in a good night’s rest, let their beds be venerable. Ours were antique.

The lighting fixtures in all rooms consisted of bulbs hanging on the end of a wire in the middle of the rooms. They did however turn on from wall switches. To me they turned off instead of on and vice versa, you see in America you turn on all switches by throwing them up, down is off. I somehow consider this quite logical. You fill a bucket up and empty it by turning it upside down. To ignite a lantern or kerosene (paraffin) lamp you turns the wick up, to extinguish it you turn the wick down. To me up means full, positive, affirmative (thumbs up), and on. Down is empty, negative, no-go (thumb down) or off. Yet in England to turn on a light you pull the switch down, to turn it off you throw the switch up. You empty the cistern (flush the toilet) by pulling the chain down, but you empty the room of light by throwing the switch up. This is probably done to be consistent with driving on the left hand side of the road.

The wardrobes were another source of amusement, or annoyance, or amazement, depending on your mood. There were no closets in the Manse and for want of a more adequate sample I will say this is typical of older English houses. Wardrobes are essentially portable closets. Functionally they are a large ornate box about six feet tall, four feet long, and 18 inches deep. Two doors hinged at the edge allow egress and ingress. A pole across the top inside is ostensibly to be used to hold up clothes on coat hangers. However clothes hangers, at least with clothes on them, won’t hang properly on this pole because then the doors won’t shut. You see, a coat hanger is at least 16 inches wide and with a coat it is at least 18 inches wide. To get many coats or clothes of any sort requiring an 18 inch width inside a box whose outside dimension is 18 inches becomes an exasperating task. The trick is to slant all hangers the proper amount and to bang the door closed before the hangers, obeying the laws of England’s own, and in fact Cambridge’s own, Sir Isaac Newton, freely swing back to their full 18 inch width. Of course this does have the effect of self-opening doors. Just release the latch and the doors will swing open.

The bedrooms were not things of beauty. However on this first day, and for that matter from thence forward, they were no source of concern. Even antique beds need only meet one or two rather lax criteria. They must be somewhat soft and somehow un-hammock-like. That is, no sagging in the middle, and no boards for mattresses. This plus warmth equals a good nights sleep, and sleep makes a bed. The bedrooms were completely adequate. The eiderdowns tucked away in wardrobes or dressers were of no particular concern in August.

Houses are functionally made for sleeping and eating. After these comes keeping clean and finally relaxing. Eating involves preparation, consumption, and cleanup, or functionally a dining room and/or kitchen. The Manse had both. The dining room was obviously the used room. The rug was worn threadbare. It may have had a design and maybe even a colour at one time but not now. The table and chairs were well worn but sturdy. An old glass door enclosed bookcase, a dish cupboard and another upholstered arm chair completed the furnishings. Some people might consider the dining room drab, it was. Others would consider it well lived in, it was. Others might say it had character, it did. With its fireplace and its large window (which the boys soon found amenable to crawling in and out of) it was a cheery room. As an unoccupied room it was drab. When graced with 5 boys, and/or Mary’s culinary concoctions, it was cheery, lived in, and possessed much character; too much (or too many) perhaps.

Although kitchen equipment has developed most in the past decades and as compared to the other furniture in the house, the kitchen may have been modern, it somehow did not reflect Mary’s Southern California kitchen. We had a fridge (a relative luxury possessed by say 1 in 10 families). The fridge was small, and old, and noisy but it was a fridge and kept our milk cold. There was an electric range, perhaps even THE electric range, serial number one, appropriate cupboards and a stainless steel sink. Beside the sink was a small, maybe two gallon, insulated tank with a long pipe-spout that reached the sink. This was the hot water supply, electric, for the sink. This was a very common device. There was one at the Unit between two sinks in the men’s room. The pipe-spout pivoted so that it could serve either sink.

A scullery behind the kitchen contained the pee-wee electric washer, another sink, another fireplace, some more cupboards, and a very large uninsulated water tank, inside a cupboard known as an airing cupboard. This was the hot water tank. It could also be heated electrically. The cupboard surrounding it was for items that need be kept dry.

Behind the scullery was a separate shed divided into a large bin for coal and coke, and a smaller bin for storage of wood or whatever.

The Manse was built of faded yellow brick, had a grey slate roof but was trimmed in a bright light blue. The window frames, outside doors, and eaves fairly glistened with the glossy blue trim. Between The Manse and the street was a 10 foot garden (lawn) and an eight foot high hedge. The front of The Manse was not parallel to the street but at right angles to it. The front garden was about 25 feet wide and terminated in a garage (too small for ZW) and a driveway slanting down to the street. This driveway was closed by a pair of swinging wire fence gates so that the whole of the garden around The Manse was enclosed. The hedge gave way to a wooden fence between The Manse and the Eastern Electricity Board’s transformer station. After turning the corner, the wooden fence which was at least 8 feet high, gave way to a loose wire fence and/or hedgerow separating the Manse from an open field which in turn opened onto the village school.

Were we pleased with our long awaited house? It was no architectural gem. It was not ultra modern. In fact you might as well admit it was old, it was furnished with odd and old pieces of furniture, there was no uniformity or central design of furnishings or interior decoration. The rugs and wall paper were generally drab. Plumbing and appliances were old, small, and outdated, the garage was too small, as were the wardrobes. BUT it was a house, a large house, with enclosed yard, fridge and washing machine, electric stove and five fireplaces and for the next year it was our house and we were now in it. We loved it.[3]

Charlie soon discovered that there was a sidewalk all the way around the house and to this day he says, “I like houses in England best, they have sidewalks around them for riding tricycles”.

Fulbourn

After the first night’s sleep in a house in more than three months we felt revived enough to do some further exploring of our village. In the next five days before leaving for a five-week camping holiday, we made a few visits of exploration.

Just across Pierce Lane and down about two houses from The Manse was a very typical two story yellow brick building with the long side parallel with and set back about 10 feet from the sidewalk. The gabled roof ran the length of the building and the eaves were in front along the street. There was a small sign which said, “Dixon’s Bakery”. One very small front room was the sales room and behind this the business, or baking, end of the establishment. Like every other shop in the village, except the coop grocery and Fred’s barber shop, the proprietors lived in the same building.

The tiny sales room consisted on the outside of a picture window, about four feet square, and a door. Inside the door was room for perhaps four adult customers, or room for me alone if accompanied by all the boys. A small display case topped by a glass counter held all sorts of delicious looking objects, fruit tarts, hot cross buns, Cornish pasties, various varieties of biscuits (cookies), and pork pies. In the show window and on Shelves behind the glass counter were unwrapped and unsliced loaves of white and, brown breads, and assorted cakes and pies.

Not to be outdone by grocery stores, the bakery also had complete selections of hard rock sweets (candy), tins of toffees, gum, Cadbury’s chocolate bars, and minerals (pop). Actually if you were not too fond of proteins you could buy a very appetizing, if not very well balanced, meal at Dixons. Adding to the pleasant sight of cakes and tarts, and the wonderful smell of freshly baked bread, was the pretty sales girl. I always liked to go to Dixons even when the tall, young pretty girl with the big smile was replaced by Mrs. Dixon. The smile was just as big, the greeting just as merrie, and the bread and tarts just as good. Dixons was a jolly place, even if it were a mite tiny. We were soon regular customers and had our standing order in for bread on Saturday.

Myrtleberry’s Store was another square down Pierce Lane beyond Dixons Bakery. Mrs. Rodwell was the proprietor. Myrtleberrys was set back about 15 feet from the street and these 15 feet made a car park large enough for two automobiles or numerous bicycles, prams, Motor scooters, mopeds, and motorcycles. As Fulbourn stores went, the sales room in Myrtleberrys was large. And well it was since it was here that we picked up much of the latest gossip and lots of free advice.

We had already found that milk is not sold in grocery stores in England although cheese and butter are. Neither did the groceries handle fresh meats, but only sandwich meats and gammon (bacon). Fresh fruits and vegetables however were not only sold but were fresh. You often had to wait while Mrs. Rodwell went out and picked a few more tomatoes or lettuce or cabbage. The cucumbers were excellent but dill pickles completely unheard of. Except for milk and peanut butter, enough of the correct kind of groceries could be picked up for the Webster standard lunch. Once habituated, our general shopping habits were once a week, generally Saturday, at Myrtleberrys for the week’s provisions. Then many times a day to Tyrells and/or Webbs for forgotten items, perishable items, items specialized in by one store or another, or just for a visit.

The closest store to the Manse was Tyrells, all trimmed in red and with the show window packed with glass jars of hard rock sweets. Mrs. Tyrell, an elderly widow, was treasurer at the chapel. She was short and on the plump side, very pleasant but sometimes somewhat forgetful. She was assisted by a grown daughter and one or two other women. Tyrells was the place to deposit laundry and cleaning. A laundry lorry from Cambridge picked up bundles on Monday and delivered them back on Thursdays (and Saturdays). At Tyrells Mary also bought sheets, towels, cotton (we call it thread), cotton wool (cotton), needles, thimbles, patterns, etc. Tyrells also had a small frozen food case and kept peas, beans, ice cream, and unique for the village, frozen corn (on the cob).

Tyrells – with the jars of sweets in the window

Webbs, just around the corner from Pierce Lane on High Street was the most picturesque of the village stores and I believe the most popular. Half of Webbs was in a thatched roof old cottage with a very low ceiling and large ceiling beams low enough to be a hazard to tall people (like Mr. Beaumont, the proprietor). The sales room was tiny and usually fairly well packed with people. Webbs had a new addition through a small hall along the front of the building which contained a variety-hardware section. Plastic pans, buckets, dish drying racks, etc. Often as the customer negotiated the narrow front hall from the grocery section to the hardware section the clerk, Mr. or Mrs. Beaumont, or their son, or Mr. Beaumont’s brother, would short cut back through their living quarters and show up through the back door to the hardware section.

Webbs Store – Mr. Beaumont and a customer (in Cambridgeshire High School for Boys uniform)

Webbs were the newspaper, magazine, and paper back book dealers and had picture postcards of Fulbourn. Mr. Beaumont himself, certainly in his fifties if not sixties, and slight of build, delivered the morning paper on his bicycle. One of his clerks, a Mrs. Smith also of the same age and build delivered the evening paper on her cycle. She collected weekly on her rounds but for the morning paper and Newsweek I paid at Webbs on Saturday or Monday or whenever I was in.

All of the stores, Myrtleberrys, Tyrells, Webbs, and Peaks on around on School Lane had more stuff packed away on shelves back in their living quarters or in back rooms than met the eye. Being inveterate super market shoppers, this disturbed us. Instead of seeing all the merchandise and selecting what we wanted from open shelves, we could at best only squint and point to those items we did see and ask for other items by name. And this was often disastrous since American words and English words are far from synonymous on many items. Even if the names agree the products often do not.

Examples are: sweet pickles are gherkins, molasses is treacle, squash is marrow, turnips are swedes, mustard (mild for sandwiches) is mustard (hot and powdered for footbaths), peanut butter is generally not available, kerosene is paraffin (which is obtained from grocers , paraffin is paraffin wax, and tomatoes are tomahtoes.

Between Webbs and the butcher shop was a tiny one room Electric Shop. This was not always open and was usually staffed by someone with little knowledge of electric appliances. In the afternoon a man, probably from Cambridge, came and fixed all the simple repair orders and took the more complex jobs home with him. This shop contained a new Telly, many varieties of radios, irons, lamp fixtures, and the lot. Here you could buy small, 5 amp, three-pronged plugs or the larger 15 amp three-pronged plugs. England uses 220-240 volts, not 110-120 and uses three-pronged not two-pronged plugs. Unless you specifically rewire the plug yourself you can’t get a 15 amp device on a 5 amp line, the plugs are incompatible. Very often the fuse wire is located in the wall outlet itself, especially on some of he larger 15 amp circuits for electric stoves, etc. The switch and wall outlets are combined and contain the fuse wire. You buy either 5 or 15 amp fuse wire and stretch it between the two points instead buying whole fuses that screw into sockets.

Dick Whitmore's Family Butcher

Beyond the Electric Shop was Dick Whitmore’s butcher shop and it was a marvel to behold. One end of his two story brick residence that sat right on the sidewalk three feet off the street was the butcher shop. On Monday mornings his big dark green blind was pulled over his large show window. He was in at the Cambridge cattle market bidding on his meat. On Tuesdays upon entering his shop you could usually see a half beef, two or three pigs, lambs, and fowls hung up on hooks around his shop. This was the day to come in for fillet steaks. Not much of a half side of beef is fillet and first come, first serve. This isn’t quite so bad as it seems in as much as the competition for this most expensive cut is not too great and except for our family, no one family ever cleaned out his whole (half) supply. Since we soon grew to be his best customers, we had no trouble getting fillets. And at the comparative price between his fillets and the Safeway’s in California, we ate fillets once a week, and felt like kings.

By Wednesday Dick usually had his meat cut up into smaller portions and stored away in his large walk-in fridge. Whenever he got too busy, and inevitably on Saturday, he didn’t get time to replace each large portion in the fridge when be cut off a customer’s request. The meat just piled higher and higher on his cutting table.

Dick Whitmore at work

He had the whole gamut of cutlery, a meat saw (for bones), a cleaver (for bones) and “the sharpest knife I ever saw” said Charlie every time he went in. Dick was continually sharpening this knife on a long spindle-shaped file (or emory) by pulling the knife down with his right hand toward his left hand which held the file. I’d swear he missed his own fingers by only hundredths of inches with a knife sharp enough to strip his finger to the bone. Somehow he always kept his fingers whole. You could buy hares, pheasants, pigeons, ducks, geese, turkey, chicken, lamb, pork, beef, veal and sausage. He did not, nor did any other respectable butcher handle wieners, lunch meats and the like. He was about as slick and quick at finding and preparing any desired cut as anyone could be. He would have the meat cut, on and off the scales, and wrapped in a newspaper before the needle on his scales could anywhere near settle down to a stable reading. For our family he just counted noses, guessed appetites and cut away. I never knew and I’m sure he didn’t know how many pounds and ounces of meat we had but the number of pounds and shillings always came out the same.

The Six Bells

There wasn’t much time for darts during this short stay so my relationship with the Six Bells, the High Street pub was purely platonic. Even from the outside however the Six Bells was a thing of beauty. Here was an old inn straight from Dickens. The eave line of this thatched roof was two stories above and parallel with the street and the ridge three stories high. One of Fulbourn’s taller buildings. At each end and running up the outside were big brick chimneys. The upper floor overhung about three feet over the sidewalk. At two places along the sidewalk the windows of the pub protruded out in an angular arc. These bay windows were tangent with the overhang on the upper floor and like the guard (conductor or brakeman) in the guard car (caboose) the people supping in these windows could survey up and down the sidewalk. All busses and coaches stopped here as I’m sure they have done, for the past two centuries. They no longer change horses here but I’m sure in the past they did. One got the feeling that The Six Bells was an inn, a meeting place, a coach station, and not a tavern, or bar. Actually it was all of these. I later found it to be a habitual haunt for Dick Whitmore the butcher, our milkman, Fred the barber and many others. The dart board next to the fireplace was well worn.

Beyond The Six Bells on the corner of High Street and School Lane was Her Majesty’s Post Office. Her Majesty in this case was represented by two regal souls, Mrs. Jones and Miss Ball. As usual they lived on the premises and the smallest room of their house was the Post Office. Mrs. Jones was at least in her seventies if not her eighties. She was very petite and almost seemed lost behind the well worn counter. Despite her grey hair she was sound in mind and body and belying her age she wasn’t even hard of hearing.

Inside the Six Bells

Miss Ball, her chief assistant, was much younger (in her fifties or sixties) and delivered the mail on her bicycle (before 7 o’clock each morning). The bright red pillar box was not really a pillar box at all in this case but was just an ordinary letter or mail box mounted on the wall. After closing hours letters dropped through the holes outside the building ended up inside the building (and the letter box). Two or three times a day the miniaturized mail vans would collect and deliver mail. And I must add mail service is indeed first rate in Britain.

The Post Office also collects telephone bills, issued four times a year and NOT in ADVANCE. They deliver telegrams (Miss Ball on her bicycle), and sell radio and Telly licenses. Unofficially they also sell beautiful Christmas cards. An artist has sketched many of the venerable old buildings added a Christmas greeting and ended up with a delightful remembrance.

During our six day stint as respectable, settled, and staid citizens between our two prolonged gypsy episodes there came time for haircuts. In two tiny rooms, a vestibule and a shop, underneath the sign “Gents Hairdressing” was Fred the Barber. His shop was open from 4 until 7 and he came out by bus. He was no older than many others riding bicycles but, as I was informed by Dick Whitmore in the Six Bells one day, he had a heart condition. He was old, and small, and talkative, and pleasant, a good barber, and a nice person. He always wore a white knee-length smock, as did most every other tradesman in the whole village. The butcher’s smock usually ended up red at the end of the day and the Cobbler’s was streaked with black and brown. Fred wore horn rimmed glasses and as befits a barber he still had plenty of brown hair, receding a little on the temples, but a goodly lock hung down over his forehead. He had a peaked nose and small mustache and could well have played the part of the hero in a village production of “Mein Kampf”.

Fred’s shop was a most incongruous mixture of the old and the new, the old usually winning out. The barber chair was simplicity itself. Fred may well have made the chair himself. It consisted basically of four sturdy legs which also served as anchors for the arm rests. A leather covered cushion and a straight slightly cushioned back completed this rudimentary chair. Its distinguishing features were simplicity, ruggedness, lack of moving parts and squareness; no contours, no rounded corners, no swivel, no mechanism for raising or lowering the height, but all the necessities, a seat, a back rest, arm rests and a board which sat on the arm rests and served as a seat for children. A separate box that had a sloping top sat on the floor and acted as a foot rest.

Fred's Gents Hairdresser Shop

Other major equipments were sink, with electric water heater, many bottles of shampoo, hair oil, and I imagine hair restoring compounds, an electric clipper and assorted combs, brushes, and towels. Auxiliary equipment consisted of a waste paper basket, a gas fire (heater) and neatly balanced on top of the gas fire was a tea kettle. Fred always had hot water for tea. Fred believed in diversification, he also sold cigarettes and tooth brushes.

By our standards Fred’s shop was medieval. Also by our standards Fred’s prices were medieval, two shillings for a haircut (28 cents). By any standards Fred’s haircuts were first rate and his conversations worth listening to. He liked the boys and they liked him. At 2 bob a haircut mom had five fewer jobs to do than she had in America, and Fred had himself about 800% more business than our American barber, all the boys and all of us more often. You see, haircuts for me and all the boys cost less than a haircut for me alone in California.

The cobbler at work

The cobbler in his thatched roof shop across from the butcher shop was a young man. The only young shopkeeper in Fulbourn, and a man with foresight. He wanted to increase his trade from repairing to merchandising. We agreed this was a good idea. We had already found that parking space in Cambridge was as scarce as hen’s teeth. Everything we could buy in the village was to our liking. Anyway the boys loved to watch him stand at his lathe and repair shoes.

We did have one item we wanted built during our six day rest; a set, of light wooden boxes to hold food, travel books, our benzin (petrol, gasoline) stove, and cooking utensils. There was a carpenter shop right across from us and I took them the problem and its partial solution. I measured the exact sizes we needed and drew up plans. With this much cooperation the foreman told the carpenter to try to get the job done. The carpenter selected the proper light weight wood and told his apprentice how to brace the boxes and the apprentice went to work. It is not uncommon in England to see these very young boys (and girls) working in shops as apprentices and clerk. The school leaving age is 15 and then off to work.

This young boy was a marvel. He not only made the boxes, but trimmed them up, sanded off the rough edges, and stained and finished them off. They looked as beautiful as the highly varnished camping box the Germans had installed in our car. The boxes looked so nice it was hard to desecrate them with belongings. I would have expected such a job from an old cabinet maker or craftsman of the old school. But from a teen-aged boy in this generation I was astounded.

It’s hard to say whether the excellent job or the ridiculously low price surprised me the most. I had been accustomed to paying carpenters, painters, plumbers, and the like more in hourly wages than I earned as a scientist. And to pay them these wages for work that looked like I, the scientist, had done it. Needless to say I was greatly impressed to get excellent work at a price I could afford.

My exploration of the shops in the village convinced me that this was the place for us. We had waited 107 days for our house but it looked as if our wait was to be rewarded. Our first impressions were favorable.

However we had only time for first impressions. Our next adventure in our near perpetual travel was at hand. We were to travel far and wide on our “Continental Camping Holiday”:

CONTINENTAL CAMPING HOLIDAY

At Summer’s end with tourists gone

A second trip you see

For Dad a paper had to give

At Stuttgart, Germany

From Dover to Dunkirk we sail
And drive to Bruges and Ghent

Then on to Brussels, Luxembourg,

Trier, Cochem, Koblenz.

Along the Moselle and the Rhine

The vineyards grow straight up

At harvest time with wine to make

They squeeze it in a cup.

We travel in our bus by day

At night attach a tent

At Lorelei on Rhine we camp

While barges came and went

From Rhine we climb to Rheinstein Schlosz

And walk through Dom at Mainz

Then Wiesbaden and Frankfurt see

Eat stew, drink milk by pints.

Then on to Worms and Heidelberg

We pay our deep respects

To Luther and to Gutenburg

To kings of all aspects.

Up the Neckar travel we

And camp upon its banks

Until in Stuttgart camp we drive

To stay a week with thanks.

Dad goes to meetings day and night

He rides the Strassenbahn

For car is now a home for all

Through day and night and dawn.

From Fernsehturm, or TV tower

Sights great, knees shake, winds raw

On Sunday south through Tubigen

Burg Hohenzollern we saw.

Medieval towns were next to come

Beneath our pounding feet

We camped one night in Dinkelsbuhl

Old towns are hard to beat.

There’s Rothenburg and Ingolstadt

With Nurmberg in between

Then cross the Danube, called Donau

Dachau is very mean.

In Munich Nymphburg palace stands

In Ratskeller we dine

Up St. Michaels spire we go

Below see city shine.

On Autobahn to Salzburg, ho

To Mozart yet our due

Around the town behind a horse

The time of day it flew.

Off to Vienna via Linz

The Danube’s splendor see

Vienna’s camp, a wondrous place

Saves much in hotel fee.

Prince Eugen stands in Heldenplatz

St. Stephens towers o’er all

In Schonbrunn formal gardens stand

The opera gets our call.

To Venice next we set our course

O’er Dolmite Alps we go

We leave our bus in city site

And then by boat, heave ho.

By gondola canals we see

Then boys the pigeons feed

Who swarm the piazza of St. Marks

When walking please take heed.

Verona’s fame by Shakespeare told

On balcony Juliet stood

The Amphitheatre from Roman times

For opera is good.

To Como with its hills and lake

Statue to Volta stands

Cathedral likewise beckons all

To hasten from the strands.

On Autostrada south we go

La Scala in Milan

Columbus came from Genoa

And found our famous land.

Along the Riviera coast

In Italy and France

Monte Carlo, Monaco,

Where people take their chance.

Thru Nice and Cannes to Avignon

Across from bridge we camp

On petrol stove we cook our food

And settle down to nap.

When music sounds and fireworks glow

And on the bridge anon

The village children dancing to

‘The Bridge of Avignon’.

To Orange and Roman theatre then

As up the Rhone we go

Then Bill his sixth birthday he has

For him we buy gateau.

At Fontainbleau a palace see

On Seine in Paris camp

From high atop the Eiffel Tower

Paree looks like a map.

We see the place where guillotine

Took lives in one short drop

A greater hazard yet today

Are cars that hop and pop.

To Versailles then and palace see

Then north we drive once more

From Dunkirk back to England sail

In peace no war planes roar.

From Dover back to Cambridge now

Its dark, its after five

So ferry sign we do not see

Cross Tower Bridge we drive.

At 1 a.m. to Manse we drive

Both tired and lightly fed

For yet five weeks on road were we

Now house, and food, and bed.

J.C.Webster.

17th March, 1960.

The Manse, Fulbourn, Cambridge.

Daniel Webster (with baguette) on Continental Camping Holiday

Freundliche Frauenwelt

I imagine no family ever left England for a five-week camping holiday on the continent with heavier heart than did our family. Actually this is the trip I’d been planning since December 5, 1958, the day after I’d heard of my good fortune. My first living foreign language had been German, my mother’s family was German, my best high school friend was a second generation German and his parents who helped us learn, “Du bist wie eine blume; so holt, so schone, so rein”, had told us of the wonders of Germany. The Rhein and the castles of Germany were, next to Cambridge and London, what I wanted most to see.

Our desire was now blunted however by our summer in Alpha and ZW and our damp Cornwall camping trip. Six days in a house, after 3 months of camping are just not enough to make one desirous of a camping holiday. Likewise we were just discovering the wonders of our English village and felt perhaps we could spend another day or two learning the secrets of our medieval English village.

However it was the Third International Congress of Acoustics to be held in Stuttgart that had really motivated this whole trip. I was scheduled to deliver a paper there and the time was now. We left Fulbourn with our new boxes and worn souls and headed for Dover via Tilbury ferry. We found a camp and boarded the ferry next morning.

Things began looking rosier right after our French meal on board, complete with the French national beverage. The rosy effect soon changed to another well known effect and I was asleep in the deck chair for the remainder of the crossing. My nap did wonders for me and our trip along the Belgium canals from Dunkirk to Bruges was a pure delight. Even the old (WWII) fortifications along the canals didn’t spoil the restful, rustic, but sea faring atmosphere. We saw our first “blow up” tent in the Bruges campsite. Just a huff and a puff and they blew their house up.

Next morning we took Charlie’s and Dan’s favorite sightseeing trip, a horse-drawn carriage ride through old Bruges. The same ride through Harlem (New York) would have been just as satisfactory to Dan and Charlie but the rest of us enjoyed the stairstep-shaped gables, the church steeples, the canals, and the fancy needlework shops. We took the super road from Bruges to Ghent and saw a few more steeples, castles, and stairstep gables. The feature event in Brussels was the ascent of the Atomium. Going up was easy enough, elevators and escalators. Then a restaurant stop and then the shocker. The only way down was by some outside steps with iron grill guard rails. The descent was at least 50 feet, seemed at least 500 and may have been as much as 100 feet. John about froze on the spot and I was with John. However dads must set the example and I pretended there was nothing to this, hoping all the time I wouldn’t faint dead away or drop over with a heart attack. I seriously wonder if some people haven’t literally dropped dead at the thought of the ordeal. The point was, there we were, there was our ZW in plain sight, looking like a toy below, and in between were those steps. There was plenty of food but no beds in sight so with Tom and Bill literally hopping down ahead of us, Mom took Charlie, I carried Dan, and John, stiffly and colored ashen gray, brought up the rear.

Brussels is a beautiful city, especially the wide avenues, the town square (grande place), the government buildings, and the churches. The campsites were not much.

On leaving Brussels we refought the battle of Waterloo. I somehow got the idea from the movies and panoramas that Wellington and von Blucher were not so much the victors as was Napoleon the loser. And in fact I further got the idea that had Napoleon’s subordinates performed with more acumen we would not have ever heard of Great Britain, the British Empire, or The Commonwealth. French not English would be the most spoken language and wine, not beer, the most popular alcoholic beverage.

This was but one example of a fact not well known by anyone, namely that an Englishman’s view of history does not agree with anyone except other Englishmen and then only southern Englishmen (not to mention Scotsmen). And an American’s view of history is not held by any other nation even southern Americans. I could repeat this same statement a hundred times just replacing English and American, with French, German, Chinese, etc. The most important war we ever fought was our revolution but in England it was just a small battle in a bigger war. They lost the battle but won the war (with France).

We left Waterloo for Namur on the Meuse, an ancient invasion route between Germany and France. Our guide book told us of a medieval rivalry between the villages of Dinant and Bouvignes. It stated, “. . . in 1466 the Dinantais, wrongly supposing the Burgundians to have been defeated by Liege, insulted their rivals by hanging an effigy of the Duke’s son, Charles the Bold, on a public gallows. The irate Charles marched on Dinant and the sack of the town was one of the most terrible in history, some 800 men being tied back to back and flung into the river.”

We followed the Meuse from Namur to Dinant, then branched off through the Ardennes Forest for Luxembourg. Night was beating us to Luxembourg so we camped short in Haboy-la-Nueve. This was one of our best sites. It was off the beaten track, it was late in the tourist season and only one other party showed up. Flags of 20 countries flew on separate flag poles. It was situated on a denuded hill and across the valley was an old village dominated by a twin-spired beautiful old church. The sun highlighted this village as it set and convinced us our camping holiday was going to be a success.

Luxembourg is a wonderland for boys or adults with boyish hearts. Like many ancient cities it was built on terrain easy to defend. In fact the fortification finally destroyed in 1867 was considered second only to Gibraltar. The Alzette river has cut steep sided canyons and the resultant stone cliffs are both easy to defend and amenable for cutting caves, casements, and passageways. The whole town appears to be honeycombed with these fortifications. Castle-like government buildings and the picturesque cathedral sit atop these plateaus. Stately high arched stone bridges now bridge some of these defiles and add to the sense of heights and valleys. A fairy tale city in a fairy tale country that fills in a gap between France, Germany and Belgium.

Belgian Luxembourg and Luxembourg proper were caught in the WWII Battle of the Bulge. Right outside of the City of Luxembourg is a typical immaculately kept American Military Cemetery with white crosses and Stars of David on an emerald lawn, and a simple but imposing memorial and reception building. Here lies one general who was the idol of his troops and in death General Patton still lies at the head of the troops he led.

As in any battle or any war, or even in a family argument, there are at least two antagonists. And so about two miles down the road from this angel white paradise lie the vanquished enemy. Everything about the American Cemetery is sweetness and light, even to the multi-laned paved highway leading to it. Immediately beyond the American Cemetery the road narrows down and soon is no longer even hard surfaced. Those who follow directions well or with good eyesight will soon see on the left a dark somber German cross. A dirt lane then leads off to the well kept but very somber cemetery. At the end of this road is a small dirt parking lot. A short dirt path leads under a rather small arch into a large green cemetery surrounded by a high dark gray wall. Instead of symmetrical rows of shining white crosses one sees a scattering of dark gray, huge, heavy stone crosses. These mark mass graves. At the far end is the large dark gray edifice that was visible from the road. The total effect is of sorrow, death, and darkness, but not of unkemptness. The most striking difference between the American and German Cemeteries was the visitors. The large paved lot at the American Cemetery was well filled with new shiny cars and the cemetery itself was full of obvious tourists, dark glasses, cameras, and all. In the small dirt parking lot were a few small, old, but well kept cars. Inside were elderly people, predominantly women. As we passed these weeping women we felt very out of place, almost sacrilegious, as if we were violating the holiness and sanctity of this sacred place.

It brought to my mind that even on the wrong side, armies are composed of men, husbands and sons. In death who knows who were victorious and who were defeated, whose cause the righteous and whose the unjust, who the invaders and who the defenders. All of the soldiers in both cemeteries were fathers or sons and to mothers, wives, and daughters all were heroes. Who will condemn a man because he fell in battle for a cause that most people will agree was evil? Individual soldiers have little to say and can do little to alter the course of fates that carry them to death on a field of battle.

We were proud of the American Cemetery. It was well designed, well maintained, it was in good taste and it commemorated brave men who won a great battle against a determined, desperate, well disciplined army of born fighters. We could not be proud of the leadership, the causes, nor even the actions of the German army but the weeping women brought home to us that sorrow is not reserved for the righteous.

We advanced in peace and charity across the German border to spend the night in the oldest (Roman) town in Germany, Trier on the Mosel River.

Next morning was mail day and shopping day. The biggest item on the shopping list was Lederhosen for the boys. Laundry was one of our biggest problems. Ever since our $20 laundry bill in Stockholm, we had been waiting for our first tour in Germany. We crossed the Mosel and headed for the Stadtmitte, the center of Trier. We found a parking place and I started out with 4 boys looking for the post office and Lederhosen.

We noted the city was dressed for and had the air of a fete. Within a block we came to a general information center and a first aid station. This seemed like a logical place to inquire about the whereabouts of the post office. Before we left England I had told the secretary at the Unit to forward my mail first to Trier, then to Stuttgart. My slides hadn’t yet arrived for my talk and I was somewhat anxious about them. The information center was obviously set up for the fete and they were expecting to answer, questions concerning said fete. We didn’t ever quite find out what the fete was about. It could have been a wine festival, since this was both the time and the place. Or as we found out later the cathedral at Trier had a very sacred religious relic, namely the cloak of Jesus and this was pilgrimage time. I think the fete was a religious celebration probably planned at this time to atone for the wine festivals in all the remaining Mosel valley towns.

We were obviously too early for the expected throng and the English speaking informant, if any, was not yet at the information center. Ones ability to converse in a foreign language improves with use and this was my first full day in Germany since my week in June. They were expecting questions concerning their fete and certainly not about receiving mail. They told me again and again how to mail a letter. They would mail it; there was a bright yellow post box across the square; and after a few more tries they even volunteered to put on the stamps. Finally when they could see I was adamant in my determination to go to the Hauptpostamt a middle-aged volunteer took over and tried telling me how to get there. Not in desperation but more out of curiosity she finally decided to just walk us there herself. She was not busy and I think she was curious to see what I was trying to tell her and decided to go to the central post office and find out.

Along the way with John, Tom, Bill, and Charlie or now Johann, Thomas, Wilhelm, und Karl we continued our rather tortured conversation. She found I was also interested in buying some Lederhosen. We soon found the Hauptpostamt and I did have a letter, but not my slides. Our friend now nodded her head and smiled as she could see I had some point in my stubbornness.

Our volunteer guide was now convinced I knew what I was talking about, even if I didn’t know all the correct words. She promptly took charge and on we went to the Lederhosen store. Now she did all the talking just as if she were Mary, or my mother, and soon two clerks were hopping around showing gray suede Lederhosen, green slick Lederhosen, and black polished Lederhosen. I finally agreed I liked the green ones and next came getting the proper sizes and especially the right length Trager (suspenders). He could fit Johann, Thomas, und Wilhelm aber nicht Karlchen. I paid the clerk a hundred and ten Deutsche Marks and the boys walked out of the store in splendor. All except Karlchen and he walked out making more noise than a brass band, although not such pleasant noise. It is difficult to explain to a three year old that they couldn’t fit him when he could see all the green Lederhosen still hanging on the racks.

Our guide and shopping mother was now practically like a member of the family and she insisted on coming back to the ZW to meet Mary and Dan. After she had met all the boys and their momma she took her leave to go back to help the next person desiring information. If she was as thorough on all comers as she had been for us she wouldn’t parry many questions but she would make lots of friends.

Charlie had not really quieted down yet over his non-possession of Lederhosen so even before we could eat lunch we went to a place much nearer where Mary had spotted some Lederhosen while she and Dan were window shopping. We couldn’t find any green Lederhosen but at this point Charlie didn’t care and we quieted him with a pair of gray suede Lederhosen.

After restocking our food larder we started on the journey I’d planned for 5 months. We left Trier and followed the Mosel to the Rhein, the Rhein to the Neckar, and the Neckar to Stuttgart. After a few miles of following the beautiful vineyard-sided Mosel valley with pretty white churches in quaint old villages, we forgot about our reluctance of leaving The Manse after only a six-day occupancy. My mother’s ancestors were from the Palatinate of which the Mosel formed the boundary. After seeing the beauty of this valley I wondered why they left, revolutions of 1848 to the contrary. I guess maybe the same reason my father’s ancestors left England within two decades of the Mayflower.

Rather late in the afternoon we spotted a castle high on side of the valley above Bernkastel-Kues. We detoured up the mountain and saw the vineyards at first hand and sampled the light green grapes. Later in the ruined castle, now a restaurant, we sampled the fermented and unfermented juices of the local vineyards. From this point on, the boys’ favorite breakfast juice was Traubensaft (grape juice). We lingered so long that we decided to camp across the river from the castle. The campsite was reached by a two car ferry. This man-with-crank-operated ferry was a great fascination to the boys.

We liked this trip so much we slowed our pace down. We ate lunch at Coblenz and pitched camp across from the legendary Lorelei Rock. The Rhein has more castles than the Mosel, is wider, has fewer vineyards and is still as it always has been, a transportation artery par excellence. I’ve never seen such a density of barges, nor of trains or cars (on both banks). Our camp, within a stone’s throw of the Niebulungen Treasure, was an island of peace and isolation in a whirl of moving peoples and goods. We didn’t dive for the Rhein Maidens Horde for fear of being run over by a barge. I could see where the legends of the siren on the rock causing the shipwrecking of careless sailors came from. The current was swift, the channel narrow, and the bends blind.

Lorelei Rock on the Rhine

Next morning we visited Castle Rheinstein on the dizzying heights above the river. Tom and Bill were delighted, John unhappy, and me just anxious. We paid our respects to Gutenburg and the cathedral in Mainz and drove quickly through Wiesbaden. Frankfurt was having a fair so we took a quick trip through the cathedral and camped under the landing pattern of the airport, just off the autobahn.

Martin Luther was one of the boys’ favorite historical figures so we visited Worms. Here is a city of contrasts, the old wall and cathedral and a stadtmitte as new and modern as can be. On to Heidelberg and, “not another castle, daddy” but the funicular railway “that’s different”.

We camped at Heidelberg on the Neckar. I noted on my map that Rothenburg was just off the road along the Neckar to Stuttgart. Everyone has heard of Rothenburg so we turned off in search of this storied intact medieval city. Things were beginning to look a little medieval anyway. Just out of Heidelberg we noted two old ladies on a (rubber tired) wagon being pulled by a cow (not an oxen). We had noticed for days children, men, and women pulling little wagons with slanted crib sides full of sticks (faggots). Also we’d seen many horse drawn wagons, and grain shocked up in the fields waiting to be threshed (not combined). Rural Germany reminded me of rural Iowa in my childhood. Not that tractors weren’t seen, but they weren’t seen exclusively.

We soon came to the fabled walled city of Rothenburg and wondered first of all, “Where was the wall”. We saw no wall. The guide book said that at one o’clock on the town square puppets in two windows high above the square reenacted the scene that saved Rothenburg in the thirty years war, namely the burgermeister doffing a decanter of wine at one gulp. We could find no buildings that fit the description, in fact we couldn’t even find a town square. After passing a given corner for the fourth time a plump elderly German lady walked over to the ZW to see if she could be of some help.

I told her we were looking for the town square. She apparently understood my question and rattled off some answer a mile a minute. After a few more tries she commented that she couldn’t understand how I could talk German so well and understand so little. In the meantime it was starting to dawn on me that the full name of the fairy tale village was Rothenburg-on-Tauber and among other things this village was high on a hill, there was no river, not even a creek. I terminated our conversation as best I could without making her think me more stupid than I really was and we departed[4].

As we proceeded down the Neckar her remarks started me thinking. I can make myself understood because I have lots of time to configure my 1000 word vocabulary into a sensible question. But when a reply is fired back from a 10,000 word vocabulary at 300 words per minute my comprehension falls apart.

However my experience in Trier and Rothenburg convinced me that elderly German women, like my high school friend’s mother, are as nice as people come. The time, effort, understanding, and consideration shown me and the emotions displayed at the Luxembourg cemetery convinced me. People are OK, if governments could get along as well as people, we’d have a wonderful world.

Charlie’s Trolley Ride

From a camping standpoint it would be hard to beat Stuttgart as the site for the week long Third International Congress of Acoustics. The Stuttgart Municipal Camp on the Neckar River is one of the best, if not the best, campsite we encountered. It had well mowed grass, it was flat, and the facilities were first rate. The light, airy, spacious, and amply sized restrooms were spotlessly clean. Hot showers were available. There was a roomful of coin-operated gas stoves. And the provision store, though not large, was well stocked. The camp was not crowded and it was not located in a crowded area. By walking two blocks I could catch a tram into my meetings. The boys liked to walk along the top of the dike. Mom and the boys by walking about 4 blocks could shop at a butcher shop and a bakery. I took the boys for haircuts in the same shopping area. A better situation could hardly prevailed for spending a week at a single camp.

Our longest excursion out of Stuttgart was to Burg Hohenzollern a fairy tale castle atop a conical mountain about 40 miles south via Tubingen, an old university city. The boys had really seen about all the castles they wanted to see but they didn’t complain of this one. Burg Hohenzollern is strictly out of the fairy tale books. The road that wound around the mountain was clockwise so that attacking soldiers would approach with shields out and not between them and the defenders in the castle. From the top the surrounding area could be surveyed for miles. Our only mishaps were that Dan who always goes to sleep noisily, didn’t quite get to sleep. And so Dad, carrying Dan, didn’t quite get to finish the tour. When the tour was over and we were ready to walk the half mile back to the car, Dan did fall asleep. We therefore had two inert superfluous objects, deadweight Dan for Dad to carry and his empty stroller for Mom to push. In the struggle that ensued, getting Dan in the nest of the ZW, and everyone else aboard without falling off the mountain road no one bothered to see that the stroller was packed into the ZW. It wasn’t. We now had more room inside but more transportation problems at every stop.

I met all my stateside colleagues at the meetings. I was so enthusiastic about my fellowship and our camping VW (our ZW) that one of my colleagues decided he’d apply for the same fellowship next year. He applied and he was accepted and he ordered a VW to be converted to ZW. And as it turned out we turned over our keys to The Manse to him.

My paper was scheduled for Thursday afternoon and by Wednesday still no slides. I had revamped my paper somewhat to add words to replace the missing visual aids. After the Thursday morning session I checked again and sure enough there was a package from my lab. However since there seemed to be some customs duty due they had held the package at the Postamt. I was then informed how to get there. This was of course hopeless, it was now noon, my paper was at two, the ZW was a house in the campsite, not a vehicle at the meeting, and my German, although passing fair, was probably inadequate to argue
with a customs man.

A young Swiss physicist on duty at the time said he was essentially through at noon, he would drive me over. When we arrived at the customs section at the post office we were informed everyone was out to lunch - could we come back in an hour? "Ach, nein", I sputtered and then my physicist friend took over. Soon he turned and asked me if I knew what was in the package. Obviously I knew what was in the package, slides. Then after more words auf Deutsch and fast between the physicist and the customs man came the question, “How come the package is so big?” I was stumped, I had not expected a big package. Then I had a glimmering. For some reason or another a box including my slide rule, a few key books, and many unfinished manuscripts had never arrived at the Unit yet from my lab. Were they in the package? I said, “It may include a few of my personal professional belongings, books, manuscripts, and a slide rule.” “Slide rule?” “They have heavy duties on slide rules.” “But this one is mine, it’s old, I bought it second-hand fifteen years ago, it’s got my name in gold engraved on it.” More words between Swiss physicist and German customs man, auf Deutsch. “The customs man wants to open the package.” “Go ahead.” Two minutes of cutting, tearing, inspecting, and discussing auf Deutsch, then, “You were right, old books, a worn slide rule, and many typewritten pages.” He says, “No duty, take it away.” At five minutes to two I was back at the meetings trying to line up the correct order of the slides. At two I got my first good clear look at the slides as they were projected on the screen. Luckily no major errors.

On Friday, before our trip to Burg Hohenzollern, most members of the Congress took a busman’s holiday to Munich to visit places of acoustical note and study the quieting methods of the German railroads on their passenger cars.

Our family stayed in Stuttgart and took the opportunity to visit Killesberg Park with its little train, sky lift, and spacious greenery. After a busy afternoon riding through the air, over miniature tracks, playing on swings, slides and teeter totters and learning the German words for “2 adults” and “from 3 to 5 children” and for “soda pop” and “hamburger” we finally headed homeward.

We had come by one street car line and being an inveterate sightseer and by disposition and profession an investigator I decided to return by a different line. After all I’d been in Germany 2 or 3 weeks and knew how to ask directions and had ridden the street cars from our camp to the meetings all week. Likewise, I knew from what intersection the street car left and what its number was. I also knew, but didn’t confide my fears in Mary, that the loading platform was in the middle of one of the busiest intersections in Stuttgart and highway construction work made access precarious even for single able bodied and unencumbered adults. But, a little bit to my surprise, I had found during my weeks stay in Stuttgart that the German people, at least south Germans, were inordinately polite and helpful and I knew we would get aboard our street car somehow.

At first sight of the intersection, Mary, who was pushing Dan in his Swedish stroller which we never had quite understood and couldn’t get to work to our satisfaction, looked at me with that “have you gone out of your mind” look.

However, having reached the Rubicon I couldn’t turn back now and sure enough a harried policeman saw our plight and took action. Whether he came to our aid out of utter amazement or in an attitude of help the mentally retarded I’ll never know; perhaps he acted to repent for some haunting sin. Probably he was cursing the day he crossed his superior and got assigned this intersection, but stuck with his duty he had to act so he halted half the flow of goods and people into Stuttgart for a full minute while we paraded across the street around the construction work and finally arrived safely on the loading platform.

Now we realized our troubles had just begun. The problem was how to get our troop, including one in his mobile troop transport, along a three foot wide raised platform already completely packed with tired, home-bound people. We spotted our trolley car all the way at the forward end of the platform and started toward it.

German trolleys are operated by two people, a conductor and a motorman. People board from the rear onto an open platform, no doors to open or close, and the conductor signals the motorman when all are aboard. We didn’t know that the all aboard signal had already been given and that the car was standing only because the policeman was allowing one of the many streams of cross traffic to move. The conductor wasn’t even in sight - she had already moved forward into the car starting to collect the fares.

Not knowing any of this and arriving at the rear platform in staggered formation, I started loading the boys on board. John, Tom, Bill, and Charles were on board and I had taken Dan from his stroller and was standing by ready to board while Mary, already laden down with diaper bag and pocketbook, was wrestling with the uncooperative stroller trying to fold it up.

About this time the policeman gave the motorman the go ahead and the trolley started to move. I yelled for the boys to jump off but neither Mary nor I could help as I had Dan and she had the stroller. John, Tom, and Bill managed to jump off but Charlie, age 3, couldn’t make it. It is a little hard to remember who was screaming the loudest, Mary or the other boys, but one sound was unmistakable and unchallenged for vocal effort and loudness. Charlie’s screams from the departing trolley not only carried across the teeming intersection, but were soon followed by the sound of squealing steel wheels on steel tracks and a policeman’s whistle as the trolley came to a screeching stop across all lanes of traffic. Then, or course, din of auto horns started. Hardly had the trolley stopped than an annoyed woman conductor emerged with a screaming boy under one arm. She made straight across the intersection toward the platform. The German she uttered was not any that I had learned, but I thought it interesting that Charlie had had no trouble at all communicating with her. He had, in a universal language, not music, conveyed his exact thoughts into immediate action.

After the din of those few moments the icy silence that settled on our family for the delayed trip home was far from golden.

Seven Heights to Home

The meetings over, we succumbed to the wishes of Tom and Bill and went atop the Fernsehturm (TV tower) before leaving Stuttgart. Then we proceeded toward medieval Germany, the Romantic Road. We just touched Nordlingen, then camped outside the walled city of Dinkelsbuhl. Nothing out of the ordinary happened at Dinkelsbuhl, no one got lost, sick, or stolen. We still had seen no rain, only wasps and mosquitoes. We were blissfully happy. The countryside was as familiar as the Grimm brothers fairy tales, walled towns, hills and forests, rivers and streams. You could almost see the princes and princesses, the witches and werewolves. We were the youngest son in our seven league boots. All the dragons vanished before our eyes. It was the vampires (wasps) and bats (mosquitoes) that caused us concern. But let us start this tale again.

Once upon a time there was a man called Hans, an only son, who had married and had five small sons. Hans had been condemned by a wicked witch to perpetual traveling. This witch, called Ima Homeowner, disliked children and had condemned Hans and Maria and the boys Johann, Thomas, Wilhelm, Karlchen, and Daniel to a nomad’s life in a flying house called Vesta Pegasus, a house by night, and a flying horse by day.

In their travels through the Black Forest they spotted a fairy tale castle (Burg Hohenzollern). A stooped stranger beside the road told them that they too could have a castle in the sky. That the curse of perpetual travel could be broken. Listen carefully and follow these directions: To break the curse the family must upon seven different occasions in seven different places ascend into the heavenly heights. Begin with the castle you see on yon distant mountain. Then proceed toward the north star until you come across a Fernsehturm overlooking a river. After ascending this second height proceed for a day’s journey toward the rising sun. At nightfall you will be at a walled city. Camp outside and infiltrate into the city after sundown. There you will hear of another walled city that must be entered through three gates each guarded by darting black dragons, and whizzing gray satyrs. Inside this city you will see at one hour beyond high noon a burgermeister doff a tankard of wine in one gulp.

In the city of the three gates you will hear of a city famed for its song contests. From the halls of Die Meistersinger in the city of song proceed toward the sunny climes until blocked by high mountains. On the way you will cross a great river. Beyond the river but before the mountains you will see a witches nest where people were incarcerated in ovens. Show your boys this site so they can see that the ovens must never again be lighted.

From here proceed to your third height, the highest church steeple in the nearby large city. Look toward the rising sun for a castle atop a hill in the foothills of the high mountains you dare not pass. In the city of the castle forego Vesta Pegasus for Centaur and phaeton. Visit the shrine of the boy wonder musical genius, so your boys may gain his magic.

From castle city you will discover a mighty river, follow it carefully past many castles until you find an ancient majestic capital city with no empire to govern. From atop your fourth height, an old triumphal arch in a palace courtyard, look toward the sunny climes and set your course across high mountains, your fifth height. On the seventh day you will find a city without streets. Vesta Pegasus, your flying house will be useless. You will need proceed by boat. Beware the usurers, you will be fleeced in this island city. In the square before the campanile your son Karlchen will commune with the pigeons and find how your next seven days will lead you to your final two heights and your castle in the skies. Then Vesta Pegasus will release you from its grip and give you rest from your travels.

So Hans and his family left their modern day cares in Stuttgart, after a visit to their second height, the Fernsehturm (TV tower), and journeyed into fairytale land, for their remaining five heights.

Hans followed the stooped stranger’s directions and headed Vesta Pegasus toward the east. He passed shocked grain fields, walled cities, forests, streams, old women carrying faggots, oxen pulling carts, and black dragons (Mercedes) and whizzing satyrs (VWs). At sunset Hans found a walled city (Dinkelsbuhl). Vesta Pegasus stopped its flight and became a house. After nightfall Hans and family slipped through the gate by sending Johann, Thomas, Wilhelm, Karlchen, and Daniel ahead dressed in native dress (Lederhosen). Inside the walled village, the six storied, gable roofed, stucco buildings with wooden beams imbedded, dwarfed the narrow winding streets. In the church near the gate Johann overheard the information that to the north on the river Tauber is a city entered by 3 gates.

On the morrow Hans and family in Vesta Pegasus proceeded northward along the Romantic Road. A sign along the road said Rothenburg was close by. The road soon narrowed down, rounded a curve and headed toward an arched gate in a city wall. An elderly woman tending her geese motioned Hans through the gate. Immediately beyond the first gate was a second and on a gentle curve beyond was a third gate.

The gooseherder and her friends had a signaling system set up so that the egress of black dragons and whizzing satyrs could be spotted. When the narrow road through the gates was free of lethal monsters Hans and family in Vesta Pegasus entered. The street through this fairy tale village led straight to the town square. Hans arrived at high noon and his wife, Maria fed the boys and restocked the larder. At one hour past noon from two windows high up in the Ratstrinkstube which fronted on the square a puppet pantomime enacted a scene of burgermeister doffing a tankard of wine in one gulp.

At the conclusion of this scene a traveler who had come from the east told Hans about a city called Nuremberg toward the rising sun where a Meistersinger Festival was held. Hans turned Vesta Pegasus toward Nuremburg.

Inside the walls of the city of song the burghers were busy rebuilding from a devastation rained down from heaven more than a decade earlier in a terrific life and death conflict. The Meistersinger Fest was not being held but Daniel, Hans’ youngest son, showed one and all that he could outcry the best of them. Hans was told by the burghers that yodelers of the ilk of Daniel were more appreciated in the Tyrol mountain country to the south and suggested we proceed via Ingolstadt on the Donau (Danube) toward these southern mountains.

Vesta Pegasus was not deterred by the wide river, being much more worried by the charging black dragons that attacked from front and rear. When attacking from the rear, these dragons always belched fire first so Hans and Vesta Pegasus could easily evade their ceaseless charges. Luckily these dragons always charged at full speed and in straight lines. They always stayed to the left, never once deviating into the path sometimes used by the whizzing satyrs. The satyrs seemed more afraid of the dragons than interested in attacking Hans and Vesta Pegasus. Instead of pressing an attack from the rear on Vesta Pegasus they pulled around and kept fleeing the ever belching black dragons.

The night of the second day was spent on the wide river at Ingolstadt. On the third day Hans came to the witches nest at Dachau. The victorious conquerors of the witch stood guard around her cold ovens. Hans could speak the language of the guards and thus proved he was a traveler from the land beyond the sea into which the setting sun fell. The guards then allowed him to see the witches nest. Hans and his family were glad the witch was dead and her ovens cold. Even the sight of the witches cruel torture chambers chilled the blood of Hans and his family.

To cleanse themselves of this horrible sight they resumed their journey to a city called Munchen. Here they mounted their third height, the top of the steeple in the St. Michaels church. Karlchen, the boy who could talk with or about anything, talked with the birds in the steeple. They told him that by proceeding generally toward the rising sun and crossing into the land of the hills Hans would find the castle city with the musical heritage.

On the fourth day in the city of the castle, Salzburg, Vesta Pegasus was given a rest while Hans and family let the horse that drew the carriage take them to a house called Geburtshaus von Mozart. Johann and Thomas, who were somewhat acquainted with the magic box with white and black keys, paid homage to another boy who at their age knew the secret of the keys. Johann and Thomas did not always know which key to use at what time to unlock the magic box and allow the treasury of sound inside to issue forth. They procured a magic book that would help them solve the riddle. Wilhelm and Karlchen were more interested in the magic horse that knew where to go and when to stop. Even Vesta Pegasus which in the daytime covered the distances like seven league boots always had to be carefully controlled by Hans. These horses were indeed wonderful. They even ate through their noses.

On the fourth day the beautiful Donau River was reached at Linz and Hans and family followed the river past many old forbidding looking castles into a glorious city, designed to rule an empire, but now destined to rule a tiny land. This magnificent city had been the home of Emperors and Empresses scholars, musicians, artists, writers, and adventurers. Such a city with such a past. The trappings were still there but not the pomp and ceremony. The rulers of the political empires, and the world’s greatest musicians were elsewhere. The city sensed its lost grandeur and glistened, but no longer glowed in ethereal light. On a hill overlooking the formal garden at Schoenbrunn Palace stood the fourth height, the Gloriette or Triumphal Arch to a long forgotten victory. On the fifth day of their travels Hans and family viewed the imperial city of Vienna from the Gloriette. The view thrilled Hans and his family and set that to thinking of empires then and now. They learned that you can’t live on past glories alone. History and life move on.

The fifth height was a creation of God, not man. Higher and more massive than the previous heights the mountains that stood between the ghost capital and the island city were no problem to Vesta Pegasus. Across these mountains lay another land, called the land of the sun.

On the sixth day of travel the fifth height was ascended. The descent into the land of the sun on the seventh day brought new dangers to Hans and Vesta Pegasus. The black dragons were mostly gone but their place was taken by red segmented minotaurs. The particular genus of minotaur in the land of the sun was called Petrolorrytailus. The bull half of the minotaurs was the tailus which was as big as the man half or petrolorry half. Like the black dragons in the land of the virgin forest these minotaurs were always racing at top speed. They were two to three times the size of the black dragons and roamed on paths only half as wide. The only time these monsters ever slowed down was when the paths passed through villages. Then the houses were so close to the curving paths that the minotaurs could only get through by creeping. They didn’t mind chipping corners off the houses but they had tender skins and if they hit the house too hard they tended to explode in flames. Like the black dragons they assumed full possession of all paths and ordinary travelers, like Hans, just took whatever path or part of the path was left over. The Petrolorrytaili were not friendly with each other and often fought for the same space on the path. The pests that annoyed the Petrolorrytailus the most were distant relatives of the whizzing satyrs, the buzzing silenis (genus Fiatus). These buzzing Fiati darted in and out among the Petrolorrytaili and gave them no end of trouble. The Fiati were much faster, infinitely smaller, and not really dangerous to either the Petrolorrytaili or to Vesta Pegasus. The Fiati were mostly nuisances. Every time a Petrolorrytailus tried to devour a Fiatus, the Fiatus just buzzed away. Unlike the dragons and satyrs from the land of the virgin forests who always belched fire before charging, the Petrolorrytaili and Fiati always bellowed loudly. Whether charging from behind or from the front these horrible beasts always bellowed. Hans soon reached the point where the constant bellowing meant nothing.

Vesta Pegasus with Hans in firm control evaded all Petrolorrytaili and Fiati and soon approached the island city. Vesta Pegasus was put in a barn with other Pegasi and Hans and family walked toward the biggest of the canals, the Grand Canal. A large boat stopped for them and delivered them in due course to Piazza San Marco. Before Karlchen could converse with the piazza pigeons a gondolier approached. His sweet tongue soon enticed Hans and family onto his small gondola. That is, his gondola was small for the family of Hans.

After a delightful trip through many and diverse canals Karlchen was again ready to talk pigeon. It might be said of Karlchen that he thought no bird could survive without food from Karlchen. While Maria stood at the church wishing she were properly dressed (long sleeves) for entering, Karlchen and his brothers started feeding the pigeons in the shadow of the campanile. He soon found the talkative pigeon and found what the two remaining heights were Mt. Olympus in the land of the sun, and the highest manmade structure in the lands to the east of the great sea into which the setting sun falls. Mt. Olympus would be on a lake and would be a day’s journey toward the setting sun. The great open steel pyramid would be in a great city in the land of the forest. It would overlook a river, and be six days’ journey beyond Olympus along a mountain bordering the sea and up a great river valley.

Without Vesta Pegasus, Daniel got rather tired and Hans and Maria decided to find another boat and return to the barn of the Pegasi. Hans had to shout to end the siesta of a water taximan. Once awakened, Shylocki agreed to take Hans and family to their Pride and curse Vesta Pegasus, for 1000 lire. At the end of the boat journey Shylocki asked for 2000 lire. Hans knew he couldn’t argue in the language used in the land of the sun. Hans paid up, remembered the prophecy of the stooped stranger in the Black Forest, and left the island city with no remorse, and with no desire to return.

Next day Vesta Pegasus dodged Petrolorrytaili and Fiati and proceeded toward the setting sun. Hans and family noted ancient ruins of a very old empire, a theater in Vicenza, an amphitheater in Verona and as the sun set they approached a lake that was partly in the land of the sun and partly in the land of the mountains. Vesta Pegasus found a suitable pasture for the night atop a mountain called Olympus.

Six days later in the land of the forest Hans, Thomas, and Wilhelm rode four magic boxes to the very top of an open steel tower overlooking a river. While they were thus ascending the seventh and last great height, Karlchen was again feeding and talking to the pigeons. The pigeons told Karlchen that a day’s journey toward the north star would take him beside a great body of water. After camping on the edge of the water he was to put Vesta Pegasus on a boat and set sail for some white cliffs. From the white cliffs follow a great river to the first bridge. Cross the bridge and proceed toward the north star. An unmistakable signal would then point to a village in which would be a large house completely surrounded by a sidewalk. This would be Karlchen’s castle. Vesta Pegasus would lose his spell over Hans and instead would become Pegasus Mercury, a useful tool for Hans and his family.

And so it turned out.

Zigeunerwagen (ZW)

We were completely enchanted with southern Germany and Austria, with Dinkelsbuhl, Rothenburg on Tauber, Nuremberg, Ingolstadt, Munich, Salzburg, Linz, and Vienna. The campsites were adequate to first rate, especially at Ingolstadt and Vienna. We didn’t stay over in Munich but I understand it is fine also. We had had nothing but good weather, no rain, neither too hot during the day nor too cold at night. Wasps, although annoying like the black dragons, never stung us, although mosquitoes did.

We loved our nomad camping existence, and I strongly recommend it to 1) people traveling on a strict budget, 2) people with children, 3) people who want to get off the American tourist path, and 4) just people. We had never camped a day in our lives before this European trip and we not only enjoyed the unscheduled, leisurely alterable itinerary but also the chance to see the countryside and talk to the people, to shop in village stores, and to camp among other Europeans.

None of us were sick a day in spite of drinking native water and milk, eating local fruits and vegetables, pastries and bread; and canned and bottled goods. We tended to get adequate sleep (now that it was September and we were not in Scandinavia) and we didn’t overeat. Mary only had one sized frying pan, which determined the size of the scrambled egg breakfast. The scrambled eggs were flavored with bacon, and/or cheese, and/or tomatoes, and/or dill pickles (except in England). Cornflakes, bread, tea, coffee, and milk, bananas, and fruit juice (orange, pineapple, grapefruit, tomato, and grape) rounded off a usual and adequate breakfast.

The Zwei Flammen Benzin Kocher (2 burner gasoline, from the gas tank, stove) was busy scrambling eggs and heating water. Water for shaving, washing, coffee, and tea. Few camps had hot water showers so most of our cleaning up was of the sponge bath type. The boys were, in their own words, “not dirty” and used a minimum of hot water. Drip dry blouses and sport shirts together with the boys Lederhosen kept laundry problems to a minimum. Only essential dishes were used; 7 sets of knives, forks, and spoons (from a dime store in Stockholm), 7 plastic plates, and cups (from a village store in Sweden), 2 pans, a can and bottle opener, and a sharp German kitchen knife.

We stopped for cheese, lunch meat, milk and bread sometime before lunch and ate beside the road. In the evening we usually provisioned ourselves at the campsite store. Johnny did much of the shopping since he picked up foreign words faster than anyone else.

The boys got to be almost helpful in the camp routine. The procedure was that sometime between 3 and 4 o’clock we would get out our camping map and look ahead 30 to 60 miles for a campsite. We would study the symbols to check on what facilities were available, the important one being a store for milk, eggs, bread, and perhaps cheese, Traubensaft (grape juice), wurst (sausage or bologna), and bananas. Another near necessity was a stream or a railroad to enhance the environment (and add mosquitoes). Other niceties were flush toilets (not a necessity), and showers. You couldn’t tell by the symbols if hot showers were available and they almost, never were, so showers were generally avoided like a dip in Lake Michigan on New Years Day.

As soon as we had selected, a campsite, and a spot within the campsite, the evening’s activities began. Many things happened simultaneously, the most important one was to get Dan and even Charlie off for a walk. This could sometimes be accomplished by sending one or both with John to the store, or with Tom and the rubber lined canvas water bag to get our water. Other times Bill, Tom, or John would be requested to entertain Dan and parade him around the camp which he usually enjoyed. This also helped us discover any American visitors. In my travels around U.S. Colleges I always brought home as gifts for the boys T shirts bearing the names Texas, Michigan, MIT, Yale, Harvard, Iowa, etc. On more than one occasion when the boys returned they brought with them a fellow camper, a student or a professor from these Universities or from Stanford, Wisconsin, Penn State, or Grinnell.

Once Dan was out from underfoot I would climb up on the roof rack and hand down to Mary the tent pipes, the tent canvas, the foot locker (3 wool comforters), assorted bags (the light, pretty, cloth zip-around type), and throw down 3 sleeping bags. Mary and I would then attach the tent pipes to the ZW roof rack (with the boys’ help if they weren’t doing the really useful work of entertaining Dan). Once the pipes were in place the canvas was snapped on and our Pegasus became a home. This would take about 15 minutes. I would then prime and start the stove, and if the boys had done their work, the water and groceries would be on hand, and so Mary would start the cooking.

If I was lucky I could now relax for a few minutes while Tom set the table which was inside ZW. If I were not so lucky I would entertain Dan, and/or finish the grocery shopping, and/or set the table, and/or get the stove going again. Within a half hour to forty five minutes we were usually eating macaroni and cheese, or canned beef and noodles, or wurst and mashed potatoes, along with fresh lettuce, and/or tomatoes, and/or cabbage, and/or cucumbers, together with bread or rolls, milk, coffee and tea. For dessert: pastries, ice cream, chocolate bars or canned peaches or apricots. Everyone was usually hungry and the meals appetizing. The pans were not too large so no one overate. The boys took over the dishwashing while Mary and I relaxed and/or washed ourselves, the boys, or some clothes, and/or made up the ZW into beds for the night.

The ZW was really a marvelous creature, by day a bus for the seven of us. I always drove, Mary refused to except in a dire emergency, and in any case my nerves suffered no more from driving fatigue than from Mary-induced riding experiences. About half the time John, Tom, or Bill would ride in front (on a rotating day basis) and Mary would take her turn the rest of the time. Her presence was especially needed in the late afternoons to read and interpret the camping map and guide, and to inspect the camping site. Dan and/or Charlie were supposed to have custody of the “nest” the compartment over the engine all the way aft in the ZW. The nest was lined with a cloth covered four-inch foam rubber pad day and night. Supposedly, and very often actually, Dan and Charlie fell asleep while playing with their cars in the nest. The real trouble was keeping John, Tom, and Bill out of the nest. They had brought along the Lone Star Locos and liked to set their trains up in the nest during the day (and at the campsite at night).

Directly behind the front seat was a camping box which extended the full width of the car and was about thirty inches wide. The height of the flat tablet surface was also the height of the back edge of the front seat. At mealtime three boys on their knees backwards in the front seat ate off of this table top. The back seats formed an L; a regular seat in front of the nest and a seat at right angles along the side of the car directly behind the driver. At mealtimes a secondary table top attached to the camping box, creating a breakfast nook. The remaining four of us sat around this folding and detachable table on the L shaped ZW seats.

The camping box contained three small drawers and shelves. One shelf was a board width above floor height. The other at seat height, since the side seat did indeed rest at one end on this shelf. These shelves contained the four large, but lightweight wooden boxes, made by the young English carpenter’s apprentice. He also had made a combination pan and dish box which held the stove. The remaining box was the chalk water evaporation cooler, for the milk and butter. The boxes held food, travel literature, cameras, sweaters, and surprises to quiet Dan and Charlie in their worst moments. In general things we might want at any hour during the day went in the boxes. Things needed only at night went in the roof rack. The three little drawers contained the silverware, important papers, knick-knacks and souvenirs.

At night the boxes on the top shelf went into the middle of the floor. The backs off the rear and side seats came off and laid beside the seat of the side seat to make a large double bed (feet under the camping box table top). The nest was still intact for Dan and Charles. The back of the front seat, hinged at the top, pulled up to extend the width of the camping box top. A foam rubber cloth covered mattress was added and Tom and Bill sleeping across the width of the car had their beds. John slept on the front seat under Tom or Bill. This seat was more or less detached from the rest of the car with little or no privacy as anyone looking in the front window could see the occupant. That, plus loneliness and condensation off the window, made us speculate if anyone would want to sleep there. However John grew to love his solitary confinement and would sleep nowhere else.

Occasionally one or more of the older boys would sleep in the tent. The ZW itself was just a hard covered tent. Curtains at all the windows gave privacy.

Although Tom was apt to be up at dawn things didn’t move too fast in the mornings. Not much could be done until the sleeping bags were thrown up in the roof rack, the comforters put back in the foot locker (which doubled as a step), and the seats reassembled from sleeping to eating configurations.

I usually got the stove refilled, primed and started and heated some water before the complete metamorphosis was accomplished. An early cup of coffee for Mary did wonders, and the tea warmed me up too. I had often shaved and occasionally even coerced Tom into washing before the standard scrambled egg breakfast. More washing, boys and dishes, preceded repacking everything into the roof rack and the inside boxes. Although the roof rack measured 10 feet by 4 feet and could be packed at least a foot high we sometimes had trouble buckling the canvas cover over the assembled or disassembled contents.

Before leaving we had a treasure hunt; tent stakes, tent poles, wash rags, pans, shoes, boys, and other odds and ends. Then we all climbed aboard ZW and counted noses. Before leaving any camp we paid up and collected our camping carnet from the camp management (never paying more than a dollar.)

In this manner of traveling our running expenses, food, lodging, and gasoline (petrol) came to $10 a day. So we not only had a cheap holiday but a healthful one. I usually lost about 5 pounds and felt physically first rate, which is more than I can say when sitting at my desk 8 hours a day and spending evenings at church and civic meetings.

The trip from Stuttgart through medieval Germany, Salzburg, the Danube, Vienna, and over the Alps to Venice has been covered in the tale, “Seven Heights to Home”. My immediate reactions to Venice are conveyed by a letter written at the time which concludes this tale. You will note that the letter is not very flattering to Venice. This is because I felt that only in Venice, of all places I visited, did the over anxious tourist profiteers capitalize on my traveling troupe. With the boys I felt encumbered, inflexible, and easy prey since if they were tempted they could put up quite a howl for some useless souvenir. In most places we actually didn’t hit the tourist centers proper and when we did the vendors usually either knew that with five boys I’d be broke, or realized my vulnerability and didn’t pressure me or tempt the boys. Not so in Venice.

John ran out of film and the pigeons must have spread the word. Before I could say “Let’s find a chemist” a man with too much film and too few lire was at my elbow with a bargain. Hardly had he been dispensed with than a roving photographer took our picture. Since we had not succumbed to this yet and I thought I might teach the boys this one, we bit. It really turned out to be quite an experience. We called at the address right off St. Marks piazza at lunch time. To find the proprietor we climbed up beaucoup steps and traversed many narrow halls. We found half the family eating and the proprietor at his siesta. We got a glimpse into many aspects of Italian life we would never have experienced on the piazza. Some aspects were strange to youthful eyes and forbidden to men accompanied by said youthful eyes. In point of fact the pictures actually were mailed to us later and were really pretty good. A nice souvenir.

Pigeons at St. Marks

The final straw was getting back to ZW. Dan was getting sleepy, our time was up. We walked to the Grand Canal where it is crossed by the Rialto bridge. After window shopping a few minutes we decided Dan was too near asleep to wait for the water bus, we would take a water taxi. Many were docked in the vicinity and we tried signaling them. No response. Getting slightly irritated by the whole lack of capitalistic enterprise I gently awoke one of the hustlers and asked him the price from bridge to garage. One thousand lire. This seemed more or less in order so we climbed aboard. At the municipal garage landing our guide said his first word as I paid him his 1000 lire, namely 2000 lire. Since I couldn’t argue in Italian and was anxious to get Dan in his nest I silently cursed, paid the illegal tariff, and to this day have an abiding hate for Venice.

The following summer when we were in the vicinity with my mother I wouldn’t even consider revisiting Venice. My letter, written at the time, reflects my overall opinion of a potential holiday mecca.

Sept 28

Dear Code 2124, et al

Arrived back in England again after 5 weeks on the continent. We had beautiful weather; it rained but one night (and light at that) in 5 weeks travel. Proceeded Dover, Dunkirk, Brussels, Luxembourg, Moselle Valley (hic), Rhine Valley, Stuttgart (via Heidelberg), Salzburg, Vienna (via Danube), Venice, Verona, Italian and French riviera, Avignon, Paris, and Fulbourn. Thanks to beautiful weather and wonderful city (socialistic) camps at Stuttgart and Vienna, I revived from my full time camping (less 6 days) this summer and don’t feel as tired as when I left. All of above mentioned places are worth it, except Tijuana with the flooded streets (Venice). What a gyp joint. As I see it they live completely (110%) from tourists and must train all bunco artists, etc. for duty at fairs all over the world. Or maybe these places just send their post graduates to Venice. My advice:

1. AVOID

2. If forced to go (relatives and the like)

a. don’t buy anything from anybody

b. shop around for gondoliers and offer the cheapest 1/6 of what he requests,

c. pay in advance (one character quoted me one fare and asked double at the end),

d. learn Italian so you can tell authorities your story,

3. DON’T GO (just go to a beach at low tide, preferably near a fish market, same smell).

Other comments re driving habits in Europe:

1. Germany (worlds highest death/mi.): Everyone looks out for himself only, the identifying mark is blinking lights. When you are ready to overtake someone you will notice in your rear view mirror some blinking lights which means I’m more important than you and if you pass, I might possibly have to slow down one iota (he is at least 1/2 mile behind you) and I don’t intend to slow down so you stay behind him while I pass both of you.

2. AUSTRIA: No need of rear-view mirrors here. Everyone has 15° vision and if he sees no one directly in front of him, he will pull out from a curb, pull onto a major road or dart out of anywhere. When he passes he pulls in after his windshield passes the front of your car.

3. ITALY; As In Germany except they use horns not blinking lights. They even honk as they approach from the other direction. I’m sure the horn and brakes are reversed otherwise they would always be driving one-handed and in any case, they never use their brakes.

4. FRANCE (Except in PARIS): they are quite sane, no blinking lights, no horns, just (as in all Europe) thousands of lorries bumper to bumper. PARIS makes up for rest of France, completely insane, no lanes, no horns, just dart here and there, turn left or right from anywhere preferably from middle lane. All this frantic insanity moves traffic about 30 mph on streets that, if used with any sense whatsoever, would move traffic at 50 mph. Police don’t even bother when 2 cars collide (its a personal quarrel).

In general, Europeans haven’t had cars long and their roads are inadequate. They have absolutely no maturity. They kill each other in droves, way above our average. Morgenthau didn’t need to make Germany completely rural. He could have halved the population by supplying every German an American car.

The slides et al arrived in Stuttgart at the 2300 hour. I just had time to unpack them and show them. Am thinking of coming home via Panama Canal.

Glad Roy likes being Section Head and likes traveling by jet.

Must get down to tea.

JOHN

Viva la France

Our opinion of Italy began to mellow as soon as we started west. Our campsite at Vicenza was very pleasant. The sights, both Roman and Italian, at Vicenza and Verona were almost worth getting hopelessly lost in the narrow, crooked, and crowded streets. I was particularly pleased as an old music major to see on the road sign, “Adagio”, probably the only one in Italy I understood.

Around the Roman amphitheater in Verona are a series of sidewalk cafes and at one of these we tried that typical American gastronomical treat, Italian pizza. It wouldn’t hold a candle to Johnny Pernicano’s in La Jolla. On about the twentieth trial we found Juliet’s balcony and then left Verona for Como. We arrived after dark and found our camp (our sixth height) to be the Mount Olympus Camp and it was properly named. It was high and by making it our home we became gods for the night.

Our descent from Mt. Olympus was perhaps not as fast as was Mercury’s, but in the opinion of Juno it was too fast. The road was narrow and full of blind turns and Jupiter was reminded of this by not only Juno but also by Vulcan, Mars, Cupid, Bacchus, and Pan. At the bottom the chaos and commotion gave lie to the environs of Ancient Greece and we were soon hustling and bustling among the northern Italians (and their German visitors). We paid our respects to the statue of Volta and scurried through the pigeons to visit the Duomo (cathedral).

We then turned southward toward Milan. The Petrol Lorries and attached tank trailers use the road between Como and Milan to warm up for the big event, the daily race between Milan and Genoa. From Como to Milan with courage, a few tranquilizers, and the luck of the Irish you can just about keep from being pushed off the road by the lorries. This is where the bush league lorry drivers practice. We too by learning here survived the main event, Milan to Genoa.

Milan is a great energetic metropolis, and typical of most European cities. The closer you get to the center of the city the narrower become the streets. Add a detour to this and you have chaos. It may not have been quite so traumatic if they’d put up more than one detour sign. They put up the one sign that got you off the main drag but no others to tell you how to get back.

We ended up at the Duomo, took a quick look at La Scala, and Mary’s pleas to the contrary left for Genoa. Her plea was to find the original of the “last Supper”. This is where our mutual agreement, that allows me to drive full time, nearly falters on the rocks of divergent desires. My desire was to get out into the great open spaces again. Mary’s to do more sight-seeing. In this case she has belatedly proven her point. In any and all discussions of our trip Mary reminds anyone with open ears that yes, we visited Milan, “You know that’s where the original of the ‘Last Supper’ is located”. And then after just the correct pause for effect, “We didn’t see it”.

The trip from Milan to Genoa is like having a ringside seat at the Grand Prix road race. The only trouble is that your ringside seat is not stationary but moves along at about half the pace of the race. The racers are evenly divided between Fiats and smallers, and Petrol lorries and largers. Everyone assumes the road is a one way highway and when they get ready to pass, they pass. If anyone happens to be coming from the other direction then what used to be a two-lane road suddenly becomes a three-lane road. Or if it were a three-lane road it now accommodates four lanes. Occasionally, about once each day, we see where a two lane road was supposed to have expanded into four or a three into a five. In any case somewhere out in an adjacent field, often on both sides of the road are one or two cars that didn’t quite fit into the pattern.

After watching a petrol lorry start to overtake me when 1) there was no room between me and the next ten vehicles ahead, 2) the oncoming traffic was not clear, and 3) his speed was about one mile per hour greater than my speed, I decided I would oblige by putting on my brakes and making room. However he wasn’t even slightly inclined to pull in, he was headed for the front of the line. Since he contained enough explosive power to blow up all 10 vehicles I decided I’d back off about a quarter of a mile and watch for the fireworks. I never did see the mushroom cloud but I’ll never know how many less fortunate motorists were lying at the bottom of some ravine alongside the road.

By the time we crept into Genoa I wouldn’t have paused to meet Christopher Columbus in person. It was late afternoon anyway so we headed west along the riviera for the first campsite. We bypassed the first and decided to take the next one sight unseen. We purposely did not take the Genoa-Savona Autostrada so that we could stop in between. We finally spotted the highway sign that indicated a camp was inland off the coast road. The road almost immediately changed from hard top to dirt, passed up along an old factory, under the autostrada, and started up a hill; a second Mt. Olympus, not so named, but it could have been. The road weaved through a small village and continued upward, the road getting steeper and narrower.

We finally arrived at a beautiful camp atop a hill overlooking the Mediterranean. Ideally located, well kept, nice facilities, and an adequate store. We had almost despaired of even finding a camp at the end of this veritable cow path but the rose at the end of the thorny vine was worth all the doubts and agonies.

The rest of the trip along the riviera was indeed beautiful. The tourist season was past its peak and the scenery is really worthwhile. The road is not quite adequate but in September the scenery outweighs the traffic hazard. We camped near the beach between Nice and Cannes and next morning the boys swam in the shadow of the Film Festival Theater at Cannes. We soon cut inland heading for Aix-en-Provence and Avignon.

The campsite at Avignon is located just across the river from the town and within a quarter mile from the end of the famous Bridge of Avignon. The bridge now ends in mid-river. At one time it led from a fortified gate and wall across from Avignon into the wall and fortified gate of the Popes Palace in Avignon.

We finished supper and popped in bed early and everyone except Mary was asleep when the fireworks and noises began. She awoke me and I popped a sleepy head out of the tent and saw the bridge literally afire with fireworks. We woke the boys up, got some sort of garb on them walked over to the river’s edge and toward the bridge. Soon the fireworks gave way to music and children started dancing on the bridge.

The week prior to our departure from California the boys school had their dance festival and Tom’s class had sung and danced, The Bridge of Avignon. Tom was entranced as we all were. We had not been aware of any festivities and had not planned accordingly. It was Sunday, but I’m sure they don’t do this every Sunday.

Avignon is an interesting town. We left ZW in a garage just outside the walls for a periodic check up and walked down the narrow crooked streets into the center of the town. We were hot and tired and sat down at a sidewalk cafe. In my best French, which is mostly English and/or pointing to items on a menu that I can almost read I ordered a fairly typical morning pick up, five milks, one coffee, one tea. Much later, in the tempo of the southern climes, we got our 7 coffees. I pointed to the boys, to the menu, I exclaimed laite, late, milk, milch, …. to no avail. I guess we should consider ourselves lucky, under similar circumstances we had been known to get 7 glasses of wine. In any case the garcon was not about to be told what dad and the boys should be drinking and so mom had one or two cups of coffee and the birds had the rest.

Having, originally planned on returning via Switzerland and deviating only because we thought it might be somewhat cold camping out on the Alps, we had not done much homework studying about France. We did not know about the petrol coupons obtained at any Banque Francais that allowed tourists tax free gasoline. At our only gasoline stop in France before Avignon we had been told of this and so in our leisure walking morning I stopped in at the Banque Francais. I had my passport and green insurance card, the only things I had ever found to be of value, and beaucoup francs and some English sterling traveler cheques. To begin with they needed to see my carnet and car registration, which I didn’t have, but they did fill out some forms to be ready for me when I returned after the noon hour. Every establishment except cafes, in every European country closes down at noon. The bank was no exception.

We did finally pick up ZW and arrived back at the banque. I picked up the loose ends showed them every document I had on ZW and was passed on to the cashier’s window to pay for the coupons. As I might have guessed if I’d been thinking, they wanted dollars. I had neither seen nor used American dollars for four months now. I had ample French francs but these were the last thing in the world they wanted. After all I was traveling on a U.S. passport and they wanted dollars. We came to some sort of compromise. By scraping together all of the Swiss money we had intended to use, together with the pounds and shillings we had, no travelers cheques please, we just made it. They weren’t happy but they were content.

Before leaving, the boys and I hiked out on the bridge. There was ample evidence of recent fireworks, and lizards all over the place. We hadn’t seen lizards since leaving California, and the boys had themselves quite a chase. But time and the tides were beckoning, we must away to Paree.

We really didn’t advance very far this Monday, 21 September for we stopped to see an old Roman Theater in Orange. A stop well worthwhile. We camped at Valence.

Bill’s sixth birthday dawned bright and clear on the banks of the Rhone in Valence. He rode in the front seat (out of turn) and was generally king for the day. We had to get a cake and my French was so rusty I had to get my dictionary out to look up cake, birthday, and candles. We stopped in the village of Vienne, just south of Lyons, and started in on our purchases. It soon became apparent that 1) my French was worse than useless, 2) bakeries (boulangeries) didn’t all bake gateaux, 3) birthday candles (anniversaire candelle) were not common household articles purchased at boulangeries, and 4) this shopping trip was going to be a time-consuming ordeal. About an hour later after visiting about ten different shops we came away with a midget cake and some small candles and actually some candle holders.

The delay put us in Lyon just as the hordes were leaving for lunch. The only time in the day when French city streets become completely clogged with vehicles. In Paris this is true at all hours, except maybe Sunday mornings. In the ensuing melee we ran out of gas at the busiest intersection in town. This was a minor embarrassment since VWs have no gas gauge and when you run out of gas you merely pull a lever and go on reserve. However this procedure works best at high speed on an open country highway. In which case VW’s momentum carries it through until the reserve gas hits. In the middle of an intersection the starter does all the work, which be embarrassing when stalled in the middle of irate and hungry citizens.

We soon refilled our gas tank, left the Rhone and proceeded toward Paris on N6. Came camping time and the sun and map agreed that Bill’s birthday party was to be in the wee hamlet of Arnay-le-Duc. This campsite was utterly deserted. Not a soul was present. As best I could read the sign on the closed store it said make your self at home and notify the people in the house adjacent to this peaceful pasture. Living proof that language is no barrier to effective communication followed. The lady who stuck her head out the upstairs window knew no English, I talked less than no French. But it was soon agreed I was welcome to stay.

We made a quick trip into the village for last minute supplies and finally pitched our birthday tent. In the height of our party the neighbor’s little girl and cat came over and were soon part of the party. Whether her father feared for her safety or whether it was just time to exchange his farmer’s hat for his caretaker’s hat I’m not sure. In any case he was soon around to collect the very modest camp fee and share a piece of cake. We were really in rural friendly France. We paused in our party to watch a farmer returning home in his horse-drawn two-wheeled wagon, and then finished the ice cream and punch. It was hard to get the boys asleep after our gala party.

Bill (between Tom and Charlie) celebrates his sixth birthday at Arnay-le-Duc

Next morning was no better. The little girl, between 8 and 10, cleaned the toilets, then came back with her kittens. Boys, cats, and girl were all over the all but deserted campsite. We really had this campsite to ourselves.

But as the stooped stranger in the Black Forest told us. We had one more height to ascend (and a ferry to catch in four days). So we reluctantly left Arnay-le-Duc and proceeded on through Auxerre and its cathedral) to Fontainebleau (and its palace). For a lolly Tom and Bill watched Charlie and Dan while Mary, John, and I toured the palace and learned to appreciate Napoleon’s favorite haunt.

We pulled into Paris in late afternoon and were lucky to find a spot in the camp in the Bois de Bologne. We were next to another ZW from South Africa.

The high point of our stop in Paris was the high point of Paris itself, that brickless Empire State Building called the Eiffel Tower. John played it smart from the beginning, he didn’t even get out of the car. Mary right sudden-like volunteered to stay with Dan and Charlie. Lucky Pierre, dad that is, got to accompany mountain goats Tom and Bill aloft.

The ride to the first level is only mildly nerve shattering. The huge, old shaky iron cage is hauled jerkily up the steep angle in one of the spread eagle legs. The ride from the first to the second level is more traumatic. The cage is smaller, shakier, and the track steeper. The final run from second level to the swaying top is the angina run. Whether the cage was from an old nineteenth century abandoned coal mine or only modeled after one I don’t quite know. Like the others it is open so that you can get the benefit of noting that the Eiffel Tower looks as though it has never been painted. You wonder how long rusty rivets will hold together rusty beams, as you violently shake and jerk upward. As if this experience is not hair raising enough they have a little surprise for you halfway up. At this point the cage shudders to a stop just as another cage from the top bangs to a stop. At this point, the passengers from the two cages interchange. With indomitable dad leading Tom and Bill by the hand, they pulled me from one cage over the sheet steel bulkhead, that buckled with our weight, from one suicide box into the other. The rest of the nightmare continued until the top was reached. Here someone has built a primitive sort of tree house that sways and buckles in the wind.

Not wanting to miss a thing the boys tried the toilets, the souvenir shop, the upper outer level, and my nerves. I pulled myself together long enough to take a picture of my high living sons leaning against the outer guard railing. I was leaning back against the inner wall but not too hard for fear the whole thing would totter over.

It was questionable which was worse getting sea sick in the tossing tree house or making the initial step into those open air coffins. In any case I had first to bolster up my last remaining nerve reserve and chase down Tom and Bill. When captured we got aboard the ferry across the river Styx and started down. Their rosy faces smiling from ear to ear contrasted like a tropical sunset to a midsummer day at the north pole with my colorless expressionless countenance. Again they drug me across that mid air transfer stop. I felt like the ant that transfers from the refueling plane to the jets at 20,000 feet.

With the boys racing on ahead I almost felt as if I was awakening from this nightmare when we reached the second level restaurant. Everything seemed so stable, so permanent and enduring, so solid, and reassuring. The feeling of relative safety in the funicular railway ride down the slanted legs was like being back in ZW on a peaceful country road; bumpy, noisy, but somehow safe and serene.

The ground never looked or felt better, even at the Atomium. Our seventh and highest and most arduous height had been scaled and it was time to catch the ferry back to England.

We detoured via Versailles for a stroll and lunch and headed for Dunkirk and our retreat from France. Our camping holiday on the continent was all but over. School and work loomed ahead. But we knew now we were returning to a house, a large solid, house in a small, old village. We were ready to return but were mighty happy that we had persevered; had left our house after a six day occupancy; had battled the wasps and mosquitoes of the Mosel, Rhein, Neckar, Danube, Rhone, and Seine rivers; had scaled our seven heights; and fought our way clear of black dragons, Petrolorrys, and the persistent smaller type pests Fiati, Citroeni, and Volksis. Playtime was over and work was ahead. All of us were ready and some of us even anxious to get to work.

Bring me your tired . . .

Our third landfall upon the shores of Britain was more like the return of the native. Our last campsite in Dunkirk was of the English caliber. Gone were the excellent camps we had found at Habay-la-Neuve in the Luxembourg province of Belgium, in the city of Luxembourg, in Heidelberg, Stuttgart, Vienna, Vicenza, Como, Lerca di Cogoleto on the Italian Riviera, and in the Bois de Boulogne, Paris. Gone also were the not physically so excellent but well located ones such as Bernkastel-Kues on the Mosel, across the Rhein from Lorelei Rock, outside the walls of Dinkelsbuhl, and across from the Bridge of Avignon. Gone even was the sentimental campsite in the small French village of Arnay-le-Duc where we had celebrated Bill’s sixth birthday. The camp at Dunkirk like the ones we happened to hit on the French Riviera were very British, nothing to shout about.

Our third landfall was preceded by a day of English preview. Dunkirk itself is famous in English history as is Agincourt and Abbeville. Our most recent camping companions at Paris and Dunkirk were British. We had acquired some British accouterments ourselves; membership in, and an elaborate, bright yellow coloured, bumper emblem of, the AA (The Automobile Association, not the AA of England, nor the AA of Great Britain, but THE AA); a ninety-day visitors vehicle license posted on our windscreen; an O-SO-KOOL traveling cold box (a 5-sided, plus a door, cubicle box of two inch thick chalk which when soaked down each morning and left to evaporate during the day keeps the milk, butter, and bacon cool); the AA book of foreign travel and assorted AA itineraries complete with continental city maps; and the ability to almost understand the English version of English.

The queue of cars getting onto the ferry was most orderly (mostly British) with only a few impatient Frenchmen and all-important Americans trying to jump the queue. Whereas the dinner on the west-east channel crossing had been celebrated with French cuisine and French wine, the lunch on this east-west crossing was unceremoniously observed with pork pie (cold), bitters and for the children orange squash (British Railway style). Our west-east crossing was of a family anticipating a continental holiday. Our thoughts and conversations were of itineraries, camping sites, castles, rivers, and mountains. Our return was of a family returning for school and work. Our thoughts and conversations centered on needed school clothes, kitchen utensils, coal supplies, food stocks, and money. To say the least the boys of school age, John, Tom, and Bill were not happily considering the morrow. A new school with new teachers, new companions, new curricula, in a new village.

Unlike our serious and gloomy thoughts, the day was wonderful; warm and sunny. To put school aside from their thoughts the boys played sailor. They were top side most of the journey looking for the white cliffs and the castle of Dover.

The immigration officials this trip no longer stamped “Three month tourist” but instead “Student, report to police for alien registration within 10 days.” The AA men didn’t routinely post a visitors vehicle license on the windscreen. Instead they scrupulously calculated the remaining time on our original visitors license and gave us a new expiration date in October. As I say, we did not this time enter England as light-hearted carefree tourists. We were fast becoming semi-residents.

Our 112 mile trip from Dover to Cambridge started at 6 P.M. We estimated home by 10 by way of Tilbury ferry. We still had the return portion of the ticket. To maximize daylight driving we set off immediately on A2 toward London. In true British style our Saturday evening repast consisted of fish and chips, just as it got dark. Likewise in true British style we continued our trip on side (parking) lights since the “street lighting was good,” which means only that everyone else was driving with side lights, not that the “street lighting was (that) good.” In this semi-blind state we missed the sign and the turn off for Gravesend and the Tilbury Ferry. By the time we realized this, we were halfway to Woolwich Ferry (and as the petrol station man said, “It’s free, don’t turn back to Tilbury.”)

At the Woolich Ferry a very nice Bobby (most of them are) informed us, “Because of the long queue of cars, there will be a 2 hour wait.” He suggested Tower Bridge. I knew my London and knew that Blackwall Tunnel came before Tower Bridge, I’d take the tunnel. At Blackwall Tunnel the sign said, “Closed, use Tower Bridge.” And so at 10 P.M. when I expected to be driving into Fulbourn and The Manse, we were crossing Tower Bridge.

I guess all the delay was for a purpose. The delay allowed the welcoming committee time to prepare. As we left the roundabout of A11 with A604 within three miles of Fulbourn we sighted a huge conflagration. We even woke Tom up to see it. The closer we got to Fulbourn the closer we got to this burning pyre. When we made our final turnoff from A11 to get into Fulbourn there was the fire big as life and straight ahead. Just on the outskirts of the village we saw that this was not the townspeople celebrating our return with Pre-Guy Fawkes Day bonfire, nor was it our landlady in a final fit of anguish burning The Manse to rid the village of a potential pestilence. The huge fire could be thought of as the Star of Bethlehem beckoning the wisemen, or as the purposely relocated beacon light luring richly-laden ships onto the rocks of Cornwall for plunder. It could hardly be thought of as the light in the window welcoming home the prodigal son, since our total previous stay of six days had not yet made Fulbourn seem like home. We felt that the burning pyre was a friendly beacon welcoming neither the wise, the rich, nor the prodigal son, but welcoming instead the tired and heavy ladened. The Statue of Liberty which welcomed our ancestors to their new homeland could not have gladdened their hearts any more than this poor farmer’s haystack gladdened ours. Although I’m sure the farmer whose burning haystack was our guide and symbol was neither thinking of, nor would he have been impressed by our poetic, literary, and symbolic thoughts. His symbology was most certainly of the five pound note variety, a summer’s work up in flames. But if it be any consolation to this poor unknown (to us) man, we appreciated his symbolic welcome and we consider his homing beacon a harbinger of the really loving feeling we hold to this day for our adopted English village of Fulbourn, Cambridgeshire and its most friendly house, The Manse.

Our fairy tale adventure was now complete. Our ZW, or Vesta Pegasus, had made the trip possible. I salute our ZW, license number 114-Z-972:

114-Z-972

One One Four Zed Nine Seven Two

Had traveled far and wide

This was the license number of

Our car, our home, our pride.

Our car was fixed for sleeping all

And all was seven strong

Our Dan was one and Charlie three

They made Mom’s day quite long.

Bill was six and Tom was seven

And John was eleven (or two)

Cause he was born on leap year day

So birthdays, mighty few.

All seven slept inside the bus

Though tent attached outside

And Momma cooked on petrol stove

The food we ate inside.

Outside in tent we cooked and dressed

The boys got washed when caught

To keep clean clothes a problem was

Till Lederhose were bought

Dan’s nest in rear both day and nite

Both bed and playpen made

Dad’s bed at night was seats in day

In which the boys played.

In camping out On Continent

Big families we did see

On fellowships and school leaves

In other fourteen Z’s.

Our list of fourteen Z’s is long

Most all with kids galore

Professors, teachers, scientists most

And all with open door.

One One Four Zed nine nine four

Professor in the arts

On Fulbright to Finland was he

To save they shopped in marts.

One One Four Zed eight four eight

On leave from L.A. schools

On his return broad views could give

To students on their stools.

On NSF, on NIH

on Fulbright and on leaves

Did many fellow scholars sleep

Like us among the trees.

From Stanford, Penn State, Iowa

From California many

From classrooms and from research bench

Big families save the penny.

For men who work in scholarship

Who teach or research do

The money does not easy come

They camp and eat the stew.

To see the Continent this way

Is best by far say we

For campers are a friendly lot

And much we learn at tea.

Though few museums or concerts see

To many, people talk

And countryside we see full well

Through many castles walk.

To one and all who travel will

And children many have

To get the flavor of the land

Take tent or caravan.

J.C. Webster.

Fulbourn, Cambridge.

18.2.60

Michaelmas Term

The boys and I had been very considerate of momma in choosing our return channel crossing date. Although school had really been started for two weeks our boys would, by pre arrangement, enter on Monday, 28 September. We not only got home on Sunday, a day before the grand entrance but very early on Sunday, namely 1 a.m. So Mary had al1 of 30 hours, three quarters of a standard working week, to get the boys clothes washed, dried, and ironed, to get the boys themselves washed, dried, and steeled, and to get the house running. (She really didn’t know how lucky she was. On our return home to the USA we left the port, one hundred miles from home, at 7 p.m. before school started the next morning, (still a standard work day and a half .)

Needless to say we didn’t meander over to church this particular Sunday. Mary tackled the clothes, I the boys. As usual I could hardly wait to get a hot bath and soak off 5 weeks worth of steadily sponged in dirt. The boys, of course, never could quite understand this particular use of water. Water in bath tubs had only one purpose, namely to sail boats on. However, it sometimes worked out to be more convenient to sail them while sitting in the bath tub. But soap didn’t sail well, didn’t even float, muddied up the water, and got all gooey, even dissolved if left untouched in the water too long. And wash rags; when used as sails they sank the ships, they were too small to use to get dry when sailing time was over, just what were they good for anyway? And dirt, what is the harm of 5 weeks accumulation of more and better polished dirt? After all it’s evenly distributed, it looks like a good Mediterranean tan. Besides with neither a house nor a yard to play in (except for 6 days) for 5 months, the boys could think of many overdue things to do, like playing with trains.

Mary was learning the intricacies of our little automatic washing machine; automatic that is except for putting in the clothes, the hot water, the cold water, the soap, closing the lid, turning on the switch, noting the time on the clock, turning off the switch, draining out the dirty water, adding rinse water, etc., putting the clothes through the ringer, and repeating same with the next small batch of clothes.

I finally enticed agreeable Tom into the bathtub and watched the color of the water change from white to brown while Tom changed from brown to white. After a short pause while the newly installed coke stove (Aga cooker) and water heater kept apace of both the washing machine and the bathtub John transferred the majority of his tan to the bath water. I finally peeled Bill’s socks off and converted him from slave to master. Finally Charlie and Dan played boats for an hour, first in the Mediterranean Sea and then in the Missouri River.

This crewing effort of mine on the boys sailing boats left me exhausted and I stretched out for a nap but the chugging of Mary’s washing machine kept me awake. After eating the remainder of our camping rations (no stores open on Sunday) the relative quietness of the ironing allowed me to doze off. The boys, of course, played merrily on building complex track layouts for their Lone Star locos. By this time Dan had discovered the staircase and I was awakened to guard the pass. And so our first day of rest, the Sabbath, passed.

The difference between us and the pilgrims was that having no ready made schools, they rested on the Sabbath and washed on Monday, the day after their landfall. And so, as the story goes, Monday became the national wash day. On Tuesday they started building houses (and schools). They had no schedules to adapt their lives to. We had to get the boys off to school on Monday, therefore, we (Mary, that is) washed clothes on Sunday. Monday for us was start to school day, restock the larder day, and find the barber shop day. Tuesday was Dad’s day to report back to the Unit for fellowship work.

With a final flourish of shoe polish on shoes and wash rags on faces I set off early Monday morning with three boys toward the village school. We opened our wire fence gate, stepped down two steps and were immediately in the street, not on a sidewalk, not on a parking (verge), but in the street. If our gate had opened outward instead of inward it would have protruded out into the road. We looked carefully to the left for any approaching cars, which of course, is a big mistake, we should have looked to the right. On Pierce Lane, however, it didn’t really make any difference. Two cars could pass, even the double decker bus and the coalman’s lorry could pass each other although it would be such a tight squeeze they would have to do it in low gear. In any case, the manager of the carpenter shop just across the road always parked his car on the street and so only one useable lane was open to traffic. So the question as to whether a double-decker bus and a coal lorry could pass each other was of only academic interest. The point being Pierce Lane, like many English roads, is used mostly in the center, only when meeting or overtaking another vehicle does anyone think seriously of driving on the left side of the road. So looking first to the left was in most cases perfectly safe when looking for motor vehicles. However, motor vehicles account for only about half of the traffic. Bicycles are the real danger. Not that you are apt to get killed by one. But you are very apt to either get hit or cause the rider to fall into the street by trying to avoid you if you suddenly sally forth from a blind entrance as our gate was. And, of course, you don’t hear bicycles. We were used to listening for short range danger and looking for long range danger. In England you look for both short and long range danger.

But off to school. We crossed over to the sidewalk on the other side of Pierce Lane and followed it until it finally just sort of disappeared under a wall. Actually I’m sure the wall preceded the sidewalk. But just before coming to Tyrells Store the sidewalk angles into the wall becoming narrower and narrower until it just doesn’t exist anymore. At this point, about 100 feet up the lane from the Manse, we crossed back over Pierce Lane where the sidewalk suddenly reappears in front of the “The Gables” the thatched roof house of our next door neighbor. The walk is about 3 feet wide except at the entrance to the thatched cottage at which point steps take up half of the sidewalk. Morale; walk single file here.

At the top of Pierce Lane, just beyond “The Gables” Pierce Lane merges in a nice easy arc into High Street (if going right) and Apthorpe Street (if going left). High Street is the major street in this and all other villages. In America we call similar streets, Main Street. Along the block of its existence, High Street boasts Webbs General Store (and domicile of the Beaumonts); the house and shop of R.A. Whitmore, Family Butcher; the Six Bells, pub and bus stop; the Legion Hall; and finally Her Majesties Post Office, home of Miss Ball. Perhaps Peeks store (and home of Mr. and Mrs. German) is also on High Street but at this point High Street merges into School Lane (to the right) or Station Road (to the left) and Peeks maybe on School Lane. Following School Lane we soon passed the library and as the name implies came to the school.

Fulbourn County School consisted of four buildings on a long narrow lot. The foremost building in size, age, and position fronted on School Lane just across from the huge thatched roof barn of Halls Farm. This ancient building was called the Church Room and was indeed used jointly by the school and by St. Vigors and All Saints, the local Church of England. The Church Room was not really as old as the 14th century St. Vigors church, it only looked that way. It was really just one large room about 50’ by 100’ with a high gabled roof. From the outside the roof had the appearance of being too heavy for the timbers that supported it. This is not an uncommon malady for tile roofs in England. If of any age at all they are usually far from horizontal throughout their length. They look as if at one-time or another they had been ridden by a herd of elephants, the impressions of which remain permanently affixed in the roof line. This sagging roof line gives the appearance of ponderousness, of massiveness. On the inside looking out quite the other effect is noted. You have the feeling of being inside an egg shell with hardly any walls, floors, or roof at all. How could it be so cold inside such a room if it really had walls and a roof. Anyway daylight can be seen through at least some upper broken window panes, if not the roof (there is no false ceiling). And the general inside appearance of mended or as yet unmended plaster gives the whole structure the aura of a bombed building that has not as yet fallen down; tattered and torn but not out.

The Church Room is certainly of the 19th century, judging by its state of disrepair, its attempt (on a limited budget) toward Victorian frills, and its sagging roof. As we soon learned to expect, this huge room was heated with one fireplace. It was of the generation and had the appearance one would expect of Tom Brown’s School and since age begets venerableness I was quite impressed with this fine old school. It must be steeped in tradition.

Immediately behind this Church Room, which was indeed used for morning chapel, was the Primary School. The Primary School was for children aged 8, 9, and l0, and so had three classrooms and an office for the Headmistress, Miss Smith, and a lounge for the other teachers. The two major rooms were covered by a high gabled roof (and no false ceiling). The third room which formed a rather stubby base for the general T shaped building may have been an after thought appended in the 1920’s to the pre WWI building. Heating was again by fireplace and I’m sure that whatever heat didn’t go up the chimney heated the angle of the high gabled roofs just fine. Were the children all giraffes their heads at least would have been warm. I noted electric fires (heaters) displayed prominently on many walls of the Primary School rooms. This building was far from venerable, just mellow. It was well lighted from copious windows, and I’m sure it was well aired on windy days.

Offset slightly but generally behind the Primary School was the Infants School for ages 5, 6, and 7. This was a modern, post WWII building; squat, square, stuccoed, and painted a yellowish tan. Although it had the usual average number of windows, the north walls had none, the south walls many. It was light, airy, pleasant, and heated by fireplace.

The remaining building, offset and more or less between the Primary and Infants Schools was the cafeteria. The same vintage as the Infants School building, it was pleasant, modern, plain, squat, square, light, and airy.

I took the boys in to see Headmistress Smith, whom I had talked to before, preparatory to leaving for the continent on my business - holiday trip. I was quite favorably impressed by Headmistress Smith. She was youngish, with a short mannish style hair do, and quite attractive. She seemed to have the situation under control and spoke with authority. After reconfirming John’s age as eleven she turned him, over to Miss Golding. Both John and I liked Miss Golding on sight. She was neither young nor old. Her smile, her sprightly gait, and her general mood made her appear to be much younger than her graying hair would indicate. She was small in stature and well filled out but certainly not overly plump. I left John in capable hands and concentrated on Tom and. Bill.

Headmistress Smith took us from the Primary School over to the Infants School and introduced me to Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. Kemp. Tom’s teacher, Mrs. Harrison, was young and attractive. She was not petite, but rather tall and well built, muscular not plump. She was very friendly and Tom was quite happy to go off with her. Just as Mrs. Harrison was of Headmistress Smith’s generation, Mrs. Kemp, Bill’s teacher was of Miss Golding’s generation. She was about the same size and build as Miss Golding, but not quite as outgoing. She was somewhat more motherly than John’s teacher if not quite as gay; more introverted. She seemed quite equal to the situation and Bill reluctantly but not unhappily went off to his new class. All was well. I was pleased with what I saw of the school and its staff and the boys seemed to be as happy as could be expected. For them Michaelmas term had started.

I left the boys in school and retraced my steps home. Leaving the school and walking toward High Street the bell tower of St. Vigors and All Saints commanded my view. This typical village church was enclosed in a large churchyard behind a six foot old stone wall. The church was among old beautiful trees and ancient gravestones. Opening onto Church Lane at the top of School Lane was an old ornate wooden Lychgate. Through this roofed gate the clock on the bell tower was the highest structure in Fulbourn (with the possible exception of a new mill a mile away by the railroad station) and was situated at the top of High Street and likewise at the top of School Lane. The squarish, unsteepled stone tower of St. Vigors anchored down very beautifully the center of Fulbourn and separated the shops from the Manor House which was immediately behind St. Vigors on Church Lane.

I took a slight detour up Station Road (which quite naturally led to the Railway Station) which was what School Lane became after it serpentined across High Street. I was investigating the remaining shops in the village and refound the barber shop. In a very small one story building with a tile gabled roof running parallel to the street and in fact separated by only a four foot sidewalk from the street was the sign “Gents Hairdressing”. On crossing the street and looking through the large 4’ x 4’ window cut into about 16 foot square sections, I could see that no barber was in. A little sign on the door said, “Open from 4 to 7 P.M.”. I left this elfin sized green building, knowing I would soon return.

High Street, Fulbourn

Around the corner on High Street again and across from the post office and the Six Bells was the Fulbourn Garage. Here, as befits the moderness of the profession, was the most modern business (and associated residence) building on High Street. The roof line did not sag, it was neither thatched nor tiled but rather shingled in multi-coloured squares. In addition to the gabled roof across the show room which as usual slanted toward the street, the roof over the attached living quarters crossed the T and ran at right angles to the street. The exterior was stucco and the upper floor of the living quarters was offset to protrude over the sidewalk. Except for uneven coal smoke discolouring, the exterior was all uniformly a yellowish tan colour. The chimney and chimney pots were trim and unbroken and set at a 45 degree angle to both the roof line and the street. The front of the show room was entirely of glass so that the ware; sports cars, motor scooters, bicycles, and tricycles were displayed to all passers by. This building was obviously post WWI. The sign, “Taxi for Hire” in one corner of the window gave evidence that all things automotive; or even on wheels, were sold, repaired, hired out, and discussed inside. Beyond the show room window, and the front door step (with two milk bottles) which protruded onto the very ample sidewalk, were the petrol pumps. Whereas the post WWI building stood out as a showpiece, if newness is elegance, the Post WWI petrol pumps looked antediluvian. Not immemorial like the two-story thatched roof pub across the street but primordial. The Six Bells, the High Street pub, although ancient in chronological age to the petrol pumps looked mature, the petrol Pumps antique. One doesn’t expect thatched roofed pubs to change, but somehow petrol pumps being in the motor age should not look as if they had been built by the blacksmith as his last act before relinquishing his premises to the horseless carriage garage. I’ll admit that these pumps with clock counter hands and faces were not as primeval as the one I saw later in Spain where 5 liters, and 5 liters only, were first pumped up into a fish bowl and then allowed to drain into the car tank, followed by another 5 liters etc. These were not hand-pumped, they were automatic, except for calculating the price. I later found it mandatory to buy petrol in integer gallons, since at the conclusion of the tank filling the mechanic-taxi driver-owner-salesman’s pretty daughter and I always retreated back into the office to look up the price on a table that listed gallons vs. shillings and pence. If you’ve ever tried finding say 7 or 9 tenths of 4 shillings threepence haypenny, you would soon decide to by petrol by the gallon, no fractions.

The hoses were mounted on hinged cranes since the pumps were on one side of the sidewalk and the cars pulled up to the kerb. People in England still use sidewalks to walk on, and the cranes are necessary to elevate the hoses over the sidewalk from the pumps to the car and yet allow passersby to use the public sidewalk. When no cars are being serviced the cranes and hoses are rotated through ninety degrees and the hoses stand hanging down by the pumps on the inner edge of the sidewalk. This arrangement piqued my curiosity. Beyond the pumps was the garage proper where the mechanical work was done. This structure was not modern (post WWI), nor trim, nor clean, nor really even a building. The garage was a sort of lean-to made primarily of wood held together with barrel stave cast off corrugated iron, and I imagine hair pins and chewing gum. It in fact burned down before the winter was out and light again entered the area.

Beyond this montage of the ridiculous with the sublime came the cobbler’s shop. Another thatched roof shop, this one bearing the sign, “C. T. Beecroft”. The front of the shop consisted of two large picture windows with a beat up old wooden door with two long, narrow vertical windows in its upper half. One picture window displayed boots, shoes, slippers, and Wellingtons (rubber boots). The other which, like the barber’s was really a honeycomb of 12 smaller windows, displayed Mr. Beecroft at his bench working. Above the door, but not centered over it, was a dormer window consisting of 12 small patchwork panes, that let light and air into an upstairs bedroom. Attached onto the thatched roof shop to complete the living quarters was a two story brick structure with a slightly angled gabled roof. The sharp angle of the thatched roof on the shop contrasted drastically with the slight angle on the shingle roof of the house. Although the ridge line of the two adjacent roofs was roughly the same, the eave lines were eight ten feet apart. The thatch eave line looked like eyebrows above the picture windows. The shingle eave line stood high above, haughty and still in horizontal plumb (obviously a rather new addition). Another clue to the relative newness of the aesthetically hideous appendage to the old thatched roof shop was that the bricks were all uniformly rectangular and of the same colour.

The last building on High Street was ostensibly just a residence and the sign on the gate said it was “The Nook”. Set back from the street it lent dignity and charm to the row of shops. Actually I found out later this residence belonged to the woman who notarized many of my official papers. Attached to her house was a rather large “meeting place” type of room. The story I heard was that a generation or so earlier the director of he Fulbourn Mental Hospital lived here. In his professional work he had accumulated a substantial fortune which he willed to his widow. When the squire built “Townley Hall” as a meeting and recreation hall, the widow not to be outdone built this meeting room. It was smaller but more centrally located, and as I understand, it was cheaper to hire. This move probably heralded the breakdown of the Manor House aristocracy in the village. I add again, “I didn’t see this terrible spat, I only repeat what was told to me by the Chinese plate.”

The first house on Apthorpe Street and immediately adjacent to “The Nook” was The Rectory, a new and modern-looking two-story stucco (or yellow brick) house. This post WWII house needs no description because it almost seemed out of place among the thatched and tiled roofs of its neighbors. I had seen thousands of new houses California is full of them. My seventeenth to nineteenth century trance was broken by this rectory that contrasted so gaudily from St. Vigors and All Saints Church whose rector it housed.

Back in the twentieth century I gingerly crossed Apthorpe Street looking first right then left for bicycles, motor bikes, and cars. Directly in front of me was reaffirmation of the twentieth century, the Co-op Grocery. A one story post WWII cube of stucco with no style, no history, and to me no interest. Around the curve of Apthorpe Street on Pierce Lane, and directly across from “The Gables”, was Tyrells Store. Here there was no sidewalk, Tyrells just opened onto the street. However on the other edge of Tyrells a wall jutted about 4 feet out into the street making it unlikely any large or fast moving vehicle would run you down directly in front of Tyrells. The exterior of Tyrells was bright. What wasn’t window was basically off white and the trim and the signs were bright red. A jolly shop.

On rounding the wall I saw the aforementioned, sidewalk oozing out from under the wall. I followed this by the carpenter shop and with a sharp look and listen I darted across Pierce Lane into The Manse.

There I really awakened to the twentieth century, “What took you so long?” “It’s time to restock the larder” “How did the boys like school?” “Dad, where did John leave his Lone Star loco?” “Let’s take the trains with us today so we can play with them in camp tonight.” Aren’t John, Tom, and Bill coming with us today?” “Where will we camp tonight?” “I’m thirsty, Dad, where is the milk?” “Let’s camp by the water tonight.” “I don’t want cheese on my sandwich in the car today...” Yak, yak, yak………

David and Goliath

Within the week I visited Fred, the Gents Hairdresser. And as is typical of the time and place we started off on the weather. This discussion was not just routine, however, because the summer of ‘59 was not by any stretch of the imagination routine, for the sunny days exceeded the rainy days by a ratio unmatched in 200 years. In May I was spotted as non-British because of my California complexion. Now in October I sometimes had to open my mouth before I could be distinguished from a native, since in the fall of ‘59 all Britishers had an unbelievable atypical ruddy appearance, not their more usual poolroom tan.

If Fred had any lingering doubts about my origin, they soon disappeared when the conversation changed from the weather and he asked me pointblank, “Are you church or chapel?”

And my answer was equally blank, namely, dead silence. I was thinking, not talking, “Did he say ‘church or chapel’? How can I be either? And in any case, aren’t church and chapel synonymous?” Fred felt the conversation lagging as he snipped the hair out of one nostril and looking up into my face before switching to the other nostril, he repeated, “Are you Church of England or Nonconformist?”

I could see he was expecting an answer and was glad he hadn’t yet lathered me up and chosen the straight edge as his conversation persuader. It began to dawn on me that he was probably talking about my church affiliation, so I replied, “I’m a Methodist.”

“Oh, a Nonconformist,” he replied, and trimmed up my other nostril.

“Are Methodists Nonconformists?” I hesitatingly inquired.

“Certainly. You’re either church or chapel, and you’re chapel, a Nonconformist.”

Now that he had me to his way of thinking, properly classified, he told me the chapel was down by the lolly shop, and that the village chapel in Fulbourn was Congregational.

I thanked Fred for his information, paid him his two shillings (28 cents) and departed for the Manse.

Mary was intrigued with the gospel, as told by the disciple Fred, concerning the distinction between church and chapel. Mary and I agreed with our newly found religious authority, Fred, that what John Wesley had put asunder, we had better not join together. We decided to ally ourselves with the Congregational “chapel” and not THE “church.” We preferred being Congregationalists in Fulbourn to driving four miles into Cambridge or 10 miles to West Wickham to be Methodists.

As neophyte Congregationalists we decided we should find out what time our Sunday School and our Divine Services were held. So the family walked over to the chapel one evening to see “the word” as contained on the chapel sign board. On the way we passed the village church, St. Vigors and All Saints. It was a venerable, fourteenth century stone structure, enclosed in a ramshackle graveyard. Surrounding St. Vigors was a decaying rock wall, breached by a peaked-roofed Lychgate, which was stately and beautiful in spite of its age and unpainted appearance, or, more aptly, because of its unpainted agelessness. St. Vigors’ bell tower was not capped by a steeple but was singularly imposing in its stark, strengthful, perpendicular squareness. Small stained windows stood out like jaded jewels in this ancient edifice of stone. Had aesthetics, not ritual, ruled the day, we would have gone no farther; St. Vigors and All Saints was our dream of what a church should be.

By contrast, the village chapel, the Fulbourn Congregational Church, was no dream; it was neither ageless nor stately. Featureless, yes; austere, yes; imposing, no. It was built in 1810 and looked like a Quaker meeting hall. It did not look like a church, nor for that matter a chapel. I guess this was to be expected. When Henry VIII started the breakaway from the Roman Catholic Church, and when Wesley, Knox, and others in turn broke away from the Church of England, simplicity was stressed. Religion was to be freed from ritual, idols, symbology. The meeting halls, altars, and decorations were to be simple. The people were not to be mystified and overwhelmed with pompous ritual and Latin phrases; the services and rituals were to be kept simple. These were the ideas at the time. The proof of their success was the Fulbourn Congregational Church.

The village chapel was indeed stark, austere, plain, and simple. Not that there weren’t a few well-kept gravestones around the chronologically youthful meeting hall. And not that there wasn’t a large stained glass window over the plain raised altar. But the building was completely rectangular, with a simple gable for a roof. The chapel was not built in the shape of a cross, nor was it marred by a bell tower or steeple. There was neither a porch, a narthex, nor a vestibule. Obviously, the chapel was built with no frills. Chapel people came for religious conviction, more probably the religious convictions of their forefathers, and not, certainly not, for outward displays and hallowed antiquity.

Attached to this stark meeting hall on the off-street side was another equally box-like appendage. This we surmised was the social hall and Sunday School rooms. This offshoot was not built in 1810 nor would it be apt to outlast its more sturdy parent upon whom it leaned for support.

Our curiosity was satisfied, we had seen the venerable church and the functional chapel. And the word, according to Reverend Taylor’s chapel sign board, was, “Sunday School, 3 PM; and Divine Services, 3:30.”

On Sunday, after the usual round of scrubbings, the older boys put on their brand new school uniforms: freshly polished black oxfords, grey knee socks ringed with green at the top, short grey trousers, white shirt with green tie and yellow diagonal stripes, green blazer and cap, with school badge (a head of wheat and some straw). Charlie and Dan wore their usual American costumes of short pants and knit tee shirts.

Even though Sunday School was at 3 PM we were not ready in time to walk. This happened all the time in America at 9:30 AM but we of course assumed it was the early hour, not the crush of boys that caused the tardiness. Now we knew. So instead of walking the quarter mile to the village chapel, we belatedly hopped into ZW and drove over.

Our hearts were saddened a little as we drove past the lychgate of St. Vigors and All Saints, our calendar picture English church. And as we approached the Fulbourn Congregational Church (chapel) we noted that neither the Sabbath Day nor the presence of innumerable bicycles had beautified our chosen holy ground. We edged ZW, whose presence could hardly go unnoticed, in among the few undersized British cars, and more numerous two-wheeled vehicles, and unloaded our three English (costumed) boys and two American (costumed) boys. We then alternately led, pushed or otherwise coerced the none-too-cooperative sheep toward the fold. We suffered them to enter the austere Model 1 Sunday School appendage we had noted on our earlier pilgrimage.

We were met by Mrs. Woods, a red-haired, amply proportioned woman of Welsh descent (and accent). Her kindly but quizzical look seemed to imply, “Has a new orphanage opened out in the vicinity?”, although her query was, “Have you come for Sunday School?” She was quite astonished to hear our American accents and even more astonished at our claim to being the real parents, not the house parents, of this quite formidable flock. Mrs. Woods assigned John, age 11, to the oldest group with Mr. Hardwick, up in the church balcony. She took Tom, 7, and Bill, 6; and led Dan, 3, over to Miss Ward. Mary and I mercifully retained possession of Charlie. [5]

There were no particularly outstanding events during this phase of the Sunday School except the look of disbelief when the boys each put a two-shilling piece in the collection. We later found this to be quite ostentatious. Whereas we had the boys all coached to gladly give their quarter in America we switched to sixpence in Fulbourn. This created a slight amount of confusion: “If there is only one God, why give him a quarter in America and-only sixpence here?” The answer was really simple, though perhaps not to Dan, namely, his church in Fulbourn was already paid for.

From force of habit and with no fanfare, the teachers lined all the children up at 3:25 and marched them out of the room. Mary and I fell-in behind to lead Dan and to carry Charlie. We did not quite realize where we were going until we found ourselves in the chapel. There remained nothing to do but to sit down, which we did. We found ourselves directly behind the Sunday School group who sat in the front pews. I must admit this was more than I had bargained for but, “Well, there it is.”

Reverend Taylor promptly entered and everyone, except us, stood up in unison. We were still stunned by our sudden entrance into the chapel and were slightly behind in our reactions but were on our feet in near record time. We found ourselves in front of the whole congregation and the only examples we had to follow were the children and, luckily, their teachers. And yet everyone could see our mistakes, the major ones being Charlie and Dan. We hadn’t expected to end up in divine services in quite this manner, but here we were.

Rev. Taylor inside the Fulbourn Congregational Chapel

Our presence did not go unnoticed. We represented about a 15% increase in the Sunday School and Church attendance, or more specifically, it took one more row of pews to hold the newly expanded Sunday School. I noted John and his class were across to my right and slightly ahead of me, and Tom and Bill were within slap-on-the-hand range. Things could have been worse.

As soon as the Rev. Taylor gave the word we all sat down again and at his command everyone opened his hymnal. Now, thought I, I would be in my element. I sang in our church choir and although my voice left much to be desired, I could read music and sing bass parts down to E flat. Someone from across the aisle handed us an open hymnal and I was anticipating showing the natives that at least I knew about hymns and singing. I soon discovered, however, that the hymnals contained no music, only words, and that the reed organ was missing a few reeds and the others had probably not been tuned since Handel. So to a tune I’d never heard before, with words I’d never seen before, and holding Charlie in one arm, I vainly tried to sing my first hymn. The results were far from spectacular. I was slowly gaining confidence, however, and was ready to start out strong on the second verse. However, I found myself singing a solo on the first word. Instead of maintaining the rhythm and meter from one verse to the next, they sounded the chord all over again so everyone could refresh his memory as to the correct pitch, or to check that the organ was still operating. This just about finished my hymn singing for the day, but I did save face by harmonizing the bass part on the A-MEN.

Soon came the high point in the worship serve for children--the children’s sermon. Reverend Taylor came down out of his pulpit and standing directly in front of the children, explained, probably for the benefit of his greatly increased congregation, the form of his sermon. The idea was this: He would tell a bible story purposely omitting names of people and places and at the conclusion of his story, he would ask the children a series of questions on the who’s and where’s in his story.

This was his story (in my simplified and shortened version). Once upon a time there was a battle. In this battle the old King and his son and heir were killed. A new King was chosen to rule who was just and kind. The new King let it be known that if any relative of the old King could be found, he should be brought forward to dine and live with him, the new King. A few suspicions were aroused; for instance, maybe if a relative were found he would be done away with to make the new King’s position unchallengeable. Nevertheless, the King was taken at his word, a lame grandson was found, brought forward, and did indeed enjoy all the benefits of the new King’s court. The new King was truly just, kind, and benevolent. “Now,” said Rev. Taylor, “who was the old King?”

I slumped lower in my pew; I didn’t recognize a thing. The English boys and girls likewise slumped low and looked as blank as Tom and Bill. After a few moments of awkward silence a green-jacketed arm shot up. I thought finally some old veteran had caught the theme, but his answer of “Jesus” was not, under this particular set of circumstances, correct.

Rev. Taylor was about to give up on his dull charges when to my utter amazement my John’s hand went timidly up.

Rev. Taylor didn’t quite know whether to call on John or not, never having seen him before, but since there seemed to be no alternative, he said, “I see a new boy who knows the old King’s name. Will you tell us his name?”

John said in a crisp American accent, “Was the old King’s name Saul?” “It was indeed,” said the astonished pastor. “And now does anyone know who the King’s son was?”

Again the awkward silence, but now the whole congregation was watching John, who finally put up his hand and said, “I believe he was called Jonathan.”

I straightened up somewhat in my pew and tried to look unconcerned as if, “Obviously anyone should know this story, why in America ....”

Now the obviously happy pastor asked John directly, “And who was the new King?”

The children looked on in a manner between envy, disbelief, and awe while John answered, “David.”

At this point, the rest of the congregation and I sat up and smiled, for now we had all heard a familiar name and knew that the pastor and John were not making up this whole episode.

After John had identified the lame grandson, Mephisbosheth and the nations in battle, the Philistines and Israelites, the top button on my shirt nearly popped. Needless to say, our reputation in the chapel and in a great part of the village was made. At the conclusion of services we were greeted like old-timers by the pastor and the congregation. We were no longer strangers, we were not disbelievers. And, in fact, within a fortnight I was invited to be on the local PTA board and asked into the inner sanctum of the village Conservative Party headquarters to observe the parliamentary election.

However, I still didn’t know where John had learned that story. When we got home I asked him where he had learned that bible story.

He said, “From the Sunday Pix” (a Sunday School-oriented comic book).

I repeated, “Where?”

The answer, “The Sunday Pix.”

Then I remembered. Our church in California had a running battle about the issuance of comic books (containing, among other things, bible stories) to the fifth and sixth graders (age 11 and 12). From age 7 on, John had come to the Church School Office and begged a comic book. He would read the bible comic and if he became interested, he would go home, get out his bible and read the rest of the story weeks before the serialized comic strip had finished the story. The story told by the British minister had appeared in his comic book. He had gone home and looked in the book of Samuel for the end of the story.

Fred had heard all about John’s adventures by my next visit and concluded I must be correct that church attendance was greater in America than in England.

It’s Not Cricket

Let’s backtrack for a minute from the Sunday School Debut and pick up the boys schooling again. As you will recall we returned from the continent on Saturday, missed the turn-off to the ferry at Tilbury, crossed Tower Bridge instead and arrived home at 1 a.m. Sunday everyone, except Mary, rested and Monday we carted the boys off to school. Monday evening we were informed by Tom that; children at school wear short grey trousers, green blazers and caps with school badges and grey knee socks; that they sell them at Jacobs in Cambridge; and that he was ready to go in right now. Jacobs didn’t have everything in stock and Tom reluctantly agreed to go back to school Tuesday providing his uniform was ready by Wednesday. Bill couldn’t have cared less and John was willing to conform, but didn’t really care much one way or the other.

But by Friday things had happened to Johnny. He was eleven going on twelve and at this point, in England an exam called the “Eleven Plus” separates Primary School pupils into Grammar School scholars or Secondary Modern School scholars. The village headmistress, judging from past American students, and from the general English system of starting first grade at 5 years, suggested John just stay in the village school, i.e. essentially stay a year behind his English contemporaries. However, the Cambridgeshire Educational Officer wasn’t convinced of this and suggested John come take an exam. By Friday, just as the last piece of his village school uniform arrived, John was reassigned to a Grammar School, the Cambridgeshire High School for Boys.

Monday just after his Sunday School debut, John and I went off to see the Headmaster in Cambridge and I felt like leading a lamb to slaughter. I explained to John that his carefree days were over. He was now a man. Secretly I somehow hated to see his disgustingly lazy boyhood come to such a screeching halt, but maybe he would survive.

I wasn’t much reassured when told by Headmaster Eagling that: (1) John would be taking Latin, French, Maths (arithmetic, algebra, and geometry), English, Science, History, Geography, Religious Education and Rugby, plus woodworking and music; (2) He was now 4 weeks late, and (3) This was a first rate school with an envious past scholastic record. It was quite apparent that Headmaster Eagling; (1) wasn’t very happy about having another boy of any sort (his school like all others the world over was already packed), (2) was equally unhappy about the late start, (3) wasn’t completely overjoyed at having an American boy (in the past, some had been OK, others just so, so, and in any case, an American is out of the ordinary and British like things the same, just as they were in Victoria’s reign).

John and I were also instructed to purchase a school uniform, a Rugby outfit, a Bible, and a pen (fountain, NOT ballpoint). Everything else was furnished.

So John and I made another trip downtown (and to Lloyds of Cambridge) to get a different school blazer, cap, tie, belt, socks and badge and the aforementioned Bible, pen (fountain), and Rugby outfit. It occurred to me that the Rugby uniform was somewhat scanty, namely shorts, short sleeved shirt, with collar, and cleated shoes. It also occurred to me that Rugby was the great grandfather of American football where helmets, nose guards) shoulder pads, hip pads, knee guards, and much tape were standard equipment. Likewise, it occurred to me that this was October and this game was played through January or February and that conceivably shorts and short sleeved shirt, with no sweater nor long training pants, might be on the chilly side. I had much to learn about Rugby, called rugger, and for that matter I had much to learn about Cricket. For it turns out that when comes the spring and summer, when one might expect warm weather, also comes Cricket. The uniform for Cricket is long flannel trousers, long sleeved shirt, AND sweater, heavy. This reversal of seasons and/or costumes had me a little baffled until I decided that Rugby was probably invented in that part of the British Empire that was perpetually warm, say India, hence shorts. Whereas Cricket must have been developed in the Shetland Islands. When Englishmen do adopt anything new, as when they took up Rugby and Cricket, they aren’t apt to do it differently so if the original game of Rugby was played in shorts, then the final game, just before the big bomb, will also be played in shorts.

Actually, except for the fact that Rugger is a rough, rugged game with hard running and tackling and many separated collar bones and fractured legs and arms, the light weight outfit is fairly appropriate. Personally, I think some padding of some sort would save a few fractures, but be that as it may, the light weight uniform has many advantages. In the first place, unlike American football (or basketball and baseball), Rugger allows no substitutions. I mean NO substitutions, if a man is injured, the side plays with ten men, not eleven. So you have no substitutes sitting on a bench freezing. All players are running and running hard, there are no set plays from scrimmage, with long gaps between successive plays. The general idea is one side kicks off to another side who tries to run and/or lateral pass and/or kick the ball toward the defending teams goal. The ball is not dead when a man is tackled. Instead, a free for all develops until someone squirts out with the ball or until a referee finally decides it is hopeless and calls a scrum. Even a scrum hardly delays the game, the opposing linemen lock shoulders and push and shove each other in mass toward the goal line. This leaves a hole in the middle of this mass of humanity. From one side the “scrum half” rolls the ball into this muddle in the hopes that his “hooker” will kick the ball out backwards from the scrum, where the scrum half will recover it, lateral it to a wing half and the whole play opens up again. Of course, about a third of the time the opposing hooker gets it and the ball starts moving the opposite direction.

Other short delays occur when the ball is run or kicked, usually purposely, out-of-bounds. In this case, a line out is called where each team lines up facing the sidelines standing shoulder to shoulder. One man from the team who kicked or ran the ball out-of-bounds will now stand on the sidelines and throw the ball straight (in the referee’s judgment) back between these two single file lines facing him. The idea is to throw it so that your tallest man can jump up and knock or throw the ball back toward your backs who immediately run it forward again. Except for these two types of stoppages, the only other time outs are called by officials when someone is really hurt. So, in general, Rugger players are running flat out nearly all the time the game is going on, like hockey, soccer, or basketball and NOT like American football. So you see, they ordinarily will not have time to get cold, except maybe their fingers. Now Cricket, on the other hand, is the closest thing to no movement at all that has yet been invented. It is possible for, say, the tenth or eleventh batter to sit an entire day and never even get onto the field. When he does, he swings and swings, but actually need never run. They usually do run, but it is not necessary. More on Cricket later, but for now, yes warm outfits are needed because (1) many players sit many hours and (2) spring and summer days in Britain aren’t that warm.

But back to school. Luckily John got on immediately with at least two of his masters; the Latin master, Mr. Layng a venerable, silver-maned, distinguished looking and acting scholar from the old school who was born to wear his master’s gown with dignity, and the Formmaster, Mr. Thomas, a young, athletic fair minded, good humored, science teacher and Rugby enthusiast, who would like to work an exchange for a year with an American teacher. These two encouraged John through his first fateful week and instilled in him a love for Latin, Rugby, Science and the English system of grammar schools that will last forever.

In Latin, French, and Science John was not too badly off, all other boys were new in this also. In English, history, geography, and music he was fair to middling. In Religious instruction he was well prepared but in Maths he was horrible.

California schools teach children to be good citizens, to be conformists, and to be well liked. A perfect graduate of the California school system would likely become a salesman of some sort, belong to at least one service club, be active in civic affairs, purchase the latest model car each year, and live in the latest housing sub division. These accomplishments make one a good substantial citizen, maintains our American economy, and keeps our advertising boys in business, which in turn maintains our commercial TV and radio. Book learning does not contribute much to the success of this type of well-to-do citizen. In general, knowing the multiplication tables through ten, possessing the reading abilities of a twelve year old, knowing a little American history, and enough English to write a good “selling” letter is all the book learning necessary to make one a first class and, in fact, an outstanding American citizen. There is a saying in America, “What you don’t know won’t hurt you” and I sometimes think this is the motto of our curriculum planners in our public schools. I want to say immediately at this point that the individual class room teachers are first rate. They are grossly underpaid and, therefore, by definition not really respectable people. They do a remarkable job teaching children everything that used to be taught in the homes or at church, but have not much opportunity to teach the children what used to be taught in schools. After all, it is pretty hard to keep children interested or to make them pay you any respect if you have nothing to teach them except how to get along with one another, which they can learn on the playgrounds, how to color pictures, which they can learn at home by turning off the TV or how to run a democratic classroom, which they can learn by joining any of a number of outside activities like scouts, or church youth groups.

Because of the emphasis on camouflaging learning with play activities and teaching “living democracy” instead of 2 of the 3 R’s (They do a good enough job on reading) California schools haven’t enough time left over for “getting on” very far in arithmetic.

When put in a math class with scholars of his own age, John, whose IQ is up with the best of them was hopelessly outclassed. He had been exposed to the simplest operations in manipulating fractions, knew what a decimal fraction was, roughly, but didn’t know long division using divisions longer than three digits, and had no idea how to handle decimal points. In any case, arithmetic using the Sterling monetary system and/or stones (14 pounds) as a unit of weight makes life difficult for semi-decimalized Americans. Take for example the problem: If coke costs 9 shillings and 4 pence per hundredweight (9/4/cwt) how much does one pound of coke cost, and how much does an English (long) ton cost. Needed additional facts for Americans (1) there are 12 pence to a shilling, and 20 shillings to the pound, (2) a hundredweight (cwt) is 8 stone, (3) a stone is 14 pounds, and (4) an English ton is 20 cwt. Note: a hundredweight is 112 pounds. Answer: One pound of coke costs 1 pence; or in English 1 d (where d I understand refers back to the old Roman Denarius). An English ton costs 9/6/8 or (20) x (9) shillings plus (20) x (4) pence but since there are 20 shillings per pound, (20) x (9/20) + (20) x (4) equals 9 pounds plus 80 d = 9/6/8. An American ton would cost 2000 pence or 8/6/8. Just to confuse the issue try to convert these costs over to American dollars. Remember a pound = $2.80. The long ton costs (9/6/8) x (2.80) and the American ton $2.80 less. The only problem is how do you multiply 9/6/8 by 2.80. It is really very simple - it merely becomes (2.80) x (9 + 6/2 + 8/240) or (2.80) (9 + 1/3) = $25.20 + 0.93 = $26.13. You may see why John was a little slow in arithmetic.

It took John through Christmas vacation to catch up in arithmetic at about one hour per night. This plus keeping up on all other subjects kept John very busy. However, in defense of American boys, I think I should add that at the end of the Michaelmas term (by Christmas) he was eighteenth in his class of thirty, eleventh by Easter, and although he was never assigned, since he would not be there the following year, I think he would have been in the A stream (upper third) had he stayed.

But, of course, even more important he did make the first eleven in his form for Rugby. This was the year for Americans in Rugby. Rhodes scholar and ex Army all-American Dawkins helped Oxford beat Cambridge (worse luck) and made quite a hit with English fans. And at Cambridgeshire High School for Boys another American, Harshbarger, (dad from Penn State) made the first eleven and endeared Americans to the hearts of all local English fans with his American tackles, hard running, broad grin, and short haircut.

Likewise, John picked up the local aberration of English English and sounded to us like a cockney. Before we left we could hardly understand him. And stranger than strange in his class of 30, he found one other boy, Leslie Waters, later his best friend, who had a birthday the same day as his own. Not too surprising, except of course, he has a birthday only once every fourth year, and stranger still this was the year. The two of them together would only add together enough birthdays to equal half the number of anyone else in the class. If my mathematics of probabilities are correct, the chances of finding two leap year boys in a class of 30 boys is one in five thousand[6].

PTA Beetle Drive

We had scarcely gotten the boys correctly uniformed for the correct school and introduced into the Sunday school at the Chapel when Tom brought home a note announcing a PTA meeting. Having just served on the PTA board at Kate Sessions school in San Diego, as the Spiritual and Character Leadership Chairman (I read an inspirational “thought for the day” to start each meeting), I was anxious to go and compare notes on procedures.

It turned out this was an organizational meeting and not a general meeting. The key officers had been elected but the governing committee had not been selected. This, plus planning for the three general meetings (one each in the Michaelmas, Lent, and Summer terms), and planning for making and spending the association’s money was the agenda of the evening.

Mr. Chamberlin (not the umbrella Chamberlin) the chairman, opened the meeting by reading apologies written by members who should have been there and weren’t. The custom seems to be either show, or send your apologies in writing. At the conclusion of this, he asked if anyone brought apologies for anyone else. One member said, “Yes, Mrs. Cartwright phoned me to say she was home with a cold and would not be in attendance. She sends her apologies”. He then stated that Mr. Sell would be here as soon as he could make it.

We then learned that the finances were really not too badly off but just as a steady reminder we’d better have some sort of fund-raising project. Anyway it would be nice to give the school a gift again like the venetian blinds last year.

Then Headmistress Smith thanked the PTA for the venetian blinds and suggested that the school could certainly use a tape recorder.

By now Mr. Sell had arrived and the official business could start. In addition to Miss Smith and Mr. Chamberlin, Miss Golding, John’s ex-teacher was in attendance, and about 6 other parents. One of these, Mrs. Ferguson, spoke American English and was an attractive negro woman. I found out her husband was an American Air Force Captain and was a dentist.

The first order of business was, as might be expected, the fund-raising project. Various schemes were suggested, housey-housey (bingo), harvest sale, beetle drive, raffle, whist drive, sale of work, etc. It was agreed that a raffle was in order regardless of whatever else they might have. All such church or school meetings had a raffle. Sixpence per ticket and three prizes. Mrs. Ferguson would purchase prizes from the Post Exchange. Prizes not to exceed one pound.

I told them about our system in San Diego where each elementary school had a fund-raising carnival on Halloween night. These carnivals not only kept the children off the streets but also made lots of money. Of course you can’t really keep the children from their “trick or treat” neighborhood rounds, they either do it the preceding night or in the hours just before or just after the carnival. But I’m sure it cuts down on the malicious mischief practiced extensively in my youth.

However they decided a carnival on Guy Fawkes night just wouldn’t be proper and since fireworks are the main celebration congregating too many people in one spot could be outright dangerous. They would continue their small group bonfires and skyrocket parties and have a Beetle Drive at the school later.

At this point before any details were worked out, we had an interval for tea and biscuits, While serving me my tea and after having conversed with Mr. Chamberlin and Headmistress Smith, Miss Golding asked me if I’d object being nominated to the PTA board. Although the National Science Foundation did not send me to England to study their mannerisms and customs, this was indeed one of my own private objectives. How better to learn of English customs than to infiltrate into their organizations? In any case, I was flattered to be considered an eligible nominee after only two weeks in this staid olde English village. I told her I’d be pleased and before the meeting had hardly reconvened, I was nominated and elected.

The meeting went off very smoothly from here on out. A date was chosen that gave minimum conflict with each and every member’s schedule (pronounced shedule). Mr. Sell, who taught Mechanical Art at Cherry Hinton Grammar School would make the posters, Mrs. Ferguson would buy the raffle and beetle drive prizes (at the Air Force PX), Mrs. Brown, who apparently always handled the tea and biscuit problem, would do so again. Mrs. Chamberlin would be Master of Ceremonies, Miss Golding and I would be general flunkies, and Headmistress Smith would see to it that every pupil got an announcement to take home at the proper time.

I heard no more about the Beetle Drive until Tom and Bill brought home Headmistress Smith’s announcement. Then I noticed Mr. Sell’s posters in Dick Whitmores Butcher Shop and in all other shops along High Street. Mary asked me what I was supposed to be doing. I said, “Awaiting orders.”

We hadn’t yet got Daniel house-without-momma broken or conversely we had as yet not found a baby sitter whose ears and nerves could take his continual (hours on end) crying. Poor Dan had had a rough 5 months; no crib (cot) of his own in room of his own, no house at all, and never really out of sight of mom. He didn’t take to life in an upstairs bedroom far removed from mom at all well. And he didn’t take to mom going off without him at all. So I went to the Beetle Drive alone, and early.

There was really no need of my going early. The women on the committee, as women the world over, had everything well under control. Mr. Sell, Mr. Chamberlin, and I did move a few tables and chairs but just to look busy. Our Beetle Drive was in the school cafeteria which was not overly large but just held the 30 people who showed up. Mr. Chamberlin quickly explained the rules, probably for my benefit since everyone else knew the rules. You sit four to a table. Each person has a card with 12 largish squares. There is one die (singular of dice) per table. On an initial shake the highest number gets to be first at each table. At the signal the first person at each table shoots for a six. No six, no play, pass the die around. Once a six is thrown, that person draws a big oval body in his square. Once the body is drawn, appendages such as legs, head, tail, eyes, and feelers are added with the appropriate number on the die. When someone in the room has a complete beetle the game stops. Everyone adds up his completed points, 6 for body, etc. The highest two scores move to the next table and the next beetle is drawn. Obviously the more throws per minute, the more chances of getting a beetle, so speed is the password. Every scheme is tried to get the die passed around the table quickly. If someone throws the die off the table they are ostracized.

At the interval, Mrs. Brown with the help of Miss Golding served tea and biscuits. Mrs. Ferguson, with the help of Miss Golding, held her raffle and gave away the bottle of sherry, a can of sweets, and a torch (flashlight). They also had a food auction, everyone brought their specialty and everyone else bid for it. I got Miss Golding’s plum jelly.

After another hectic round of the Beetle Drive, scores were totaled and another set of prizes given away. At a shilling per card less prizes and with the raffle and auction proceeds the total money earned for the evening was a decent sum. I must say, though, that they did indeed have a good time. I guess the children enjoy our Halloween Carnivals but I find them deadly. Children were not invited to the Beetle Drive nor to many other social activities, but the British parents really enjoy a Beetle Drive. So ended the fall term PTA meeting and annual fund raising event.

A second committee meeting set up the winter meeting in near record time. I’m sure each year the fall meeting is a Beetle Drive, the winter meeting an inspection of children’s work (with a half hour speech beforehand) and the spring meeting a school dancing program. At least this was the order this year and everything seemed to fall in place too well for all this to have been spontaneous.

There was not much question that the winter meeting of the PTA was a huge success. By the time Mary and I got there, after turning the boys over to a baby sitter, the Church Room was packed. The on-timers scowled a little but crowded up a bit and we managed to squeeze onto a bench right against the wall next to the door. Of course no one ever took off their coats at these affairs, they would freeze solid. The single fireplace in this huge room gave about as much heat as a candle in a barrel. The speaker undoubtedly got there early because he had the spot right next to the fireplace and he had taken off his coat. The listeners sat around him in concentric semi-circles.

The entrance was not at the rear of the room, or else the speaker was not at the front of the room. In any case, the entrance was on the speaker’s left, and there was a small aisle through which he could escape if the audience got too violent. To the speaker’s right, the circular rows ran almost up to the wall, a person could squeeze through and there were indeed a few seats all the way on the opposite wall from the door. Was I glad we weren’t any later. It would really have been embarrassing to cross completely across the room and directly in front of the speaker.

However we weren’t the latest comers. We had hardly gotten ourselves settled enough so that we could scowl at all later comers than in came one of the village characters. We had often noticed this middle-aged, sloppily-dressed woman walking around the village. She always wore pants and a jacket that didn’t fit. She wore her hair short and looked as much like a man as like a woman. She seemed completely oblivious of the world around her and obviously didn’t give a half crown for what other people thought of her. Upon inquiry people told us she was the wife of a Cambridge professor, a noted poet, and an avowed communist. Whether she was a communist or just gained that notorious title because of her queer dress, manner, and profession I will never know. I would be willing to bet that in Puritan Salem such a woman would have been burnt as a witch. People who don’t conform are often labeled with the worst name in current use, witch, anarchist, fascist, and in this generation Communist. I might add that her dress and appearance would have elicited her the Communist label from certain people even if she repeatedly voted conservative.

In her walks around the village she was almost always accompanied by a large shaggy dog and tonight was no exception. Of course I didn’t see “Shag” at first, I just heard some muffled instructions just before the door opened and she appeared. She closed the door, as best you can a door with a broken latch, and proceeded to make the long march across the room in front of the speaker. Of course the speaker, the county Dental Officer, had to stop his talk as she jostled in front of him. But he was an inveterate speaker and seemed to enjoy the chance to depart from his cut and dried speech to extemporaneously make some pleasant remark.

Just as the honoured speaker again got onto the subject of teeth and how Britain had the world’s worst, the door creaked and in walked “Shag”. Like his master Shag couldn’t have cared less about the assemblage or the honoured speaker. Shag started the same march as his constant comrade but stopped in front of the fireplace right at the foot of the speaker. Who wouldn’t, that was the only warm place in the whole room, and even then you could see the speaker’s breath when he talked. I think the dental officer was friendly enough with dogs but somehow the audience noise level in the form of snickers and chuckles got so high that it was obvious something need be done. So the village poet who had just settled into position, regained her feet and started the counter march back across the front of the room. The subdued laughter became an uproar and the advice to drink more milk and to eat fewer sweets came to a complete stop. After a minute or two of discussion between poet and dog a new solo entrance was made and the assemblage came to order again.

However all was not yet well. A later late corner reopened the door. Upon being beckoned by Miss Smith to the empty chairs across the room, she started the trip across the front of the room, followed unbeknownst to her, by Shag, The poor embarrassed woman couldn’t tell why everyone was laughing, and in her confusion she didn’t see the loose floor board. Need more be said. Luckily she wasn’t hurt as her foot dropped through the floor to the ground about six inches below. At this point the laughter was welcome because a potentially extremely embarrassing situation became a farce not a tragedy. The speaker now acting more like a ringmaster at a circus than as a serious speaker at a PTA meeting told a joke or two until everyone was settled.

We finally heard the horrible statistics on how the cavity-to-dentist ratio was higher in Britain than anywhere else in the world. However no one was really listening. No feature could have followed such a choice selection of comic relief.

The inspection of children’s work which followed was very similar to the same inspection in California. The major difference was that even five-year olds were displaying arithmetic workbooks, and workbooks with words printed in. The ratio of 3R work to busy work was much higher in this small English village school than in the California school the boys had left. They didn’t have a store complete with counters and empty cans but they did have some writing and arithmetic to show.

We missed the spring dance program since it came in the summer. We left our lovely village on 21 July, and on 22 July the PTA had their final (outdoor, if no rain) meeting. I feel very cheated about this and will do everything possible to get back some day in late July to see this final outing. Then I can also find out if Headmistress Smith got her tape recorder.

Conservative Hat Trick

After John’s Sunday School debut and my election (draft) to the PTA committee, I was an alien citizen, first class, of Fulbourn. One day on my return home from the Unit, Mary asked if I wanted to observe the Parliamentary Election. It seems as if Mr. Rodwell, the husband of the proprietor of Myrtleberry’s Store was the local chairman of the Conservative Party. Since I’d proved myself to be God-fearing (through John) and community spirited, I was to be initiated into the workings of the celebrated English system of free elections. My education was to consist of observing the workings of the village Conservative Party Committee in action on election night.

I had noticed for weeks on the billboard by Fred’s barber shop something to the effect that, “You’ve never had it so good, don’t let Labour take it away, Vote Conservative.” At the Unit I’d heard many arguments that sounded strangely like arguments I’d heard in U.S. in 1956, and ‘52 and ‘48. In general every year that John had a birthday, half of the people in the U.S. would start saying the other half were doing everything wrong. This was nothing new; this happened all the time but in different cycles: for example every October half the people say hurray for the Yankees and the other half down with the Yankees (the argument gets louder in a stadium in the Bronx called Yankee Stadium, or the Park that Ruth built); about a month later half the people say down with Notre Dame and the other half cheer vocally in South Bend, Indiana for Notre Dame; most anytime of any year management and labor are at logger-heads, or the north and the south, or the east and the west. However starting in the summer after John’s birthday half of the Yankee fans join with half the non-Yankee fans and say down with the Democrats, while the other half of the Yankee fans combine with half of the non-Yankee fans and say down with the Republicans.

About the only difference I could hear between the arguments in U.S. on leap years and the arguments I was hearing at the Unit was a different set of words, instead of Republicans and Democrats I was hearing Conservatives and Labour. Although occasionally I heard of a third party called Liberal. And in fact at the Unit I heard Liberal quite often. But back to Fulbourn.

Immediately after tea, a midget Hillman panel lorry stopped at the Manse and Mrs. Rodwell came and took me in hand. We proceeded to the top of Pierce Lane and the meeting room in Mrs. Wilson’s house, The Nook. Here I already saw some familiar faces, Chamberlin the PTA chairman and the garage owner and sports racing driver. I was soon introduced to Squire Townley who lived, of course, in the Manor House.

The meeting room was a beehive of activity. The center of activity was a woman at a table with a list of names. She kept checking off names and sending off drivers of cars to pick up errant voters. Occasionally someone would come in with a list of numbers and the woman at the desk would feverishly check them against her list and bark out some new commands. After observing tacitly for awhile and noting that I couldn’t figure out the riddle, I started asking questions. Although I didn’t get the whole story from any one person and in the correct chronological order, this is what I found out.

Some weeks before the election, I presume after a registration of some sort, a notification of eligibility is sent to each legitimate voter. For the activities at hand this evening the crucial aspect was that in this mailing each voter received a number, his identification number. Each Party also got a complete listing of every voter in the district. Nowhere in this procedure does the voter declare to which party he belongs. With no primary elections here is no reason why any voter need disclose to which party he belongs and consequently he does not so declare.

On election day as each voter comes to the polls, he is met by 2 or 3 unofficial door checkers. These checkers are representatives of the Conservative, Labour, and/or Liberal parties. As each voter enters they merely ask him his number which they dutifully write down. Every half hour or so, a runner from the party headquarters comes and picks up this list of numbers from the officially sanctioned spies. Of course no one need tell these door checkers their numbers, it is only custom or courtesy which dictates such compliance.

As the runner comes back from the polls to the headquarters his list of numbers is checked against the master list. If number 23 for example is Mr. Rodwell his name, already underlined in blue, is cancelled off as a safe Conservative vote. When number 67, Mr. Perry our neighbor the coalman, comes in they underline his name in red, a bloody Labour vote, not a true blue Conservative. This works fine until number 16 has been reported as voting, but who is Mrs. Wells, number 16? She is new in the village and her name has not already been underlined in blue since she wasn’t home when Mr. Rodwell’s canvassers called.

Just as in the U.S., prior to the election each active and on-their-toes party sends out house to house callers asking each voter to vote for their candidates. In the U.S., when the door is slammed in the face of Mrs. Welloff when she asks Mrs. Toilandsweat to vote for Nixon, Mrs. Welloff concludes she has not called upon a sympathetic and correctly oriented soul. Just so, when Mr. Chamberlin looks into the unsmiling taunt and haggard face of Mr. Newman the local signalman for British Railways at his Council home, when extolling the virtues of Mr. Macmillan’s government he concludes Mr. Newman is not a true blue safe and sure Conservative. The results of such canvassing and other circumstantial evidence helps the local party decide whether to true blue or to bloody red each name on their list.

Even so many names are not categorized at all. So with Mrs. Wells. She didn’t live in Council (low rent government) housing. Her husband didn’t have an obvious TUC (Trade Union Council) job, so she could be a Conservative but no one knew. However since she had already voted the issue wasn’t vital.

The important thing at this point in the evening was those names still on the list who hadn’t yet voted. That is those names on the list who hadn’t voted and which were not bloody red. For each true blue name a car and driver was dispatched post haste. Then came the uncategorized names. And the council of war. “Does anyone know the Bates on Cow Lane?” “They read the (London) Times, they are probably with us.” “What about the Simpsons on Teversham Road?” “They shop at the co-op, let them walk.” “Who knows the Tabers on Haggis Gap?” “They listen to the third program, we’d better pick them up.”

Finally all the cars and drivers were dispatched and it was time to learn more about English politics. “What about a visit to the polls?” asked my hostess. “Fine, but am I allowed to go in?” “Certainly, come along.” And so we left the hopping activity of the committee room and got into the Hillman again. Of course I headed for the driver’s side, since in U.S. it would not have been the driver’s side. This was soon straightened out and we set off for the school house. As we entered two eager souls asked for our numbers. I was ready to retreat and stop my political education at this point. I could see me spending my year in England in gaol (jail) for padding the ballot box. Mrs. Rodwell just told them we were visiting and on we went inside. In the hall in front of Headmistress Smith’s office which led to Miss Golding’s room sat Headmistress Smith and Miss Golding barring the way into the inner sanctum where the actual voting was done. As compared to the door checkers, they looked a little more official and somewhat foreboding (if Miss Golding could look foreboding, and John says yes, she could). I was hoping Mrs. Rodwell had decided I’d seen enough since I didn’t know the password from here on in.

Headmistress (now chief election challenger) Smith smiled broadly and asked facetiously if I had come to vote. I hastened to add, lest the walls have Scotland Yard ears, that I was only learning the ABC’s of English elections, and was not intending to vote. She could understand my interest having witnessed my interest in school and PTA matters. I somehow had the feeling that I could have made my inspection more complete but I was happy to remain on the outside looking in. In any case being in the tow of the Conservative Party chairman’s wife, I wasn’t sure how many good Labourites I was alienating.

We soon returned to the inner sanctum of the Conservative Party Headquarters. By this time I could see how ridiculously simple an English Parliamentary Election is. All of this fuss and bother and all the voter does is choose one of two men, one clearly labeled Conservative, the other Labour (in some districts a Liberal may also run).

When I think of our presidential election where you vote for a president and his running mate the vice-president, a national Representative (essentially what the English were now voting for), oft-times a Senator (something more like a member for the House of Lords), a state governor, a state senator, a state representative, numerous judges, sheriffs, city councilmen, perhaps a mayor, and in California at least a yes-no vote on about 20 propositions. These propositions to do with what I thought all those men we were voting for were doing but I guess not. Anyway going to the polls in a presidential election is a chore, a real job. To vote intelligently on the propositions it is necessary or desirable to read a 20 to 50 page booklet on all the pros and cons. On the more important ones thousands of dollars are spent on billboards (which say, “Vote Yes on 3”), radio commercials (which say, “Vote Yes on 3”), bumper stickers (which say, “Vote Yes on 3”), handbills (which say, “Vote Yes on 3”), and on form letters (which say, “Vote Yes on 3”). About this time some people get curious as to what proposition 3 is. By carefully reading the newspaper you might find out what proposition 3 is. It probably has to do with taking the fluorine out of drinking water, or removing the tax free provision on church parking lots (car parks). You still don’t know whether yes means you favor the proposition or not. For example the fluorine proposition was worded such that if you favored the proposition you voted no. Since, other things being equal people tend to vote yes on propositions no one was quite certain after that election how many people wanted fluoridated water and how many did not. This is no real problem however since they just put the proposition on again at the next election and so it goes. An old age pension plan gets on repeatedly because the vote comes out differently every election.

But back to Merrie Olde England. It hardly seemed to be worthwhile to go to all the bother to vote if you have only to choose one of two men. You could just as easily flip a coin. After each district elects its representative (and the representative need not live in the area he represents) the collective representatives in Parliament then select their own leader, who becomes Prime Minister. The voters themselves do not select the prime minister, they only select their own MP (Member of Parliament).

Before I got to England I always considered the Parliamentary system to reflect the will of the people better than our system in as much as the Prime Minister always is the leader of the party who has the most MP’s. However my English friends just about argued me out of my point of view. They point out that we have an election very two years and if voter sentiment changes our House of Representatives immediately reflects this change. My impression of the British system was that if a major issue came up they just called an election and essentially elected themselves through their MP’s the Prime Minister who represented the prevailing voter sentiment. My British friends informed me this could be done but by law elections were only necessary every five years. Therefore a party with a large majority could flaunt the populace for a full five years regardless of the changed sentiments of the populace. If the majority party at the end of three or four years sees it has a strong chance of reelection, that might fade in a year or two, they call an election. In other words the majority party can call for the election whenever it is to their advantage as long as they do it within five years of the last election.

So much for political systems. The polls had now closed and I was expecting a hectic night of awaiting for results. Not in Fulbourn; by counting the true blues who had voted and the bloody reds, my friends concluded Fulbourn at least was safe for another five years. They suggested a minor sort of celebration but no one was really interested and the group dissolved before my very eyes just as if someone had made a motion for adjournment.

Next morning’s paper heralded, “Conservatives Pull Hat Trick.” This meant they had won their third consecutive election. (The hat trick is cricket for getting three batters out on three bowls, why it is called a hat trick I don’t know.) I noted my colleagues at the Unit were not nearly as happy as my Fulbourn neighbors. This did not surprise me as my scientific colleagues in the U.S. also tend to the left.

I now had it made in the village. John had gotten us into the God-fearing group; my educational trip to the PTA and subsequent draft onto the board got me into the scholarly circles; and now I had met the solid citizens, the local Conservative bigwigs. I had yet to meet the shopkeepers, the scouting people, the other overseas visitors, and the largest untapped group of all, the general workers. But all in due course.

English Amour

For most of their home games, fewer than 30 people (23 plus us watched the Cambridgeshire High School for Boys first eleven Rugby team. When they played Perse, there may have been 93. In neither Rugby nor Cricket did anyone seem to care who won. As I got the story it wasn’t the game but the get together afterwards that counted. The point is athletics were relatively non-competitive at least below the Oxford vs. Cambridge level. Not that each man and team didn’t play to win but I heard the coach tell the boys more than once “That wasn’t a very sporting thing to do.” Breaking or stretching rules beyond the bounds of good sportsmanship just wasn’t Cricket.

However, in the classroom every boy was graded in every test and homework assignment. His marks were well known to one and all. Each term, in every subject, John’s 30 member class was listed from 1 to 30 in order of their marks. On the bases of all subjects each boy had his class standing at the end of each term. I had the impression that the competitive spirit was directed more at scholastic achievement and less at athletic prowess.

Even in Sunday School competition had its place. Starting the first full month in Mrs. Wood’s Sunday School class Tom came home with the following tale:

“Mrs. Wood told us to write our version of the story of Joseph.”

“Whatayoumean write, you can’t write yet.”

“She said if we couldn’t write we could draw pictures.”

“For next Sunday?”

“No, we have all month.”

“Will everyone do it?”

“Yes, she is giving a prize for the best story.”

“Well, we’ll worry about it later.”

“I want to start right now.”

“Do you know the story of Joseph?”

“No, you tell me what to draw and I’ll draw it.”

So started our, Tom’s and mine, study of Joseph. I read a little while Tom listened. That didn’t work too well. Too many big words, not enough action. What did it mean? So I read, then paraphrased the story in my own words. Still “What do I draw?” So finally, “Tom, why not draw a picture of some men bringing bundles of wheat to another man to stack.” “OK” and off to work he went. A little later, “What shall I draw now?” “A caravan (the camel kind, not a house trailer)” This, continued for four weeks.

“A many colored coat.”

“Lean ears and fat ones.”

“A rich man with servants.”

“Building silos.”

“Pleading men.”

“Family reunion.”

Before it was over Tom had a real collection which when pieced together formed a complete and understandable story. He even copied on each picture the appropriate Biblical phrase.

He was still quite unhappy, since the others were writing their’s. What really made him unhappy was that the others of his age could read the Bible passages and he couldn’t. We cured this somewhat by having him memorize the particular passage assigned for the day, and this worked pretty well.

Anyway came ‘Der Tag’, the day of judgment, when the class, with a little discrete direction from Mrs. Wood, would decide who had the best story, pictures or writing. Tom had done a good job on his pictures and he had stacks of them. His tale read like the comic strips and this seemed to appeal to his classmates, he won.

The prize; a tin of sweets (Turkish Delight). We had been wondering for a month what the prize would be, which only showed we were new to England. Hard candies, toffees, gum drops, and the like are the standard “sweet” in England and the kids (and their parents) love sweets. At each of the village grocers the most prominent display was row after row of large glass jars containing every variety of these jaw crackers and tooth eroderers. When mommies or older sisters would leave babies in prams (the babies, in prams could be up to 3 years old) outside of stores, they would pop one of these pacifiers into the mouth of the not too patient infant.

As the dads and moms bicycled home from work they would stop for these morsels of quick energy in order to make, the last mile. It is no wonder that the shire dental officer speaking at the P.T.A. told one all, “The condition of teeth in Britain is horrible, the world’s worst teeth.” He listed as reasons, “Too many sweets, not enough milk, not enough dentists.” It is interesting to note at this point the difference between socialized medicine and socialized dentistry. Medical doctors get paid a set rate for every patient on their lists, more or less regardless of how often they see the said patient. Obviously if the doctor can keep them well and happy he keeps himself among the idle (not very) rich (also not very). Dentists on the other hand get set fees from the state depending on services performed. Fillings, large, get him more than fillings, small. Likewise extractions, molars, pays more than cleaning. Therefore, since he has more patients than he can handle anyway he tends to make fillings large, and extractions, molars; and not examinations and cleanings.

But back to Tom’s tin of Turkish Delights. He got most of them home, his class was small and relatively polite. Now we had a new problem. The sweets were pretty good, especially to those to whom caution was a concept not yet learned. Even momma liked the candy, or the tin. I must admit the tins they put toffees and certain other candies in are both beautiful and useful. They are painted with colorful pictures of castles, or fairytale scenes, or most anything. They make wonderful boxes for foreign coins, needles, thimbles, and the like; souvenir ticket-stubs, marbles and new candy.

Dan just loved to unwrap one of these sweets. However, he didn’t really like them and we found them on table clothes, bedspreads, rugs, in mittens, on the seats of pants (formerly on chairs), etc.

Charlie didn’t like them much, he just plain liked milk. Whenever he asked for milk we knew he was either tired and about ready to go to sleep; feeling lonely and unloved; bored; knew Mamma was busy doing something she couldn’t stop in order to open the fridge; or maybe even hungry.

Bill, our boy with the worst teeth and appetite loved them and was always sneaking in between meals and ruining his teeth and appetite.

Tom, himself was so suggestible about things like tooth aches, etc. that his conscience never allowed him to enjoy his sweets or develop an uncontrollable lust.

However, we noted that at about this time Tom and Bill became very popular with their village playmates. At first these included many Sunday School classmates, including Della Joy Woods. The crowd, however, soon grew to include school chums, mostly girls.

At our house girls were just barely tolerable. The boys sometimes admitted Mom was necessary, they just couldn’t quite understand why she had to be a girl. In California they were so busy playing ball that the few hardy girls who did stray into our yard soon saw they were no competition for ball and usually withered away again. The best way to start a fight was to have Bill call John, “Debbie” and on down the line.

These English girls, however, were made of sterner stock. They chased Tom and Bill until the boys about dropped in their tracks. They could climb the back fence into the Eastern Electricity Boards transformer station, which our boys hadn’t thought of yet. They also showed Tom and Bill how to climb atop the shed roof, to the top of the apple tree and about everything else we had either told them not to do or that they hadn’t yet thought of.

Some of these girls even lasted beyond the prize tin of sweets, in fact through many new box designs we had found. I’m sure it was these girls that put the final burst of running speed into Tom, which was to pay off later at sports day. They certainly kept the boys trim but didn’t help Mamma’s disposition any. These English girls like all kids had a little difficulty in hearing certain statements. For example, any sentence that started in don’t, like: Don’t carry Dan out in the yard and drop him. Don’t get the ball out from among the transformers. Don’t give Dan anymore sweets. Don’t throw the coke, at the neighbors cat. And don’t dig that hole under the fence. They even had a little difficulty with a few Anglicized American non-don’t statements; like Run along now it’s time for tea. Or let the neighbors cat go home now.

We were used to running a general neighborhood supervised playground. But we weren’t used to the stamina and imperviousness of our village cousins. We were about ready to stop buying any more sweets and/or hiring a trainer to teach Bill and Tom to run faster when one afternoon Mary heard a terrible crash. She ran out to see which boy or girl had bashed which other with a cricket bat but found only our boys, the flying coat tails of many girlish forms and a five foot section of cast iron eave trough laying on the sidewalk.

Bill and Tom said they weren’t around at the time but knew that the greatest tomboy of them all, Sally, was trying to climb up to the coal shed roof. We pieced together that part of this maneuver including hanging on said eave. We were afraid she might have been hurt but actually never found out. Apparently the girls figured they had gone too far. We didn’t see any of them for a month and then only one or two at a time for a few minutes. Our boys had lost their ardent Amazon suitors. I heard no wailing, just, “Let’s play Rugby,” again.

Tom’s Tattoo

We soon had the boys in school, had made our church (chapel) connection, had discovered four of the five village grocery stores, found the butcher, the barber, the milkman and paper boys, had the boys’ shoes fixed at the cobblers and got our name on the baker’s list for bread on Saturday. Now came the family doctor problem.

Dr. Jones lived and had his surgery (office) right around the corner from Pierce Lane on Apthorpe Street. I had been advised by my professional colleagues that we were eligible to participate in the National Health Service scheme, but that to further Anglo-American relations it might be well to become private (paying) patrons. I later found that a great portion of the petrol (gasoline) tax, which about doubled the price of petrol went toward supporting the National Health Service, it obviously didn’t go for maintaining or building roads. Since, by British standards, I was a big user of petrol (and milk, food, meats, shoes, etc.) I was doing my part on National Health without knowing it.

In any case, one evening after returning from the Unit where I had an office and carried on my research, I made a trip over to see Dr. Jones. It turned out he was on a holiday and his partner Dr. Hanton was there. Drs. Jones and Hanton did not, by any means, share the same surgery or have the same list of patients. In fact, Dr. Hanton’s surgery was in Cherry Hinton an eastern district of Cambridge. It was only that they were each others relief for such things as holidays or other emergencies.

I stated my problem to Dr. Hanton, namely, “Should I, an American, enter our family on the National Health Service or as private patients?”

He saw no problem. “With a family of five boys you’d better get on National Health”

“Would he and/or Dr. Jones think this a violation of English good will without contributing our share of the cost?”

“Not at all, after all who helped England back on her feet after World War II?”

“What had other Americans done?”

“Joined up, no qualms of conscience.”

“We will compromise, we’ll list John, Tom, Bill, Charlie, and Dan, but not ourselves.”

“Suit yourself, I’d sign up the whole family.”

“You don’t know Mary, my wife. She doesn’t believe in not paying our own way. She believes in giving not receiving. In fact, I don’t know if she will go along with signing on the boys.”

“Here are the cards, have her cosign them along with you and we’ll place the boys names on our lists.”

As I expected, Mary wasn’t too happy with this arrangement, but since we were in no financial position to chance a medical catastrophe she reluctantly signed. However, just as at home, our boys were remarkably healthy. We needed the doctor on only two occasions. The first was in connection with Tom’s sudden attack of schoolitis, which will be described in a later chapter, called Tom’s Black School Days. The other makes up this tale.

I had just returned from a three day meeting of the British Psychological Society in Hull in time for a special school holiday. Because of the extra holiday John’s boy scout troop was on a camp out. John was out in a nearby pasture with his village troopers. Knowing how happy grown up boys are to see parents and young brothers when on a big independent adventure of their own, Mary and I vowed not to go check on John’s state of health.

However, as the long English June twilight continued on, who should come walking up the street but the Collins. The Collins were even newer in the village than we were. Laura was a red headed Scottish lass who had been a wartime WAC. Douglas was an agricultural adviser specializing in the feeding of pigs. He was an English civil servant. Their oldest boy Duncan, like our John, was in the camp out. Whether Duncan liked it or not they were going out to see how he was doing. How would we like to come along?

Under the circumstances we got shoes on and dirt off all boys and started walking toward the Manor House. We soon found the camp, walked around the nettles and found the boys watering down the soup. It was apparent from the appearance of John’s and Duncan’s hands and faces that the water had not been used for much else.

After a lengthy talk with the assistant scout master and camp out leader about sleep and the lack of it, rain and the abundance of it, and boys the futility of it, we herded our 4 and the Collins 2 younger ones back towards the Manse. It was now 9 o’clock but still very light. As we parents sat around discussing world affairs the boys, the Collins had nothing but future Kings likewise, started running and playing.

We were the Collins’ favorite Americans ever since Mary first met Laura at the Church (not the Chapel) young wives meeting. In a conversation about how we liked the people in this our temporary domicile, Mary said, “Oh the British people are.....” Mary got no further “British people, thats what I like to hear, not English but British”. “You see we Scots think the southern inhabitants of these isles, the English that is, are not quite on a par with the northern or Scottish people, but the British people as a whole, God Bless them are the worlds best”.

Up to this point in our stay we really weren’t aware that English and British were not synonymous. Laura reminded us, however, that the designation Elizabeth II was true of England, only, not Scotland. The new Queen is Elizabeth I in Scottish minds. We realized that all is not calm across the British Mason-Dixon line. Mary had quite accidentally used the more generic term for just the right audience and we had a fast English-Yankee friend. Laura even showed us the difference in design on current one shilling pieces. The English version had 3 lions (representing England, Scotland and Wales) while the Scottish version had but one. Both were used interchangeable by any but Scotsmen or numismatists.

About the time we had decided that all English speaking people were the worlds best and our two families were examples of the best of them, we heard a crash, saw two boys bounce off of each other and heard one loud and lamentable cry. It was Johnny Collins who was crying and, in fact, seemed temporarily dazed and soon had a half egg on his forehead. Since Tom was not crying and, in fact, since we had long since given up thinking much about minor collisions, measles, and cuts and bruises we didn’t pay much attention to Tom.

Laura, however, noticed that the cut under Tom’s eye was indeed a deep one and didn’t stop bleeding fast or easily. In fact, after a few more minutes of leisurely goodbyes we decided, on Laura’s suggestion, to take Tom up to see Dr. Jones and maybe get a stitch in his cut.

I knew Dr. Jones was not apt to have surgery at 9:30 Sunday evening, but also knew that, in general, doctors expect emergencies. So with a quiet and subdued Tom beside me, I walked around the corner to the residence of Dr. Jones. Of course, no one answered the door and we were starting out the front gate when we met the doctor’s guitar playing boy. He saw Tom and guessed we were looking for his father. He told us this was his dad’s night out - we would have to go into Cherry Hinton (Cambridge) and see Dr. Hanton. He gave us the address on Cherry Hinton Road and off we went.

At about 10 o’clock we knocked on Dr. Hanton’s door and were admitted to his surgery. He took one look at Tom and asked, “What happened?”

“A collision with another boy”

“How come Tom wasn’t in bed, don’t you know it is nearly 10 o’clock. If children were in bed by 8 they couldn’t be getting in trouble, could they?”

“Well, you see ... just home from Hull ... boy scouts ... Scottish friends … running ... crash”.

“And another thing two minutes later and I would have been closed too ... Americans .. all hours of the night.....”

“Come on in here Tom and lay down”.

“Should require two stitches, maybe one will do”.

“Should really deaden area, but that requires a punch with a needle also, so be brave Tom and we’ll just sew it up with no local anesthetic.”

“This might hurt, Tom, but be brave and maybe daddy will buy you a lolly”.

Tom is as stoic as they come. He may have grimaced - I was in the next room, but not a sound.

“Say that is one brave boy”.

“We are all done now”.

“Dad, that boy deserves a fine present”.

Again one of the boys came through under pressure. Whereas Dr. Hanton was far from happy at our initial intrusion, he was now fairly beaming and patting Tom on the shoulder.

“You’ll need something to put over this to keep the air out, but its late now for finding a Chemist. Ah yes, here is some”.

He gave us a bottle full of purple liquid and liked to never found a cork, but finally got it corked and us out.

“See Dr. Jones on Saturday to remove the stitch”.

“Good boy Tom, don’t forget that lolly dad”.

“Good bye”.

Tom will always have a visible reminder of England (and Britain). The effect is the same as the dueling wound in Germany and Tom can wear it as proudly. Although Dr. Hanton wasn’t too happy with me for keeping Tom from his bed, but he was mighty proud of Tom who in the spirit of the words of advice on our passports “represented America honorably as an unofficial ambassador of good will”.

A Heated Discussion

My major concern regarding my whole trip to England was how to keep warm. I wasn’t really worried about the 5 boys, Mary would somehow handle them. Nor did the prospect of buying, equipping, and utilizing a campster (having never camped a day in my life) worry me much. Schools, housing, finances, scheduling--all of these I knew could be handled. But how was I going to keep warm? Even under my desk in sunny California I had a 200 watt lamp bulb to keep my feet warm. My blood pressure is low and when sitting at my desk hour after hour, I had the feeling my circulation only reached my right hand, and on occasions my brain. I used no other parts of my body, my circulatory system knew this, and my feet got cold.

And the stories I’d heard of Britain--no central heating, rainy, foggy. Even that body temperature was 98°, not 98.6°. Nor was I too happy to read in the paper soon after my arrival when commenting on the heat wave, “On the beach temperatures in the sun reached 108 degrees. Sea temperature was 67°--seven degrees more than normal room temperature.” To me, 67° is five degrees below room temperature. Even in the few hours I spent in my office at the Research Unit in Cambridge in late May my ankles were cold. Of course they’d turned the heating system off in April.

By October, after our hectic summer, I had time to worry about my major problem. And by October I had a major problem. It really wasn’t too cold at the Unit, since they actually heated each office in the old stately mansion. Donald Broadbent, the director, knew of my malady and housed me in a small top floor room. If heat rises my garret, with its gabled ceiling, should have been the warmest nook in the manor. And if their heating system worked in large, medium, and small rooms, it should have worked like a charm in my walled-in cell. I would estimate that the volume of my nook was 250 cubic feet, or the floor space about 40 square feet. With filing cabinet and desk, and table for equipment, the floor area was about halved. And even this remaining area was not all usable since the gabled ceiling came perilously close to head height. The volume of my loft was such that just the addition of me reduced the volume of air by an appreciable amount.

However, these Britons are indeed ingenious, especially as regards heat (or lack of it). The heating system at the Unit was as novel as it was inadequate. In each room was what I figured to be a radiator. It was rectangular; about two feet high, two feet long and nine inches wide. It was painted brown, which is fine for radiating heat. It was not, however, a multiple set of radiating fins. In fact, there were no fins at all, just a smooth brown metal box. But from October to April these decorative chests were warm to the touch, not hot to the touch, just warm, so I deduced they must figure somehow into the heating system.

If these otherwise useless bits of furniture were part of the heating system, there were still many things about the system which puzzled me. First, I had never seen, heard of, or would I expect to find a furnace at the Unit. Nor had I ever seen or heard coal or fuel oil lorries depositing their wares. If a central heating furnace existed, hot water should have been available via the regular plumbing system. Small electric water heaters would not have been necessary above the wash basins in the lavoratories. (The word lavatory is pronounced LAVatory with an accent on the first syllable, where it should be. Because of the possibility of confusion between two similar sounding words whose meanings are highly dissimilar, the word laboratory is pronounced labORatory in England, the accent on the second syllable, where it should not be.) But back to my suspected radiators. I noted these “radiators” had no connecting pipes for hot water or steam. In fact, there was no apparent connection of any sort, no wires, gas hoses, or pipes. This source of heat had me baffled. Were there little men with blow torches inside? An atomic pile perhaps? Not enough sunlight in England for a solar furnace.

One day at lunch I happened to remember the riddle of the unhot, unconnected radiators and asked Donald about it. Then he told me that these were really electric fires (heaters). They sat right over the plugs so no wires were visible. But the ingenious thing was that the major component of the fire was a cement block. During the night when there was not much drain on the Eastern Electricity Board’s source of power, the fires at the Unit were turned on. And so during the night these blocks of cement were thoroughly heated and probably heated the rooms to a livable 70°. The blocks held the heat and radiated away throughout the day, keeping the larger rooms at, say, 56°, the medium ones at 60°, the small ones at 64°, and mine at 68°. All the Britons were happy with their 56°, 60°, and 64° but I was not happy with my 68°. I was therefore allowed an auxiliary electric floor fire. The kind that burn a hole through anything in their focus and don’t even faze anything else. My plan was simple, I directed my extra fire against the large dark green filing cabinet which in turn acted as a very efficient re-radiator.

This of course was only part of the solution. I attended a few lectures at Cambridge University and had tea in the Common Room at the Unit. These rooms tended to be British warm and not American warm, so some portable heat was necessary. My first attempt at this was a stop at Walkers Clothiers for Men. Here I purchased two pair of knee-length, medium thickness (1/16 inch) wool stockings. During October these worked fairly well. In November I purchased two pair of knee-length wool socks of the heavy variety (about 3/8 inch thick). These were wonderful, except of course none of my shoes fit any more. Anyway by December my feet were cold again.

One Saturday morning in the village the boys pressured me into a trip to the cobbler’s shop. They had observed their compatriots were wearing Wellies (short for Wellingtons or Wellington boots). It is not hard to imagine the derivation of the name. Some resourceful advertiser, circa 1815, had persuaded a certain contemporary war hero to endorse his product, a knee or hip length rubber boot worn without shoes. I can see the full-page ads now in The Times. “What was the secret weapon that won at Waterloo?” They probably even sent Matthew Brady I to the scene to sketch the battle. His sketches conspicuously (but only by coincidence) showing the British troops in knee-length rubber boots. Or in the Observer, “What’s good enough for General Wellington is good enough for you, wear Wellingtons.”

Regardless of who made the fortune popularizing rubber boots (and I’ll bet Wellington didn’t get rich off the subsequent sale of them), Wellingtons was now the generic term for boots.

In the process of procuring these necessary military supplies for the boys, George, the cobbler, turned super salesman, asked if I wanted some. A light started to shine in the heat area of my brain and I started nibbling at his bait. You see, Wellies are worn in place of shoes, not on top of shoes. With my new woolen socks I needed new shoes. And with December coming I needed warm new shoes. Wellies aren’t exactly shoes, but in the rain or snow it would appear to me that intelligent people would be wearing Wellies anyway. Being a foreigner I wouldn’t be expected to know whether it was going to rain or not. If anyone was curious about my Wellies, I could always reply, “Isn’t it going to rain today?”

Just to be sure my feet would be warm I bought Wellies large enough to fit over my wool, soft-soled, stocking style slippers. And this indeed did do the trick. Quarter-inch thick, knee-length wool stockings, under ankle-length woolen slippers, under Wellington knee-length boots, and my feet and ankles were warm, even during the lectures at Cambridge University.

I soon found the same three layers of heat insulation worked wonders in my state of near hibernation in my loft at the Unit. At the Unit I would condescend to change into regular shoes for tea (and then hurry back). Of course the Britishers used a slightly different approach. Sweaters were their first defense against “normal room temperature”. I always found, however, that a sweater worn as a sweater did nothing but make me sweat under my arms. If worn to keep my feet warm I always forgot and tripped over my double-footed leggings. Sweaters were not for feet and therefore not for me. A secondary defense worn by one chap at the Unit was a type of wrist glove, or glove without fingers. Apparently his Achilles heel was on the other set of limbs.

In place of the British sweaters and wrist warmers, my tertiary defenses against “normal room temperature” included jackets, heavy socks, and heavy pants. I bought a pair of pants at Walkers that were so heavy I could hardly sit down, they didn’t bend. The cloth was at least an eighth inch thick and tightly woven. These pants had certain characteristics of corrugated cardboard, namely you couldn’t really make a sharp bend in them. Mary never could really iron a crease in them.

One wearing after ironing these pants, and they took on the form of a cross section of an American football. You couldn’t even hang them up on a hanger and get the two sides of the pant legs to lay together. But they were warm, and fitted marvelously over Wellies. You could never tell whether they flared out from the internal pressure of the Wellies, or because of the potential energy ironed into the front and back crease. These pants came the closest to standing up by themselves as anything I’d ever seen. Even Bill’s pants when dried out after he fell into his uncle’s hog wallow couldn’t stand beside my English pants.

Although my grooming would not class me among Esquire’s best-dressed ten, or ten thousand, or ten million, I was warm. Had Esquire concentrated on the other end of the best-dressed distribution I might have made it. But warmth was my goal, let all other chips fall where they may.

Mary and the boys come from a different strain. You can’t get them cold. The boys wore knee pants all year, as did all other English schoolboys. It was difficult to get them to wear their Macks (Macintosh coats) to school or anywhere else. After all, none of them had ever worn coats to school and why should they start now. As a matter of fact, they were just about right. It didn’t really get cold in southern England that winter. As I told my British friends, the only place it’s cold in England is inside your buildings. It only snowed once (about 2 inches and it was on the ground less than a week). There was frost on my windscreen (windshield) on several mornings but it stayed below freezing for over 24 hours only twice. Subtract twenty degrees from the temperature and southern England is very similar to southern California, a very mild climate. The major reason people (American people at least) get cold in England is that they never get a chance to really get warmed up. If you are half frozen from sitting in a room heated to 60 degrees, then go out into 50-degree weather, you get cold.

Mary and I were both raised in America’s mid-west. Every winter the temperature would fall to minus 20 degrees (or as the English would say, 52 degrees of frost). However, our houses were heated to 70 +2 degrees. Before we went outdoors we were warm. When we came back in we could get warm again. Inside we didn’t wear heavy clothes, outside we did. The trouble with England is its mild climate. It doesn’t get cold enough for people to get serious about it.

Take the plumbing for example. Granted The Manse was built before running hot and cold water and flush toilets were in vogue. And granted that if plumbing is added later it is easier to put the pipes on the outside of the house. But houses much newer than The Manse had “inside plumbing” with outside pipes. All of the downstairs drains, for example, went through the nearest wall to an outside drain pipe or to an outside open catch basin. Drains from upstairs or from the toilet went into outside pipes. Outside of the kitchen and scullery there was an open drain. This drain was covered by a cast iron grill for keeping apple cores and other odds and ends out of the sewer. The dish water, and washing machine water all flowed out of open pipes above this drain. Every month or so I would go out and clean all the crud, mostly grease from the dishwater, off of this grill so the waste water could get into the sewer.

About five feet out in the yard from this drain was a fairly large covering over the sewer line. By lifting this cover you could see, and easily reach with a short stick, an open 4 inch pipe. The bottom half of the tile (or cast iron pipe) was there but not the top half. This was the clean-out plug. The drains from upstairs and the toilets did connect directly to this sewer line but the down pipes were outside of the house. The overflow from the bathtub, and from the toilet cistern, were just short, small pipes that ran through the outside wall, period, or, as they say in Britain, full stop. Any overflow just fell through the air to the sidewalk below.

Noting that outside drain pipes and outside water pipes were very common, I surmised that 1) it didn’t really get very cold here, and 2) the English are daft. I asked Donald, my interpreter of British customs, about these outside pipes and open drains. “Don’t they ever freeze up in the winter?” I asked. With a disdainful look of one who is being unfairly criticized, he answered, “Yes, they do, but don’t you see if they are outside it is easier to get at them to thaw them out.” Yes, indeed, I thought, but I didn’t think I’d write a beneficial suggestion home to our less farsighted plumbers.

Another aspect of their plumbing system gave me great challenge in heating up the upstairs bathroom at the Manse. The American safety valve sytem in hot water systems is the thermostat. Sometime before the water in the completely closed system changes from water to steam, and the closed system changes violently to an open system, a thermostat turns off the gas flame and the system remains closed and in one piece. In the English systems I saw, the water is heated by an Aga (coke) cooker. This cooker is usually on 24 hours a day and is used 1) for cooking, 2) to keep the kitchen warm, 3) to burn the garbage in 4) to dry dishes on, 5) to hang wet clothes above, and 6) to heat the water in the hot water tank. This system does not lend itself to a thermostat very conveniently. So they use an open water system. Somewhere way up high in the house, perhaps in the attic, but in the Manse on the wall high above the bathtub is an open cistern (bowl). A float valve allows water into this cistern whenever any is drained out lower down in the system. The cistern itself connects directly through the Aga cooker to the hot water tank. If the hot water tank really got too hot its pressure would relieve itself up through this open cistern which would merely overflow through an open pipe through the outside wall. A foolproof system.

Obviously the water in this supply cistern was outside cold and whatever heat there might have been in the bathroom was used up to bring this water to room temperature. My scheme was very simple. To convert this heat sink to a heat source all I needed to do was to run hot water out of the bathtub top, disable the float valve momentarily, collect this hot water and pour it back into the cistern. In principle and in practice this system worked fine. I could make myself a hot water radiator in the upstairs bathroom. The difficulty came in the operation of my system. The cistern was just six inches below the ceiling and could only be reached by standing with one foot on the bathtub and the other on the toilet. Pans and buckets were too large to pour between the ceiling and the top of the cistern so I had to use a quart bottle. The water pump in this hot water heating system was me, using a quart bottle and balancing on the edge of the bathtub. At least one person got heated up in this process--me, the pump. What with bending over double to catch the water in the bottle and then stretching on tiptoe to pour it into the cistern, and repeating this procedure until the cistern was full of steaming water, I was heated up. Incidentally, the water didn’t have to be very hot to steam up a 40° bathroom.

Although this system worked fine, I soon gave it up and just filled the bathtub full of steaming water and then waited a half hour for the heat to equalize around the room. The trouble with this simple system was that the bathroom looked like a steam bath. The steam did not do the nonwater-proofed wallpaper any good either. In any case, once in the bathtub I soon discovered a new heat leak. I’ve already mentioned that the overflow on the bathtub was merely a pipe running directly though the outside wall and terminating there. I don’t know how much water ever overflowed this way but I can tell you the cold outside air certainly found its way in. I always set the boys up front by the overflow; I stayed near the back. One thing about seeing your breath condense in the bathroom, you don’t tarry long.

Heating the house by fireplace was a hopeless job, though challenging. The British seemed so surprised when we indicated that there were other ways to heat a house. Apparently, for centuries past, coal had been so cheap that allowing ninety per cent of the heat (and eighty per cent of the smoke) to go up the chimney had been no real problem. Why install an efficient heating system at great expense when coal was so cheap? Now that coal is no longer cheap (it’s cheaper to import it from America), heat is just more scarce (in the houses that is the warmest air in England is just above the chimney pots on the roof).

Heating with coal in a fireplace presents many problems. The problem which presents itself first is, “How do you get a coal fire started?” After having run out of paper and small pieces of wood, consultation with Donald led to the following information: all modern houses have gas outlets near the fireplace so you merely buy a gas poker, ignite it, lay it in the coal, wait a few minutes, and your coal is ignited. This sounded fine but 1) we had no such outlet near the fireplace, and 2) we had Dan, who loved to throw switches and valves. Because of Dan we had our gas service terminated before Dan terminated himself, ourselves, and the Manse. The gas poker wasn’t our answer, so Donald’s next suggestion was, “Buy some fire starter.” I wasn’t sure he wasn’t pulling my leg but I thought I’d ask the next time I went to Webb’s store. Sure enough, there was such a thing as “fire starter”. Fire starter was some wax-like substance that was soaked in paraffin (kerosene). It was brown and came in packages about 12" x 6" x 1". Strips about 1 x 1 x 6" could be easily broken off and these in turn broken up and hidden in the coal. They ignited easily, burned hot, and usually ignited the coal, but they weren’t cheap. When Mary and the boys weren’t around I sometimes just poured some paraffin over the coal, but this was both dangerous and expensive.

The real solution to this, as to so many problems, came quite by accident. One day a smudgy, rather uncouth, and persistent little man came around with a lorry full of old London wooden paving blocks. I’m sure someone told him there were Americans living in The Manse and that the man of the house had no sales resistance whatsoever. In any case, he timed his visit when Mary was at the store and I ended up with a backyard full of wooden, tar-soaked, paving bricks. Any single brick was as hard to ignite as coal and burned about as long. However, by splitting these blocks down into slivers, and into small and medium sized pieces, and by stacking them up properly one match would do the trick. The advantages of this system were many; the boys built forts out of the blocks in the back yard, I got lots of chopping exercise each Saturday, and it was easy to start coal fires. There were, however, a few disadvantages; the tar came off on boys, melted off and made a tarry mess of the fireplace; and the tar smoke sooted up the chimney. I’m convinced no self-respecting Britisher would succumb to burning wooden paving blocks.

One might ask why anyone would use wood for paving blocks anyway. The answer is that in the good old days people were not addicted as we are to noise. You see, iron horse shoes and iron-rimmed carriage wheels on cobble stone, or brick, pavements are noisy. When streets run under arches, or near cathedrals, or by the bedroom window of the manor house, these traffic noises are bothersome. Quite obviously, horses’ hooves on wooden blocks make less noise than horses’ hooves on cobblestones. At least this was my reasoning when I observed one day at Blenheim Palace that the brick paving suddenly gave way to wooden paving blocks each time the street passed under an extensive arch or covered passageway.

Now that I knew how to start a coal fire easily I could concentrate on other problems dealing with heating a house by multiple fireplaces. We soon decided that one room, other than the kitchen which was heated by the Aga cooker, was sufficient for weekday living. The only fireplace we kept going, therefore, was in the dining room. But even here the question was how to get it warm in time for breakfast. And the answer was simple: you get up at least an hour before breakfast and rekindle the fire. By stacking on a very large piece of coal at night and/or covering the coals with coal dust it was often possible to rekindle the fire from embers still glowing. This was best heatwise since the room itself wasn’t so cold. Safetywise I’m sure it wasn’t very smart, even with the wire screen around the outside.

When guests were expected we would try to heat up one or two of the parlours. We thought this required advance planning because it took two or three hours to heat up the rooms. We found, however, on being invited out one night for dinner that we were mistaken in this concept. As we left our hosts’ parlour, which was their heated room, to partake of dinner in their dining room, which was not heated, we found that the fire was lighted just as we entered. The object of fires seems to be psychological. If you can see the fire you are supposed to be warmed by it. Feeling the effects of a fire seemed to be completely secondary. I think we were told by every Britisher with whom we were bold enough to broach the subject of heating-systems vs. fireplaces that, “We like to see the open flame.” Usually followed by, “Don’t you have fireplaces in America?” Mary’s usual answer was, “Yes, we have them. We use them to arrange furniture around but not to heat the house with.”

Our Christmas dinner with the Fergusons, our American Negro friends, pointed out a new solution to a problem that Mary was beginning to see develop. The problem was this. When we did heat the parlours and the dining room we had all the downstairs rooms warm but it was necessary to put on a coat to get from one room to the next. The hall, which cleanly clove the house into two separate parts, was an insurmountable heating problem. It was two stories high, was terminated on the ground floor by two loosely fitting doors, and on the top floor it was terminated by four open doors into bedrooms, a window and the usually closed bathroom door. It was impossible to heat the downstairs rooms and the hall with fireplaces which in any case only heated the rooms by sight, not feel. So recapitulating, the problem was how to get from the dining room to the parlour without freezing.

At the Fergusons we noted, on the landing of their staircase, a fanciful looking wick-burning flame gadget with a polished reflector behind it. This was a paraffin fire (kerosene heater). It was a marvel; it gave off lots of heat, it didn’t smell of burned paraffin, it was pretty, and it was portable. We bought one next day and set it in the hall by the downstairs bathroom.

A week later a scandal broke over all England. Said paraffin fires were death traps. It seems that if these fires were set in a six-knot wind they tended to explode, setting fire to their surroundings. We treated our new heat source with respect but did not stop using it. By setting it in the hall it kept the downstairs bathroom usably warm and kept the hall warm enough so we could take our time walking in and out of the doors of the downstairs rooms that opened on the hall.

On extremely cold nights we moved the paraffin fire to the top hall for sleeping. Except for this there was no heat in the upstairs bedrooms. This lead to a few changes in our sleeping habits. To begin with, new woolen sleepers for the lot, Dan’s and Charlie’s with feet. The rest of us slept in heavy wool socks. Next, seven hot water bottles. When I was bold enough to try reading in bed, my favorite hobby, I would wear my gloves. It didn’t take anyone long to either dress or to grab their clothes and head for a heated room. In general, everyone slept like logs.

We soon realized we were not the only people who had difficulty with heating problems. At Chapel or Church on Sundays no one, except the minister, took off their coats (or mufflers). I usually took off my gloves, but only so I could hold the hymnal. I got so I wouldn’t even put on a shirt and tie, or good suit coat. All anyone ever saw was my overcoat. I always wore my corrugated cardboard pants and Wellingtons. During the singing I could hardly keep my place because I got so interested in watching the breath condense as my neighbours sang. The same behavior existed at PTA meetings and at the village theatrical productions. In movies it was usually the same.

I took John, Tom, and Bill up to London to see “Carmen” at Convent Garden. I was worried for a week about what to wear. Wellingtons at Convent Garden somehow seemed out of place and only reluctantly did I wear shoes on the gala night. I was pleasantly surprised. Either someone had been bold enough to install central heating or they have figured out a way to conserve all the body-generated heat. It was delightfully warm, or else I was so absorbed in the performance that I forgot about my ankles. The boys were certainly enraptured. On our return I told Mary, who sat with Dan and Charlie, that Convent Garden was warm and packed. After a slight pause she answered, “Naturally, everyone goes to keep warm.”

By February we had solved, or learned to live with, the heat problem. My solution was Wellington boots worn at all times except to bed. I was getting so accustomed to our fireplace that I threw caution to the wind. We were expecting guests and I figured, since I had a whole collection of cardboard boxes to get rid of, I would superheat our room by burning said boxes in the fireplace. I knew corrugated cardboard was hard to get into small pieces, and burned hot. I figured that a few hot and roaring flames going up the chimney might burn away some soot (primarily of the London paving block variety) and save us a visit from the chimney sweep. After the second or third box, which did indeed throw off a terrific heat, and did indeed shoot flames up the chimney, I happened to glance out of our front window. I wondered where the fog had come from, it had been perfectly clear a few moments ago. I then had the rather sickening feeling that perhaps that wasn’t fog but maybe it was smoke. And further, I had the feeling that the smoke might be coming from The Manse. It got no better and soon I couldn’t even see across the street and I had the feeling that I was probably not making many new friends among my neighbors. I stopped piling on more fuel and was not very patiently waiting for the holocaust to die down. However, the room was still piled high with the boxes I had originally planned to burn.

Suddenly I heard a voice from behind the stack of piled-up boxes. It was not a very pleasant voice and the words were something to the effect, “What in heaven’s name are you doing?” These weren’t the exact words but they bear on the same subject. I think the exact words referred to the other place, where flames were quite in order. I looked up and noticed that the speaker was none other than my old acquaintance (and perhaps the one man in the village I had reason to believe wasn’t my friend), the village Bobby.

He informed me in short terse sentences that 1) I was creating a nuisance (this I knew), 2) it was very dangerous to cause flames to shoot up a chimney since chimney soot did indeed burn and if perchance there was a leak in the chimney, said flames might cause the house to catch on fire, 3) that red hot soot issuing forth from chimneys created a fire hazard, particularly to thatched roofs, 4) the more usual way to clean out chimneys was by utilizing the services of a chimney sweep (see the coalman next door, his assistant was a chimney sweep), 5) in addition to being the village Bobby he was the village fire watcher, 6) he was luckily (I somehow would rather use the word unfortunately) passing along Pierce Lane when he saw this erupting volcano, 7) really this sort of thing was against the law, 8) Americans are somewhat stupid anyway, 9) I should cease and desist, 10) this friendly chat should be considered a warning, and 11) cheerio.

We did indeed hire the services of our neighbor’s apprentice and told him to tell the next tenants of The Manse, the Pollacks, to use that shed full of cardboard boxes for a gay Guy Fawkes night bonfire.

Chaucer Slept Here

Our social life has never flown very high. Neither Mary nor I are much for socializing. We belong to no social, yacht, bridge, nor dancing clubs. We spend our time in church work, PTA work, scouting, little League, and I play in the La Jolla Civic Orchestra. Our going out other than picnics and pot lucks for the above activities consisted of taking the boys to our favorite pizza house, Pernicanos. When an occasional office party comes about we go but only reluctantly (and usually leave early). We are not exactly anti-social, it is only that we have neither the time, inclination, nor desire for purely social activities.

In England things were somewhat different. Our church and civic activities were much reduced and we were out to learn all we could about English life including their social life. We were somewhat out of the ordinary, being aliens and so were invited out quite a bit. At first before Dan became home-without-momma broken we didn’t do much without the boys but by the Christmas season we even ventured out alone on occasion.

Our first outing was for the whole family at the, home of Dr. and Mrs. Christopher Poulton. This was a Sunday afternoon affair while we were still in our caravan at Waverly. It was a warm day, and for England it was a real scorcher. The plastic swimming pools were out, and we had hardly settled down when the Poultons asked the boys if they wanted to join their girls in the wading pool. Of course our boys did and we were delighted, they hadn’t come close to that much water for months. The Poultons had two girls and a girl cousin. The girls ranged in age from 6 to 9. As soon as our boys agreed to the wading-splashing affair the girls immediately stripped down to their birthday suits. Excess modesty seems to be a unique American trait.

At least we were continually shocked, on the continent particularly, by the number of little girls swimming in birthday suits, and at adults changing clothes right on the beach. We didn’t point out these differences in public bathing behavior to the boys, nor did we try to act as if anything was amiss.

It was quite obvious however that our boys were not yet accustomed to this type of thing. They stood aghast watching the proceedings but not reciprocating, and in fact they were somewhat at a loss to what they really should do. The Poultons encouraged them to join in the fun and Charlie obliged. John, Tom, and Bill cooperated down to their underpants but stopped at that. Their reluctance and looks of shocked surprise dampened the outing to a certain extent but no permanent international ill feelings developed. The tea, punch, and biscuits followed by ice (cream) soon smoothed things out beautifully. The girls had lots of toys and after the swim everything was lovely. In any case Mary and I had a completely enjoyable chat with the Poultons about differences in English and American customs and the whole outing was a huge success.

At Christmas there were many parties. The Unit had an office party on Saturday night. Dr. Conrad had an evening cocktail party and the Professor, Dr. Zangwill of the Experimental Psychology Department at the University, had a similar party. In general these affairs didn’t differ too markedly from similar parties in the USA except for the preponderance of sherry. We enjoyed them thoroughly because of all the things we had to learn from our talkative companions.

The party at the Unit was probably the most unique. Vera, Pauline, and the other girls worked hard to turn the old mansion back to a mansion. The Applied Psychology Research Unit was located in a stately, old, three-story, red brick house. There were at least twenty rooms, many of them large and many with fireplaces. It had obviously belonged to the well-to-do and one still had the feeling more like a playboy pursuing an intellectual hobby than a hard working scientist in a spic and span efficiently run laboratory.

The hour-long tea and coffee breaks at 10 and 4 also added fuel to the leisure feelings of the idle rich. I must hastily add that although tea was available for an hour, it wasn’t often that anyone dawdled the whole hour in the Common Room. It would easily have been possible to spend the entire hour at tea however because the Common Room was also the periodical library and the last two months issues of all the pertinent scientific journals were located there. As was also Punch.

The tea ritual in itself differed heartily from our usual coffee breaks. There was the inevitable pot of well brewed strong English tea (tea bags are as rare as American cars in England). And for the back-sliders there is a pot of coffee. There are two jugs of milk, one hot and one cold, and sitting on a shelf underneath the rolling table that brings this repast into the Common Room is a tea kettle of hot water. I’m sure the hot water was not solely for me (to dilute the tea) but I don’t think any self-respecting Britisher would stoop to dilute the tea. Nor did I ever note anyone else using the tea-kettle, but I’m still sure they wouldn’t cater to any single alien in such a grand manner. My tea consisted of equal portions of tea, hot water and hot milk. Many others had white tea which is roughly half tea and half hot milk but somehow they always guffawed to see me add water.

Along with the tea, coffee, and/or milk and hot water came the biscuits (cookies). To make financial ends meet, threepence (three Pennies) was donated for the steaming liquid and a penny apiece for biscuits. John is a semi coin collector. Semi not because he is lukewarm about it, but because he oscillates between hot and cold. In England he wanted to get pennies for every reign and preferably for every year. And in England this type of coin collecting is great sport because pennies, called coppers and as large as half dollars are used until absolutely smooth. In any one day’s rummage through the coin box in the Common Room I would find a penny from the reign of Queen Victoria (in her old age), of Edward VII, George V, and about once a week of Victoria in her youth (with hair in bun and called Victoria bun). So in addition to diluting my tea, and eating 2 or even 3 biscuits, I would sort through the coins; completely odd these Americans.

You can never tell where hobbies will lead you. Not only did John’s coin collecting make me regularly rifle the Unit’s tea and biscuit collection, but I also stopped at Lloyds of Cambridge and asked for a newly minted crown piece. These are made only rarely and are not ordinarily used as legal tender, but only as souvenirs. In the process of reserving a crown piece my bicycling clerk asked if I wanted some farthings or some three penny silver bits. Neither of these were in circulation and whenever they came into the bank they were retained. They would later be turned in. However if I wanted to buy some at their face value prices I was welcome, and this I did.

One day as John and I came home to The Manse from school and the Unit in Cambridge I noted a strange bicycle in our garden. As I started in the house I noticed a Bobby hat, a real one, parked on the stairway banister post. I wondered, “Now what?” I had registered as I was requested. They had made a routine check only a week ago. I hadn’t really burned down The Manse in my box disposal program. I hadn’t recently tried driving on the right side of the road. “What now?”

As I entered the dining room I noted this was not my old antagonist the village Bobby but a stranger. And he was sorting through John’s coins. Had we broken some law in gathering forbidden coins?

Mary soon put me at ease. She introduced me to the Bobby from the neighbouring village of Teversham. She added, “He is a coin collector, and came to see John’s collection.” He of course also had brought his own collection along. We had a gay old chat, and John brought out some brand new Lincoln Memorial pennies to trade him. Before we left he brought over more of his collection and we became good friends.

The climax of terms end at Cambridge is the “Bumping Race” on the Cam. The Cam is too narrow to race side by each. They therefore race their shells in series and the object is to bump the shell ahead. The Bumping Order is inherited from last year’s crew and each college has competed for hundreds of years. This is really one big event. For this year’s race the Queen Mother was to be in attendance. This made it bigger than ever and mandatory for us to attend. Just as I was about to give up to trafficitis and turn back who should be on duty but the coin collecting Bobby. We had no further troubles. The boys saw the Queen Mother. They had already seen the Princess Royal. The Queen herself was yet to come.

But back to the Unit and the coffee-tea breaks.

These coffee-tea breaks had the other beneficial effect of bringing all researchers out of their cubicles (all had individual offices), and into a common meeting place. Here you could ask your neighbor, who you only heard on the stairs and didn’t really ever see, what he was doing now. Or you could ask the statistician how to analyze your data; the engineers, how to debug your equipment; the secretaries, when your typing would be done; or the director, what he accomplished in London yesterday. Many times you did spend an hour at tea because your neighbor was detailing the results of his latest experiment, or the latest issue of Punch had just arrived.

At least once a week, Sir Frederic, the director emeritus, and the Professor emeritus, would show up at tea. One day he came over to me with a very puzzled look on his face and said he had a problem. It seems he had been invited to America to give a lecture and act as consultant for a week at the University of Michigan. After some tentative dates had been set, he found he had a conflict and had written his regrets. He now had in his hand a letter from Michigan which stated in the first sentence, “...I will take a rain check on your lecture...”. Sir Frederic’ question was, what have the Americans done to the Queen’s English? What does he mean? What is a rain check?

In England rugby and soccer games are played rain or shine, and Cricket considers rain as one of the opponents in the game itself. In a first class cricket “Test Match” anywhere from two or three to five days are allowed for the match, a single game. Two innings are played. A coin is flipped and the winning captain usually chooses to his team bat first. His problem then becomes twofold how to score the most runs and yet get the other team completely out in each inning. For you see there are 3 possibilities in cricket; win, lose, or draw. Many matches are draws which means only that the winning team couldn’t get the losing team out before the end of the match.

Let’s say in a five-day match the first inning is concluded at the end of the third day and his team is ahead 366 runs to 316. Now in the fourth day in the afternoon his team has scored another 206 runs and only 6 batsmen are out and the weather looks like it might rain. He must decide whether he thinks he can get all eleven men of he other team out 1) before they score 257 runs AND 2) before tomorrow afternoon at the end of the match. On both counts he has his doubts. But if he goes on to score more runs his chance of getting them out before the end of the match is less, especially if it rains yet this afternoon or tomorrow. He has the option to “declare” at any time which merely means he will not take all of his outs. At this point he could stop with, “257 runs for 6 declared.” So you see rain is just part of the game.

Anyway if the match goes on for a full day, or 2, or 3, or 5 days, what difference does it make to miss a half day, or a day, or 2 or 3 days or I might even add, to miss 5 days. Unless you like to watch a single batsman for a full half day swat the ball hither and yon and score perhaps a hundred runs, and can hold your revenge until next day when your team gets to bat (when already behind by 298 runs) you won’t enjoy a cricket match.

But back to Sir Frederic. What about this rain check business. As you can see from his national sporting background, explaining the meaning of “Rain check” wasn’t a completely simple matter. Since his mind is as keen as ever in learning new facts and, like myself, he enjoys exploring the differences that have developed between the colonies and the king, we spent an hour at tea. I have since sent him a rain check that I got in Yankee Stadium watching the Tigers and Yankees finish 2 games in one day NOT draw on a single game in two days because they couldn’t get the last batter out).

It was at tea also that Pauline, the choir singing secretary, started hatching up a musical program for the pre-Christmas Party. Mervyn (DR.) Stone, the statistician, played the guitar, Harold Dale the clarinet, Bob Wilkinson actually directed a dance band, she sang and she knew I played the clarinet. Our total potential was never reached but we did get together The Three Kings Trio. The wise men somehow or another declined to play. Our kings consisted of soprano, clarinet, and guitar, sometimes augmented by one or more of the kings prerecorded on a tape recorder. Pauline had some carol books with English tunes and a few descants and I composed a couple of descants and wrote in the chords for Merv, who was relatively new on the guitar. We rehearsed a few carols and of course were meant to be only the accompaniment for group singing the night of the party.

Come party Saturday. Dan had just permanently deafened, or at least temporarily discouraged, his last and our only baby sitter, so Dan came to the party. It was really quite simple. When the Unit took over the stately mansion for research they needed a caretaker, handyman, shop technician, and night watchman. Mr. and Mrs. Cyril Deane lived upstairs in 2 or 3 rooms and served all the above functions and on Christmas Party night, their flat also served as nursery. I must add though that Dan was a little suspicious of the whole set of circumstances and resisted my not too patient patting for some time.

When I finally got down to the Common Room I found no library, no table loaded down with Punch (the punch table was next door in the secretaries’ room), nothing that would identify the room with a scientific relaxing space. Instead the whole downstairs was now something out of a Bronte sisters novel. The Unit was gone, the mansion was back. Chairs and tables arranged in the Paris outdoor restaurant style replaced desks and typewriters. All sorts of biscuits, scones, potato crisps (chips), Cornish pasties, together with dips (no mustard), and relishes (no dill pickles) adorned a serving table. Sweets and nuts were liberally scattered around, as were holly, mistletoe, Christmas cards, and gaily coloured bunting. Cider, ale, and sherry was available and from the vocal output of the assembled guests it was obvious that the liquid Christmas spirit was pulsing in the veins of my staid and steady English fellow scientists. Sir Frederic and Lady Bartlett were amongst their younger ex-students who were so ably carrying on in the great traditions and high standards set down for them by Sir Frederic.

Pauline, Vera, and the rest of the Unit’s feminine staff were quite justly happy about their handiwork and the array of smiles on some usually very somber faces. Mr. and Mrs. Deane, in whose mansion the gala affair was celebrated, were as proud and happy as the original aristocratic owners of this gay house could ever have been. The present director of the Unit, jovial Donald Broadbent and his wife Peg, were also pleased with the progress of the festivities. This party had many hosts and hostesses and each was sharing in the Party’s success.

Dance music, recorded on one of the Unit’s tape recorders, soon beckoned many to the ballroom (Common Room) and the more youthful in mind and body started using up some of the excess calories they had just shored up on in the banquet hall (secretaries’ room).

The carol sing went off very well with lusty singing bursting forth from one and all. Our descants, chords, and lead singing were almost drowned out, but without us their singing might have been less confident. Then came the usual break-the-ice games, although I couldn’t see that they were needed. The cold-fire-hose treatment might have been more appropriate.

In the height of all this activity Mrs. Deane came down with one unhappy soul. The party spirit had not engulfed Dan, apparently only the noise. Dan himself is no piker in the noise department and his screams on the third floor were heard by someone at least on the ground floor. Dan, however, entered into the spirit of the party in short order. Dan has an affinity for food and an equal affinity for being the center of attention. His main problem was which was his greater love? After he had sampled enough cakes to have icing from ear to ear, and fearing that his presence did not really add to the original spirit of the party, we bundled him up and not so silently slipped away. Not so silently because by now he had come to enjoy the party and saw no specific reason for going home. He could entertain the boys any time. This audience was hard to come by. Before he was halfway home, however, he was dreaming of his good time and was quite happy and content. And so were we, family-office-Christmas Parties at least in an olde stately English house complete with English good humour and the spirit of well-being were much to our liking.

The remainder of our Christmas Holiday was definitely American. We had our Christmas turkey with Capt. Ferguson and his family and although New Years Day is not a holiday in England, the Fergusons and ourselves made it one with ham in The Manse.

There was another American scientist in the village with his family and we also spent an evening with them. The Bowerings, from Canada, were younger than we, they had but one baby. There were a few brand new houses in the village and the Bowerings were in one. The owner, a professor at Cambridge, was off on a year’s expedition to the Antarctic. We sat in his new house marveling at the perversity of the British. This brand new house, built for a Cambridge University Scientist, was heated by a single fire-place. It was however a modern fire-place. The cold air came from outside the house. It came through an air duct under the floor. Ours in the Manse got its cold air from the other side of the room in an unducted duct along (not underneath) the floor. You had no difficulty knowing when our fire was drawing well.

The other innovation was that in the firebrick behind the firebox were a series of pipes filled with water and these pipes formed a closed circuit with a radiator out in the hall behind the fireplace. And so when I visited the Bowerings I only wore my heavy woolen knee length socks and not as at home, my Wellington boots.

Our evening with the Sells, my PTA board colleague, was very pleasant. He was the mechanical arts and art master (teacher) at the Cherry Hinton Grammar School and appreciated good art. His own colour slides of Norway were in excellent taste. His books of photographs of olde English castles and of Prague kept me quite entranced. The fact that he was a grammar school master led to lively conversations of differences between American and English schools. Mary quite properly insisted that the English system is not democratic and as such could not and would not ever succeed in America. Selecting on IQ and achievement and training these select students apart from the others was indeed undemocratic but it is efficient. Good scholars usually manage to gain the top anyway but when I think of all the things I could have learned if adequately challenged in my pre-graduate days it makes me tend to like the European system. I was always amazed at the range of intellectual interests of my colleagues in England, their knowledge of good literature, world history, geography, political systems, in addition to their specialized knowledge in their chosen fields. For those who don’t make the grammar schools, life and education is hard; out of school by age 15 with a long road ahead if any higher education is desired. When compared to these children our system is good. But the opportunities offered the grammar school students is not matched by an equal challenge here.

The evenings we will remember longest as most typical of the England we wanted to enjoy were the evenings at the Argues. Their boy, Christopher Rouen, could not in my mind have been more British. If a new illustrator was to need a model for A.A.Milne’s Christopher Robin, he would need look no further. Charlie and Christopher played together by the hour and so of course Mary and Margaret soon became fast friends. The Argues lived in a small yellow stuccoed thatched roof cottage. The door was stooping small, and the threshold was one step below ground level. I always wondered what happened in the rain. It would appear, if the laws of physics hold for thatched roof cottages that the water would flow in under the front door. People, or water, once inside are in a small vestibule. Off of this vestibule is a large, for such a small cottage, living room. It is large in width, the whole width of the house. It is large in length, half of the total length of the house. But in height it reflects the true size of the little cottage. I could, stand straight up in the whole of the room, as could Mary. The Argues however being taller people could only stand up between the rough hewn rafters that seemed to be winning the battle of holding up the floor of the upper story. I say, seem to be winning, because on looking at the ceiling from the comfort of an easy chair in front of the fireplace one had the feeling that he was looking at the bottom of a large hammock. If I lived in this cottage I would sleep Christopher Rouen in the middle bedroom and I’d sleep on one end or the other. And I’m not sure I wouldn’t prop the broom up between the floor and the lowest sag of the rafter before I did my daily stopping stint. However since it has stood the test of centuries I was neither concerned about my safety, nor for the safety of the Argues and if they would have offered it for sale they would have had a taker.

Granted that half of the charm of an evening at Argues was the cottage, the remaining half was the equal charm of the Argues. Noel was an astronomer at Cambridge. An astronomer of the old school. No satellites, nor radio telescopes, just old fashioned astronomy. I guess I liked this so much because it seemed so impractical in these days of applied science. In these hectic days of practicality how can anyone become completely absorbed in work on stars with no thought of the possible usefulness of his work to the building of bigger and better rockets?

The Sells were often at the Argues as was Mr. Bradshaw a chemistry master from John’s grammar school. We sat by the hour discoursing on world problems moral degeneration, the materialism of America vs. the perversity of the British and many other things that none of us were authorities on.

It was these discussions on timeless and worldless subjects in this timeworn and out-of-this world cottage with these people who studied the eternities of time and worlds that added the zest to living in merrie olde England.

The whole aura of the village and its charming people inspired me to an uninspired verse about an English Village Christmas:

English Village Christmas

Out of the gate and into the street,

To the village shops we go,

The boys know the way

Through the mist and grey,

And what to order they know.

Out of the gate and into the street,

To shop in the butcher’s store.

In puddles to splash,

From bicycles dash,

And dodge the lorries that roar.

Out of the gate and into the street,

The Christmas turkey to buy.

The meat hangs round,

the carols sound,

And pumpkin we need for pie.

Out of the gate and into the street,

For bread at the baker’s shop.

Mincemeat he bakes,

With puddings and cakes,

And frosting he puts on top.

Out of the gate and into the street,

Off to the barber’s we go.

His shop is open,

From four till seven,

With electric fire aglow.

Out of the gate and into the street

To get the Christmas fare.

To the cobbler’s shop,

Thatched roof on the top,

To buy warm boots to wear.

Out of the gate and into the street,

The general store’s the place,

For toffee and toys,

For all five boys,

And candles and cotton and lace.

Out of the gate and into the street,

To visit the pub for wine,

For Boxing Day,

In package gay,

For milk and dustman to dine.

Out of the gate and into the street

To post the Christmas cards.

Her Majesty’s post

The countries boast

The village corner guards.

Out of the gate and into the street

To garage for petrol we drive

The paraffin sells

And bicycle bells

On taxi trade he thrives.

In the gate and inside the house

The Christmas tree is alight.

With candles lit

Around it we sit

The coal in the hearth is bright.

On Christmas Day with stockings filled

Father Christmas has made his rounds.

In church we say

On Jesus’ birthday

Thank God, that goodness abounds.

J.C.Webster

Fulbourn, Cambridge

22nd December, 1959.

Essen und Trinken

In the mail one day at the Unit came a very official looking letter from the American Embassy in London. I kept wondering all the way up the steps what I’d done now. I had registered with the Cambridgeshire police, I hadn’t tried shopping in the Post Exchanges around Cambridge (although I’m sure my Navy Identification Card would have done the trick), nor had I pledged allegiance to the British flag.

The letter was in fact an invitation to present a paper in Germany for a meeting sponsored by the Ausschusz fur Funkortung. This is a government sponsored, industry endorsed Committee on Radio Navigational Aids. The topic for the 1960 annual meeting was Medical and Psychological Aspects of Radio Navigation Problems. If interested I was to contact a General Martini via the American Embassy in Bonn. When I read further that my travel expenses would be paid by the German Committee I was obviously interested.

In subsequent correspondence we agreed upon a title for the paper and I set to work and wrote a paper and submitted it six weeks in advance of the January meeting so that German and French translations could be prepared by the meeting time.

No one else from the Unit was going to the meeting but Donald Wallis from the Admiralty (Senior Psychologists Office) was going and we made arrangements by phone to go together. The meetings were the first full week in January and to get there we needed to leave London on Sunday morning. Donald suggested that in January it would be the better part of prudence to go by train and boat not by air. He obligingly got us First Class compartment seats on the 9 A.M. train Sunday, 3 January from Victoria Station to Dover with boat Connections and seats on the Trans Europe Express (TEE) from Ostend to Cologne connecting on to Essen.

Then I found out of course that there is no train from Cambridge that connects with early Sunday morning trains out of London. Weeks before all of these travel transactions I had purchased tickets for John, Tom, Bill, and I for Hansel and Gretel for Saturday, 2 January. Top level discussions and decisions came up with the plan that the whole family go up to London by train, stay over in a hotel and see me off Sunday morning. We phoned London’s hotel finding agency and got a hotel across Bayswater Road from Hyde Park, near the Queensway Tube Station. Another gala day in London and our first family hotel experience since 1 June in Hameln, Germany.

Everything progressed smoothly. We knew our way in and out of British Railway Coaches. We chose to go via Kings Cross Station. We expected to and did lose John for five minutes in the station while he went loco spotting. Then to save time we put Mom, Dan and Charlie in those squat, black London cabs and dispatched them for the hotel while the older boys and I took the Northern Line from Kings Cross to Angel and then walked to Sadlers Wells.

Hansel and Gretel was very pleasing to my boys and to all the other children in the audience. Even the witch didn’t really frighten them. In January it gets dark early but in the tube it really makes very little difference. We transferred at Bank to the Central Line and soon joined mom and the small boys at the hotel. The great thing was the subsequent double decker bus ride from Bayswater Road through Oxford Street to Oxford Circus, then down Regent Street through Piccadilly Circus and Haymarket to Westminster Bridge. A short walk and return. The Christmas lighting was still up and Regent Street in particular was lovely.

Our dinner in a little French restaurant near the hotel was also a success, no spilled milk, nor dropped forks. We did forget Charlie’s cap but returned forthwith and retrieved it. The hotel was not American. We had two adjacent rooms, one large one and next door a small twin bedded one. A shilling in the gas fire bought enough gas to heat the room comfortably for undressing. The bath rooms were reached down the hall. No problem in getting tired boys to sleep.

We strained the hotel people somewhat at breakfast, which is included in the price of the room. We were waiting at the door when they opened and our taxi was waiting for us when we were finishing. I finally had to make my decision about my Wellington boots. I’d come prepared to either wear regular shoes and stand the chance of freezing on the train and boat or wearing my old patent foot warming Wellingtons. The weather looked threatening so I chose the course of warm feet, First Class dress to the contrary. With our light weight cloth luggage I had brought along sizes 2 and 3 where 2 fits snugly into 3. If Wellingtons were not worn they would fit into bag 3. If worn, bag 2 fit into bag 3, and this is what I did.

We weren’t overly early at Victoria so the family just stayed in the taxi for their trip to Liverpool Street Station. I now gave up being father first class and became scientist and traveler First Class (except for the Wellington boots). I was soon seated in a compartment literally bulging with suitcases, parcels, baskets, boxes, and people, four to a side. As soon as I took my seat Donald Wallis sitting opposite introduced himself (all previous arrangements had been by letter and phone). His light weight highly polished shoes caught my eye immediately and I’m sure my black unpolished rubber Wellingtons complete with red brand on the inside of the instep, also caught his eye. Being a typically polite Britisher his expression did not convey the expression of, “Who’s this odd ball I’m to spend the next week with.” He was about my age; taller, slimmer, with thinning hair, and nicely dressed. He wore a continual smile, and his general facial contours were of the happy, turning up variety, not of the soured on life, turned down type.

We had lots to talk about and one of his first inquiries was, “How well do you speak German?” I told him I was no past master but had survived two previous trips although I was ready to stand down to his abilities if they were better. He said his competence was in French, that he knew no German. That took care of that. I found he was an ex Royal Navy officer and had spent most of WWII attached to the Canadian Navy. As such he was acquainted with New York City and some aspects of American life. In general we hit it right off and I could see this was going to be a successful trip.

At Dover I went through the alien line, and Donald went through the citizen line. We soon rejoined and went on board the Dover-Ostend Channel Ferry. We stayed topside and watched the white cliffs of Dover fade from view. He told me how during WWII a radar antenna scanned the channel here, and how the populace was generally moved inland from the immediate coast. He spoke of specific incidents like for example how the German battle cruiser Scharnhorst slipped through the channel one night while the radar was down for maintenance. He often wondered how they knew it was down.

We were soon beyond the three mile limit and with his money I purchased him beaucoup cartons of cigarettes. We then descended into the dining room and seeing no vacant tables joined another amiable man for lunch. Our table companion turned out to be an international civil servant working in Vienna on the joint Atomic Energy Commission. Since all of us were civil servants and scientists we had a fine talk on mutual problems. The journey was over much too quickly. At Ostend we parted.

Donald and I had reserved seats on the TEE but there were only about 6 people on the Cologne car, we certainly didn’t need reserved seats. There was still about an hour of daylight and I saw the skylines of Bruges and Ghent as we rushed past. As soon as it was dark we ambled up to the snack car for more sustenance. While enjoying the food an announcement came over the PA system auf Deutsch to the effect that Herr Wallis was wanted at the Gepackwagen (baggage car). He had registered (checked) a suitcase and the German customs people were getting their work done early. No trouble, he was soon back.

We pulled into Cologne before 8 P.M. and I ascertained from certain words I heard that the connecting train to Essen was directly ahead on the same track. This somehow didn’t seem to make good sense but it turned out to be so. The TEE is completely symmetrical, an engine at each end, and they pulled out of Cologne for Mainz and Frankfurt by reversing directions. We scurried forward and in a short time were detraining in Essen.

Our hotel was just across the square from the station and we were soon comfortably situated. Of course Donald’s registered bag hadn’t yet arrived but he had the things he really needed. The contrast between Essen and London began with the hotel. The Handelshof was new as was all of downtown Essen. The WWII bombers had made it easy to rebuild Essen. The Handelshof was centrally heated, with spacious halls and large, light and airy rooms. My room could have been in a Hilton hotel except it had no private bath. There was a sink (with hot water) for washing and shaving but no toilet, bathtub or shower. The rest rooms down the hall were spotless and perfectly adequate. Donald’s room though much smaller had a bath tub of sorts. I’d never seen a tub like it before. You sat in this one like on a chair and the water could come up to your waist. It also had a shower which could be taken standing or sitting. I always visited Donald for my bath, and he visited me if we wanted room to stretch out in.

We had had our day and after a short walk we turned in to get good night’s sleep before the meeting next morning at 9 A.M. in a hall a block up the street. Neither of us were much worried about the early hour. Ten A.M. is a more usual and a more respectable hour to open an American meeting, and British meetings might commence even later, at least on the opening day. And at American and English meetings 10 A.M. meetings really start about 10:15. Naturally we were not concerned when we walked into breakfast at 8 A.M. and noted we were nearly alone. Why not, no one in his right mind would be eating this early. Donald took time to check on his bag and at about 9 we left the hotel for the meeting.

Not unexpectedly the corridors were nearly empty of people. As we expected no one would show up at such an early hour. We roamed the deserted halls and found the large meeting auditorium. We thought we’d look in to see what it was like. It was like most large auditoria five minutes after the scheduled opening except that it was filled with people. And a speaker was holding forth down front. We suddenly realized we were in hard working, efficient Germany.

Donald couldn’t understand a word and I could only catch certain phrases like, “Our great city welcomes you ... production since 1950 has increased 50 percent ... we have an opera house ... a new shopping center ... enjoy your stay in our city”. On my program I noticed the word of welcome was from the Burgermeister himself. At the conclusion of this speech we noted some other men stumble in, and they were obviously fellow English speaking citizens.

We decided we’d better consolidate forces, so we all retreated and looked again for the registration desk. We finally found it just as the French delegation walked up. Everyone except the extremely attractive and German speaking secretaries were up in the meeting. My German got its first crucial test. We needed some earphones to hear the translation. The secretary asked us specifically whether we spoke English or French. Although I understood the question I couldn’t understand the point of it. The earphones aren’t going to know whether we speak English or French. Or are they? As it turns out there were 2 separate translating booths, German-English, and German-French. The outputs of these translations were radioed around the room so indeed the red earphones tuned into the French speaking output. The blue phones had self-contained receivers tuned to the English translation. And then the translators worked in reverse English or French to German all German listeners put on green earphones.

This system worked fine except the German-English translator was not a scientist nor did he really understand scientific terms. He did fine on the introductions but the interpretation of slides and other technical aspects were fairly sketchy. I did almost as well listening auf Deutsch and concentrating on reading the slides and interpreting them myself.

We soon found that not only do the Germans start on time but comes the question period and they lose all track of time. Many questions, which really were unscheduled papers in themselves eclipsed the original paper in time consumed. Nor did the original paper readers adhere even remotely to their time limits. It was soon evident that once you turn a German scientist on he doesn’t turn off easily.

The Monday noon luncheon was a conference wide dinner of formal proportions. I don’t quite remember why we were late this time and in fact we weren’t but a few minutes late. In any case as we walked in the Herr Conference Secretary grabbed us by the arm and paraded us to the head table to meet General Martini. I was slightly awe stricken by the whole procedure, but nearly dumbfounded when the General snapped his heels together and shot his hand out in a stiffly correct handshake. The photographer’s flash bulb at this point did not add to my peace of mind.

As it turned out Donald and I were two of about 6 English speaking participants and I was the only one in the whole assemblage that ate with my fork in my right hand, obviously from the USA. Our cordial greetings were occasioned by two facts; we hadn’t arrived at the usual greeting time at 8:30 in the morning and we were prophets from other lands.

The never ending barrage of only slightly understood verbage soon got us to the point of exhaustion and we got in the habit of leaving at the scheduled ending times in spite of the fact that were often only half finished. By doing this we found time for shopping (I was still looking for green Lederhosen for Charlie and some for Dan), making travel reservations back, getting tickets to the opera, arranging a trip to a lab in nearby Dortmund.

Essen has been beautifully rebuilt. Accepting the near total destruction from Allied bombers, the city planners have done a marvelous job. Pedestrians only are allowed in the large downtown shopping center, cars are parked on the edges. Broad, well lighted arcades and pathways meander among the various stores. The stores are large, are loaded down with goods and are well patronized. Like New York City they have people too busy to sit down to eat so some of their snack bars, where the snack would floor an elephant, have stand up counters.

One night we got the last three (together with a colleague from Holland) seats in the back row of the Opernhaus to see Mozart’s “Marriage of Figaro”. The opera was delightful; still funny after two hundred years and auf Deutsch. German efficiency showed itself again at the Interval. They must have taken a statistical sampling of how many coffees vs. teas vs. ales vs. soft drinks, because many tables were all set up with the drinks served. If you found essentially what your party wanted you sat at that table. If one or two drinks were wrong they switched drinks from an adjacent table or sometimes went to their source of supply. It did speed things up.

Another day we visited the Max Plank Institut fur Arbeitphysiologie (work physiology) in nearby Dortmund. The train ride, especially buying the tickets and finding what stop to get off at in Dortmund, was great sport. The visit was first rate and we were duly impressed by the quantity and quality of their equipment. I noted a drastic difference between my adopted Unit in England where essentially every scientist was his own designer, equipment fabricator, data collector, data analyzer, and report writer and this German lab. The Dortmund lab had essentially three top scientists who designed the experiments, supervised them, and wrote them up but a whole staff of subordinates to really run them.

Other nights we had Chinese food, ate in the Ratskeller, and had Italian food. In all cases I kept wondering what we would do after the meal and in all cases the leisurely meal with the proper wine and the talk it generated left no time for other entertainment afterwards.

Friday night was the formal cocktail hour. We had noted between the hotel and the hall a well lighted sign labeled Essen und Trinken in Essen, which puzzled Donald until I told him that Essen is not only the name of this city but also means “to eat” or “eating”. He found out what the Trinken meant at the cocktail hour. They served German Sparkling Wine known in France as Champagne. Actually we didn’t get more than a good sample because suddenly the German Navy showed up. Apparently some of the participants were Naval Officers in civvies. On cocktail night they came out in their full colours and saw to it that no one (else) over indulged in either drinking or in pampering the pretty secretaries of the German Ausschusz (committee). We found out that General Martini’s Executive Secretary, who organized this meeting had been the chief navigator on the Scharnhorst when she slipped through the channel. Donald asked him how he knew the English radar was down when the Scharnhorst made it through the channel. He said they had no idea it was down. It had been decided it was now or never. It was purely routine. He hadn’t even been awakened by the subordinate on watch to help her through.

Saturday morning we detoured to Cologne by way of Wuppertal. In Wuppertal we rode the monorail. In Cologne we visited the cathedral and the new Rhein bridge. It was mighty cold and we were on foot so we really didn’t do the town very well. On Sunday we took the train to Utrecht and visited the Institute for Perception at Soesterberg. Dr. Bouman a hard worker who also knows how to relax sandwiched our official visit into the morning and took us to a van Gough art museum in an erstwhile private estate in the middle of a large forest near Arnheim. We stopped for a pheasant dinner on the way back to our hotel.

Tuesday we stopped in Amsterdam for a look at Rembrandt’s “Night Watch” and proceeded on to Hook-of-Holland for the night channel ferry to Harwich. The British Railway ferry brought us back to reality from the newness everywhere evident in Germany and Holland.

Next morning Donald took the London train and I got on the Liverpool train. At Bury St. Edmund I changed to a diesel rail bus and was delivered right to the Fulbourn station (one stop out of Cambridge). Mary and the younger boys were there to meet me. As in Holland, England had a snow and Charlie was all for going into Cambridge for his sledge. We got the sledge but this was the only snow of the winter and was gone before the boys really knew what it was all about. And this the only snow they’d ever seen. Moral, if you want to play in the snow in Southern England, don’t leave for a week’s trip for purposes of Essen and Trinken.

Tom’s Black School Days

By the beginning of the Winter term in January, Tom had school well under control. By nature, Tom was the living example of the saying “Keep quiet and be thought stupid, open your mouth and prove yourself stupid”. Unless he was positive that he was correct, he would never volunteer an answer. However, by January he had learned what was expected of pupils in the third year of Infants School, and had also learned all his sums, spelling words, and reading and was, in fact, a star pupil. He had even volunteered the information that the poet who wrote “----but when I am older Leery, I’ll light the lamps with you”, was Robert Louis Stevenson. That did it Tom was to be promoted to the first class in the Primary School.

Actually this was no great or even unexpected event. When Tom and Bill started at the Village School they had been matched, not to their age groups, but to their years of real schooling. In English schools there is no honeymoon period, no Kindergarten. Five year olds start immediately on Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic (sums). Bill was six, but had only been taught to get along with others, ask to go to the bathroom, climb poles and count to ten. He was, therefore, put with the five year olds. Tom was a postgraduate of Kindergarten and had been through first grade in California. In addition to pole climbing, and room monitoring (dusting the erasers), he could read, knew his number combinations and knew the Pledge of Allegiance--to the U. S. flag. Since a great part of this knowledge was superfluous to his present needs, he (age 7) was put with the six year olds.

So since he is not dumb, just discretely quiet until he has his problems mastered, he soon learned all his number combinations, he learned to read at or above grade level, to write cursively, and he learned all the words to “God Save the Queen”. He was ready to be “put up”. Unfortunately, he had impressed his teacher too much. Mrs. Harrison passed him on with such praise that his new teacher, Mrs. Harold, didn’t go through the preliminaries of letting him start in with the lowest group. She placed him in a top group and Tom’s reluctance to speak out unless he was absolutely sure he was right, got him off to a BAD start.

Of course, we knew nothing of this affair. We only knew that on promotion day plus one (P+1) Tom came down to breakfast sick. Or more accurately, when I came down to rekindle the fire in the fireplace and shake down and carry out the ashes from the coke cooker preparatory to breakfast I found Tom sick. You see, Tom was always the first Webster awake and was called “rooster” by Charlie. No mistaking that Tom was sick. He did not already have on his school uniform, have the table set, and have a paper and crayon out drawing a picture. He still had on his pajamas, the table wasn’t set, and Tom was in the bathroom vomiting.

No school for Tom on P+1 but Mary noticed that at 0930, safely after school had started, Tom perked up, got out his crayons and paper and even his sum book, the color came back to his face and everything was fine. There was a relapse at noon when Bill came home with another story about Christopher Shoesmith. Mary suggested that maybe Tom was well enough to go back in the afternoon. Tom wasn’t and didn’t.

On P+2, the postman (Miss Ball) in her deliberately noisy way of dropping our bills through the letter slot at 0650, awakened us while Tom, our lazy sleepy head was fast asleep in bed. On P+3 we, Mary is a first rate child psychologist, got Tom back to school. On P+4, a new symptom, an earache. Charlie always was getting an earache with every cold he caught. Since he was, and is, the only boy that ever got anything other than colds, mumps, chicken pox, measles, and upset stomachs he always got prompt first class attention with every earache. Now Tom had an earache, that seemed to ease when the sun reached an angle which made the sun dial read 0930.

P+5 was Saturday and Tom beat Bill in garden (backyard) Rugby with no apparent ill effects from his week’s illness. Tom was singing “Jesus Loves Me” with the best of them on P+6.

On P+7 I again carried the ashes out and the coal and coke in alone; Tom had an earache. When I returned from work on P+7 Tom and I walked over to see Dr. Jones. Of course, I could never remember when Dr. Jones had “surgery” (office hours) and this was no exception. However, Mrs. Jones, seeing the anguish on Tom’s face, assured me the doctor would stop by “The Manse”, our house, as soon as he returned from his rounds. This was more than I had bargained for and Mary was quite annoyed at my ineptness in not being able to parry Mrs. Jones concern and arrange to bring Tom in next morning during the doctor’s surgery.

In due course, Dr. Jones called around and, of course, Tom was miserable. However, the doctor could find nothing wrong with Tom’s ear. Dr. Jones admitted Tom’s throat was slightly inflamed and Tom obviously had a slight cold but no objectively evident ear trouble. We imparted in round about phrases that this could perhaps be a psychosomatic illness inasmuch as promotion, etc. And then in private I quickly summed up for the doctor the results of my visit with Mrs. Harold whom I had visited earlier in the day. In a nutshell, I said, “In an effort to give Tom a chance to show to his new class that he was an apt scholar Mrs. Harold had asked him a direct and rather simple question, which at home or in Mrs. Harrison’s room he would have answered in short order. In new surroundings Tom says nothing unless questioned directly and if questioned directly, he just fidgets, reddens, and maybe stammers out some incoherent answer. He was true to his nature, said nothing.” He was as miserable as only calm, deliberate, methodical Tom could be and probably even wished he were back in his California school playing grocery store.

“I see” said Dr. Jones and we walked back into the room where Tom was getting sicker and sicker by the minute. In adult life this sequence of events often results in the first drink which leads to the second and third. But Tom had no such easy and inadequate way out. He just felt more miserable than ever.

Psychologist Dr. Jones told Tom that if he stayed home for about two days he should be feeling enough better to go back to school. Experimental psychologist Dr. Webster (NOT clinical psychologist Dr. Webster) thought every day away from school would make reentry that much more difficult. But I think non-psychologist, just plain General Practitioner Dr. Jones, had the correct solution.

On P+10 after two days of recuperation, much orange juice and sparkling vitamin C and many pep talks by the real psychologist in our family, housewife Mary Webster, MA (in mathematics) Tom and Bill ran merrily off to school. And thats all we heard of the silly affair.

We did note that Mrs. Harold demoted Tom temporarily which allowed him time to regain his self confidence and gave him a goal. He achieved his goal in short order and was soon in the top group. He had one temporary set back. Headmistress Smith had the geography lesson one day and Tom volunteered that Paris was the capital of France and Stockholm of Sweden (he knew he’d been there). In a gallant effort to further Anglo-American relations and restore Tom’s luster she asked the simple question, “Now Tom, what is the capital of your country, what is the capital of the United States?”

Dead silence, followed by a red face followed by “Ah … New York?”

You see, the California Schools have a Harbor Unit, a Grocery Store Unit and a Railroad Unit. Finally they progress up to Indians, Mexico, and Early California, but somehow Tom, whose grandmother works for the Government Printing Office in Washington, D. C. and can see the capital dome from her apartment had not yet had a Unit covering such details as the capital of USA.

However, he won the foot race for his age on Field Day and each of his teachers expressed real regret to me when 20 July rolled around and he left their lovely school to return to his California school. There his class started off on the Airport Unit.

The American’s Revolution

Our family could have brought $3500 worth of merchandise back into the USA duty free. On my income however even had we lived on charity, we couldn’t possibly have approached that figure. The only item we had of any real value was our VW Microbus and its associated camping equipment. Dutywise this was a dead loss from beginning to end. The US government has the tax law written such that if you make arrangements to purchase your car through some stateside agency, a dealer or an auto club, you pay customs duty even though you pick the car up in Europe. It is fairly hard to beat that law. You can’t deal with foreign factories directly, there is no particularly good way to learn the names and addresses of foreign dealers, and even if you did they are obliged to steer clear of such proxy arrangements. In any case it is hard for most people to know what the product is without seeing it and maybe even driving it. Not me, my usual shopping tactic is that if I decide I want something I go to the closest store and buy it. And with the Microbus I was convinced this was our only feasible method of transportation and housing long before I had ever been inside one. When I went to the San Diego Motor Imports it was not to shop but to order and specify a delivery date. While there I did look, for the first time, inside a Microbus but didn’t drive it. The major reason for ordering a car stateside is timing. We needed a car on 1 June, not 31 May nor 2 June, nor mid May nor Mid June. Anyone is welcome and permitted to go to Europe, contact a dealer and order a car, but then he must await delivery. In our case, and in most others, the car is bought stateside, picked up in Europe, and customs paid on reentry. Very simple, very fool proof, very taxable.

A magic piece of paper called a Carnet gets your car duty free into all countries except that one that lays under “...spacious skies...from sea to shining sea”. We did however have a little difficulty with a certain island Kingdom. This same kingdom under George III gave my ancestors similar trouble, called in history books “taxation without representation”. The trouble was this. We picked up our Microbus right on schedule, to the hour, and drove it 130 kilometers to have it converted to a “camping bus”. In this reconversion process the two back seats became surplus (American) or redundant (English). Our immediate solution, transacted in my best German, was to leave the seats with Knobel and Sons, Wiedenbruck for 3 weeks and we would drive back through and pick them up on our return from Norway before returning to England.

At this point in our travels the 30 mile per hour distance traveled on English roads hadn’t generalized over to European roads, We were still thinking in terms of 360 miles per day instead of 180 miles per day. The upshot of this oversight was we arrived in Bergen, Norway one day before we were due back in England. Luckily we got on the Newcastle boat and made it. It would have taken another week to have returned via Denmark, Wiedenbruck, and Hook-of-Holland.

Now you see the problem, VW seats in Germany, VW in England. To me this was no problem, I merely wrote Knobel and Sons on 1 July requesting they make arrangements to ship seats, Microbus, 2, to England. On 3 July their response said in essence, “matter turned over to a British Shipping Firm await word from them”. On l5 October I opened a letter addressed to Herr John C. Webster from the British Commercial Transport Co., Ltd. The letter consisted of a form asking in 2 or 3 thousand words for information “...to enable us to effect clearance through Customs, on your behalf,

PLEASE FORWARD US BY RETURN.

1. Statement as to nature and rates of Duty and Purchase Tax payable (Declaration required where goods are not liable to duty and/or Purchase Tax).

NOTE: No responsibility can be accepted by us for the consequences resulting from the failure to declare rates of duty, and/or purchase tax payable.

2. Original invoice and one copy (English translation essential) which must state terms of purchase. If prices include duty this must be specially declared.

3. Packing List showing separate contents of each package for consignments consisting of more than one package.

4. Form C 105 (Form enclosed - it is essential that all alterations and/or deletions are initialed).

6. Form C & E 648 (Form enclosed - to be certified on the reverse by your local Customs Officer if you are holders of Purchase Tax Registration Certificate).

Form P.T. 26 (Form enclosed - not required if you are holders of Purchase Tax Registration Certificate).

7. Import License, where necessary.

8. REMITTANCE COVERING DUTY AND/OR PURCHASE TAX.

CONSIGNMENTS OF BAGGAGE AND HOUSEHOLD EFFECTS.

9. C3 (Form enclosed - which is to be completed and witnessed by any second person in respect of used personal clothing and effects.

10. C 104 (Form enclosed - in respect of household goods and effects. To be completed and witnessed by a Justice of the Peace, Commissioner for Oaths or an Officer of H.M. Customs & Excise).

11. A List of contents (in English) and, if packages are locked, keys should be forwarded to us.

12. A deposit of _____ pounds should be sent to cover freight and charges to ensure prompt despatch after Customs clearance. Delay in replying to this advice and submitting documents will incur additional charges.

After struggling with forms C 105, C & E 648, PT 26, C 3 and C 104 I began 1) to see why we fought the revolution and 2) to appreciate the simplicity of form 1040W.

On 22 October another form letter from BCT Co., Ltd., this time to Messrs. John C. Webster read as follows:

Our ref M61429

Dear Sirs,

Re: JCW 810, 1 crate ex Mecklinburg 15/10.

With reference to the above consignment, we regret to advise you that your clearance documents are not acceptable to H. M. Customs or the following reason: To enable us to pursue our claim for duty free importation would you please advise if the VW Car was imported to England in a Carnet and if so please supply details of carnet and date of import.

We would ask you to kindly give this matter your immediate attention to enable us to proceed with clearance of goods through Customs. Thanking you, we remain,

Yours faithfully,

(signed) C. J. Hockley

British Commercial Transport Co. Ltd.

My reply didn’t point out the difficulty of importing my VW car to England “in” a carnet. Even VW’s aren’t that small and in Particular Microbusses would be very difficult to import “in” a carnet. I did send details of carnet and the date.

On 28 October to Mr. John C. Webster the same form letter with slightly different inserts namely:

Our ref M.61429

Dear Sirs:

Re: JCW 810. 1. crate. ex: Mecklenburg. 15/10/59

With references … not acceptable to H. M. Customs for the following reason:

Your favour 23/10.

Would you please advise if the missing seats were noted by the Officer on the Carnet when the car was imported into England.

We ... ask ... immediate attention ..... Thanking you, we remain,

My reply was short and to the point, namely “NO”, although I was beginning to see that their reference that things were in “my favour 23 to 10” was not going to last.

On 7 November, the same form letter, with the following insert:

In reply to your letter 2.11, would you please note Customs require duty to be paid on the seats as they were not noted on the carnet as missing.

Would you please give a declaration of value to enable us to clear goods.

With this letter BCT Co., Ltd. enclosed a long-hand written letter from Mr. H. M. Customs himself stating:

Rotterdam Station

First Floor No.4 Shed

Your Ref. M 61429 Customs and Excise

Parkeston Quay West.

Harwich, Essex

H.M.Customs and Excise

Messrs. B.C.T.C.

Parkeston,

Harwich,

Dear Sirs,

JCW 810 - 1 crate ex Mecklenburg 15.10.59

With reference to Mr. Webster’s letter dated 2nd November, which is returned herewith I have to inform you that the proper charges are Payable in respect of the 2 bench seats, and that duty-free release cannot be allowed.

Yours faithfully,

(signed) H.C.Page

Off. Customs & Excise

At this point in the proceedings my American heritage and my years of schooling in science and logic got the better of me. Why, I asked myself, will Mr. H. M. Customs of Newcastle allow a $1800 car to freely enter his private poaching grounds, while his cousin, Mr. H. M. Customs of Harwich, will not allow the $50 seats of selfsame car to enter? The point of law seemed to hinge on whether said seats had been declared as missing at Newcastle. What seemed to worry Mr. Customs was that I might sell the seats. In fact the idea so intrigued me I thought of setting up an agency. I could see at once that the potential market would be tremendous. The British still have no really enduring love for the Germans, what with George I, II, and III and WWI and II. At least at this writing Hillmans, Jaguars, Singers, Consuls, etc. still outnumber VW’s. And the number of Microbusses without seats was astronomical, i.e. astronomically small. But anyway Mr. Custom’s job was to see that I didn’t import saleable foreign imports from the inner six into the outer seven, and he was performing “above and beyond the call of duty”.

What put him on the scent of this obvious intent to defraud was that I had purposely disregarded specific instructions on my carnet and had not declared the seats as missing upon my arrival at Newcastle. I therefore looked carefully at my carnet, which was written entirely in French except for specific instructions on how it was to be used and this was in German. Being a past master at reading the fine print in all insurance contracts, warranty statements, guarantees, tax forms and patent applications and being a recognized expert in reading French and German (by definition any PhD has passed reading examinations in French and German) I could ascertain that the carnet had something to do with 1) automobiles and 2) borders. Beyond that I could make no sense of it.

I had been told at the VW factory in Hanover when handed the carnet, “Be sure, in fact insist, that the customs officials at each border tear out half a page and stamp the document.” When leaving Germany for Denmark the quite correct German official, who looked in his uniform like he might just have returned from the Russian front, dutifully tore and stamped; and I believe the Danish official followed suit, although I vaguely remember running off the ferry at Grosebrude just before we left to get the deed done. However when we ferried from Denmark to Sweden there was no sign of any border, any officials, nor any concern. We looked a little while for a customs building but saw nothing. Going from Sweden to Norway the officials were quite annoyed when we came to a full stop and looked as if we were going to make them check anything. We drove on.

In England our carnet said the car had entered Denmark and was now about to enter England (off the boat from Norway). With five boys neither you nor the customs official are very anxious to prolong any needless activity (and he couldn’t read the French or German any better than I). Not a single question was asked. Since I didn’t really know at the whole carnet thing was about I didn’t even know what to ask questions about. I had indeed purposely entered my car illegally. I had not specifically said, “Now look here old chap, you know this bus doesn’t have the regular seats in it. They will be shipped in on October 15 at Harwich by BCT Co., Ltd.” I will be the first to admit that I did not so state the case upon our entry.

Now I was to pay. Or so said the letter. But my Patrick Henry attitude got the best of me at this point and I wrote Mr. H. M. Customs and stated in essence: That there had already been one, if not two, wars between our great countries over such tax matters as this; that I was ready to reopen the whole matter again and stage a one-man invasion; that I would not pay Mr. H. M. Customs a farthing but that 1) 1 would give an amount of money equal to the tax to, any charity Mr. H. M. Customs would like to designate, or 2) I would deposit said amount with Mr. Customs or any of his cousins to be returned to me when I re-exported my hot merchandise, or 3) I would ship the seats directly to America. My last letter from BCT Co., Ltd., still on the same form letter and dated 26 November, said “.... We are .... arranging with our London Office to ship the goods to ..... San Diego, California.”

And so five months after my first letter to Germany to reclaim my VW seats, they were awaiting shipment to California. In April they arrived. Probably the most expensive VW seats ever to arrive in California. The total cost was $47.60 to get them to California and $8.75 to get them to San Diego ($4.20 U.S. Customs). Of the $47.60, $18.50 was for shipment from Germany to England including storage in England (9 Weeks).

This incident had some strange effects on me. When I got the bill from BCT Co., Ltd. and sent my cheque it was returned stating in essence that my figures and words didn’t agree, and indeed they didn’t. I had written 17/4/7 in one place and had written Seventeen pounds seven shillings and four pence in another place. My unconscious mind apparently was still fighting the battle. I vowed then and there not to buy anything in England I could buy elsewhere in Europe, and to buy a bunch of stuff when I left to be sent sealed to our ship and thus avoid increasing the coffers of Mr. H. M. Customs. To make me feel better a generous check to both the local churches in our village on Christmas.

An interesting sequel to Mr. Customs interpretation of the law was my subsequent talk with the AA (Automobile Association). Incidentally, this (and the RAC) are great institutions and should be supported by one and all. Anyway in talking to their foreign exchange expert (and after he conferred with his chief in London) I found out that the AA could and would, if I so desired, get my seats into Britain duty free. I also found that had Mr. Customs of Harwich sent my seats in duty free, upon leaving I would have to pay duty on the camping equipment that replaced the seats (cost of seats $50, cost of camping equipment $500). The AA also said that if the AA got my seats in duty free I might have to pay duty on the camping equipment even yet. And so it turned out Mr. H. M. Customs did me a great favor. Actually unbeknownst to me I had modified my car so that the carnet was not really an adequate or true description and had therefore illegally imported the camping equipment into England. I asked the AA if they wished to rectify the mistake and issue a new carnet to make things legal. They politely declined saying in essence, if you make it legal now you’ll have to pay duty on the camping equipment but since no one knows the difference, forget about it.

And so Mr. Customs cost U.K. a pretty penny, saved me the same, and proved only that he knew the letter of the law, and he convinced me at least that he did not know the spirit of it. Of course I could always have sold those seats, he certainly did guard against that possibility. And then again if we didn’t have such laws, what would the honest men and true who administer them do for a living.

Left Right Left

As I was waiting for a bus one day in Cambridge, I noted in a store window a poster stating; “Cambridge University Musical Society will present three concerts - - - tryouts by appointment, phone - - -”. I had brought my clarinet along and this invitation intrigued me.

You see, in high school and as an undergraduate in college, I was very active as a performing musician. In fact, I was the principal clarinetist in the high school band and orchestra for my whole four year tenure. During which time both the band and orchestra won top national contest honors, as did I as a clarinet soloist and as a member of many small chamber music ensembles. On the basis of this, I obtained a music scholarship to the university and obtained my BA and MA in music. In the university, also, I was principal clarinetist in the band for two of the three years I played in band and was the principal student clarinetist in the symphony for three of my four years in orchestra. I am implying that, as a performing classical musician in my time, I was no slouch.

Had I not graduated just after Pearl Harbor, I would undoubtedly have been a professional musician, performing, teaching, and perhaps working some outside job to make ends meet. As it was, I did not want to spend the war in a military band. Each of the three years I was an undergraduate I took mathematics (algebra, trigonometry, analytical geometry, and differential and integral calculus) and/or chemistry. And as a graduate music student, I took physics and wrote my thesis on the physical analyses of clarinet tones. The head of the music school thought me somewhat odd, but since his music faculty included a chemical engineer (now the head of the music department) and a mathematician (concertmaster of the orchestra and harmony and counterpoint professor), he always signed my choice of courses. I guess he figured better to keep a scientist musician than lose him to medicine as two of the others in our woodwind quintet were to be lost.

In any case, I figured if I could get into electronics before being drafted I would do myself and the USA some good by being put into radio or radar in the armed forces instead of in a military band. So with-my 31 hours of math and science I got myself a civil service job teaching radio communications to Air Force cadets. Then in quick succession I was drafted, classified 4F (physically unfit, 20/800 vision in each eye, but luckily corrected to 20/20), and sent off to Yale University with the Air Force School as a permanent (4F) civilian instructor.

During my two years at Yale I played in the Yale University Orchestra and the New Haven Symphony, and played in chamber music groups with local doctors, and members of Glen Miller’s band (these particular members being ex-members of the Cleveland Symphony). I also attended night classes in Electrical Engineering and started my change over to scientist leaving my past role as musician.

All of this is background is to show why, when I left for Europe, I took my clarinet along. Actually since WWII I had played very little, but did manage a fairly respectable performance of Mozart’s A Major Concerto (with music) with the La Jolla Civic Orchestra.

So my past interest and wasted training got the better of my good judgment and I phoned and arranged a date for an audition. I had brought along no music suitable for an audition (actually I had packed some in a box to be sent over later along with some pertinent scientific reprints, but the boys at my lab misplaced the box). So I got my embouchure in shape, but just sight read what they gave me at the audition.

Although they were favorably impressed, they must have had more and better clarinet players than usual and I was passed over ostensibly because I was only going to be there one year, the others longer. But I knew I wasn’t the player I used to be, and this just convinced me of it. In any case, thought I, there goes my musical activities in Cambridge. I now had no alternative but to spend all my time on science (and learning about England, going to operas, museums, Rugby games, church and PTA meetings, listening to the BBC and keeping 5 boys out of trouble).

One day in dark, dreary, wet February, Pauline the secretary at the Unit phoned up to my third floor Bohemian type cubicle and told me I had a lady visitor in the Common Room. Well, this was indeed a pleasure and to say the least, unexpected. In honor of the occasion I took off my Wellington knee-length rubber boots and woolen slippers, which I always wore at work or at home but not very often outdoors, where it was relatively warm, and went to see my unknown caller.

The woman looked familiar and introduced herself as secretary to the Cambridge University Musical Society. She apologized all over again for my failure to get into the orchestra originally (and explained it was only because the younger students chosen were going to be in Cambridge three years, etc., etc.). But to get to the point, the first clarinet player had been in a bicycle accident and had broken his finger. And if that wasn’t bad enough the high point of the whole musical season was scheduled within the week. Was I familiar with Berlioz’s “Damnation of Faust”, could I, who had done so well in the sight-reading part of my audition, come to the last three rehearsals, first one tonight, and could I play 8 performances next week, six nights and two matinees? I have never been able to say no to anyone and especially when flattered by such an offer; “Come to the rescue, all is forgiven, all two hundred people (100 in chorus and 100 in orchestra) would be let down if I didn’t step forward, etc. etc.

So off to King’s College I drove for rehearsal that very evening, much against my better judgment since I had a terrific cold, I was conscientiously following my book and listening to the BBC on Thursday evenings to “Improve your German”, I hadn’t had my clarinet out of the case-since my sterling rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” at the Research Unit’s Christmas party, this was fog season, and I just plain liked to stay home around the fireplace and soak up that 10% of the heat that didn’t go up the chimney and listen to the BBC Third Program. I was well stocked with handkerchiefs and with my runny nose and deep nasal voice, I knew I wouldn’t have much trouble convincing everyone I had a cold and so thought I, I can rationalize to these hardy Britains why I was wearing my Wellington boots, with wool slippers over heavy wool socks. However, I soon was aware excuses wouldn’t be necessary. Most of the choir singers left their top-(rain) coats on. Dr. Wilcox the conductor left his muffler hanging around his neck, the secretary who greeted me warmly, hadn’t bothered to take her gloves off, and the piccolo player outdid them all, he performed with coat, muffler, and gloves (which, believe me, is quite a trick on a piccolo).

The musicians were excellent, my clarinet playing colleague Bruce McKay from Scotland was on a par with what I had been in my college days. Being at the peak of his performing career and in excellent practice, he played in tune better than I, but I gained his respect in my sight-reading capabilities and, in particular, being able to transpose the C&A clarinet parts with no strain. Of course, I hadn’t brought my A clarinet with me from America and had to transpose. In any case, this had always been one of my strong points having practiced hours, not always willingly, to see one note and play another. This ability came in handy when I could ill afford a second, or A, clarinet and now paid off when I couldn’t afford the weight and space to bring along my prized A clarinet.

Bruce was a pleasure to play with, his Scotch accent was a beauty, he was not a music student but a research (graduate) student in Physics. I had found long ago that many excellent musicians were scientists or professional people that had in their teens taken up music, instead of delinquency, as a very worth while life long hobby.

The orchestra and chorus were first rate and the performance was first rate. Unfortunately, it was different. They had staged the usually statically performed oratorio. They had action, dances, costumes, and made more of an opera out of it. This involved changing the order of several of the choruses and arias and livened the whole performance up considerably to the general delight of all members of the audience except the music critics who had come down from London. They saw no reason for adding action, nor for changing the sequence of music, and, in general, made their points known in the London papers. After all, in England it is all right to change things as long as you don’t make them different, but after all not Berlioz.

Partially as a consequence of this panning from the critics up in London, all members received an invitation to visit “Auerbachs Wine Cellar” conveniently moved from the stage of Guildhall to the Dining Hall in Kings College and from the Second Act to after the Thursday night performance.

Bruce and I, along with most others, attended. I heard about the clans in Scotland, met many of the actors on stage and marveled at the paneled ornate elegance of Kings College Hall. The oak tables and casks, one of ale and one of cider and the general levity of the occasion made it difficult to remember that the English are hard to get acquainted with and lack a sense of humor.

The party broke up at about one, and I had a most delightful drive from Cambridge to Fulbourn, about five miles. Being early in the morning with little or no traffic the fluorescent street lights were mostly turned off. So instead of relying on their light and driving on side (parking) lights, I had the pleasure of driving with my bright lights on and actually seeing the cracks and holes in the pavement and the parked cars. I didn’t have to assume that behind every lighted candle I saw would be either a parked car, or a moving bicycle. I could actually see what my next potential target was. I am afraid the exhilarating experience went to my head. As I turned the next to the last corner onto Haggis Gap, Fulbourn, four blocks from home an idea occurred to me. I had driven this stretch once or twice a day now for at least six months and always on the left and correct, but not right side of the street. I hadn’t seen a moving vehicle for the last four miles, everyone was asleep - why not try the right side of the street? Would it now feel right or wrong to be right and incorrect? So I pulled over to what should have been the correct side of the street only to find that at least on this street my recently acquired habit of driving left did indeed feel right and driving right felt wrong. I had just convinced myself I was a true British driver, (actually they prefer the center to either left or right) when the last turn, 100 feet from home came into view.

This was a right turn and a rather blind one (I always count on other headlights to warn me of oncoming traffic at night, except in England where side lights are used, but tonight I was American). As I pulled around this right hand corner from the right hand lane, who should be walking across the intersection but the village Bobby on his night patrol. Believe me, he was as surprised to see me, making a rather tight turn, as I was to see him. Neither of us had seen another moving object for quite some time. Since I had to stop dead to avoid running him down and he had to stop to avoid running into the side of my car, there we were. He regained composure quickly and started talking to where the driver of an English car would be, but I wasn’t. That plus the fact that the window was closed caused a slight delay and restatement. In the meantime, I reached all the way across the front seat and opened the window. English Bobbies are the politest policemen I have ever met and even though this caught us both unaware, his nastiest vocal effort sounded like an American policeman refereeing a Little League baseball game. He asked me, “Where are you going?” This had a very simple answer, “Home”. “What is your name?” “John Webster”. “Where do you live?” “In the Manse, right up Pierce Lane”. “Where have you been?” This was a stickler. I hadn’t had much ale or cider and was not even slightly ‘under the influence’, but I had sampled each and may have smelled of it. After all, this was one of my favorite pastimes in England, trying their customs, foods, and drinks. We had fish and chips every Saturday, I was a member of the village school PTA board, I had eaten Brussels sprouts as long as I could stand them (never again, its corn for me), and I even ate cold sausage rolls and pork rolls (when to be polite there was no alternative). So at Auerbachs, Kings College, in the witty presence of some of the greatest (at least potentially) minds in Britain, and in this ancient and august hall after an exhilarating performance that brought back the glorious feeling of youth (mine and Faust’s), it was not unnatural to sample the spirits of the evening. I did not, however, follow the habits of certain districts in Devon and mix the cider and the ale together in the same mug. The fact that I had both precluded the over consumption of either. Even if the village Bobby had heard of Berlioz, I’m sure he would have doubted the Damnation of Faust part of that story. Auerbach’s Wine Cellar doesn’t exist and even the grandest dinner at Kings College would not last until one a.m. He still seemed a little puzzled about why I was so far on the right in making my turn from left lane to left lane, and I kept wondering to myself where my aliens registration booklet was, I knew I would have an awful time finding my International Drivers Permit. And in looking for it he could have come over to my side of the car and smelled my breath if it were really tainted.

I kept thinking of all those bicycle riders along Cherry Hinton Road and Queen Ediths Way who would love to testify about this demon alien with German License plates who nearly ran them down every morning, noon, and night (every other car driver in England would suffer the same abuse since roads made for knights and chariots are too narrow for both cars and bicycles).

Knowing a policeman’s credulity in accepting unlikely events like Berlioz, Damnation of Faust, Auerbach’s Cellar and Kings College, I told a truth that implied a lie namely, “I’ve been playing an orchestra job in Cambridge”. I’ve played in only one dance band in my life and that in high school and for two dances. However, this seemed to be the proper choice of wording, for he said “What instrument do you play”? I held up my clarinet case and he nodded approval. Since he apparently had not seen my approach and no damage was done he asked no further questions.

With his “Good Night” I decided henceforth while in England, do as the English do. In this case, drive on the left, the right side of the road, and the law. Then I left and went right home.

Ode to the Silent Commercial

With the possible exception of our idyllic village the thing I liked best in England was the BBC. I will admit from the start I am a highbrow. I was brought up in a university town (with a university broadcasting station) and from an early age took to classical music, stage plays, and lectures. I remember hearing lectures on the arctic by Stefanson while still in elementary school. I played in concert bands and symphonic orchestras from my high school days onward. In my early teens I was a steady customer at the movie theaters (when five returned beer bottles picked up around the fraternity houses would pay my way). However even before I got out of high school I could no longer tolerate Hollywood Musicals (I got tired seeing girls in glasses and serious music students ridiculed). By the time I graduated from college my yearly fare of Hollywood movies could be numbered on my fingers. I never missed a university play and was in fact an audience member of the experimental theater which gave newly written plays. My price of admission was to write a critique of each new play I saw.

In the U. S. our family had no TV (Telly) and only listened to the radio for news, some sporting events, and good music (Metropolitan Opera, Boston Symphony, and New York Philharmonic). There were no other programs which could interest me enough to tolerate the commercials that went with them. To me there is no noise I can think of that is more annoying than a radio or TV commercial. To avoid that noise I will avoid the little bit of program that creeps in around it.

Other parents ask us how we can ignore the demands of our children for a TV set. We hear very few such demands. The boys are usually so busy playing ball in the back yard they couldn’t be coaxed into the house even if it did contain a TV. Our friends know we have no TV and that once or twice a year when something worthwhile does come on, they invite us over, usually over the strong objections of the boys.

My experience with TV was such that I didn’t even enquire into a Telly in England and wasn’t too keen on a radio. Mary missed the news however so we bought ourselves a radio (and the Radio Times each week). This was the smartest move I ever made. Within two weeks after its purchase, the radio was hardly ever turned off. I would hear the 7 o’clock news as I carried out the ashes and rekindled the fires. At noon, on Tuesdays, I would come home to hear a symphony from some different part of Britain each week. On Thursday after tea I would get out the supplementary text and review my German. Russian was also taught. I would hear operas on Friday nights preceded on some other night by an hour’s instruction on the story of the opera and the composer, with musical themes.

By switching from the Home Program to the Third I could hear chamber music concerts, even woodwind ensembles. I remember a series of lectures on information theory, and another on superconductivity of metals near absolute zero. Even the “quiz” programs were excellent. There was “Brain Trust”, and others where the scientific leaders of England would answer questions for the information imparted, not for the cash involved. Mary would listen through the day to the programs prepared for, and listened to, by schools throughout Britain. There were for example, “Stories from British History”, “Time and Tune”, “Stories from World History”, “Geography”, “Adventures in Music, Orchestral Concerts”, Beginning, Intermediate, or Advanced French or German. When I visited Tom’s class one day in the Primary School I sat in on a BBC sing fest. Every member of the class had a song booklet with folk tunes in it. Every week for this school term they had listened in as a piano and/or orchestra played the melody and a radio teacher coached them along with words and music. The class actually sang lustily and had a great time singing. No one lost their patience with them. With such an accompaniment and coach the children felt confident and sounded their approval. I noted the carryover in chapel and on the scout fireside. The English sing more lustily than my California neighbors.

The British listeners do not have to be highbrow to enjoy the BBC. They have a Light Program, which I presume is very much like our standard programs. I really don’t know, however, because I never listened to it. Why should I, I’d had the opportunity to hear such stuff at home for decades and chose silence instead. The Light and the Home Programs were on the air from about 7 A.M. to midnight. The, for lack of a better name, Third Program started around dinner-time in the evening. On none of these programs was there any commercials unless you considered their program review to be a commercial. Around eight o’clock each morning the highlights of the day’s BBC program would be aired often with short excerpts included.

For all this first-rate entertainment and education each British radio was taxed one pound a year. I paid two pounds since I also had a car radio. My total bill was therefore $5.60 for continual highbrow listening for a year. I’ve known times when I’d pay that much just to silence a juke box in an otherwise respectable eating establishment.

I suppose some people evade their pound a year radio tax or five pounds a year Telly tax but some are sorry they tried. On one of our first visits to Fulbourn before we moved in we noted a panel lorry labeled simply, “Television Detector”. Two weeks before the visit of the Telly Detector, conspicuous announcements appear in the local papers saying in essence, “Get your Telly Licenses now before Her Majesty’s Telly Detector arrives in about two weeks.” There is a renewed activity in license renewals at the local post office but maybe some people didn’t get the Word. Armed with names and addresses of Telly License holders, the Telly Detector roams the streets with direction-finding antenna working overtime. Noting a Telly antenna and no listed license, the Telly Detector boys wait until the culprit can no longer stand to miss Gunsmoke, and then they pounce. After we moved into the Manse we read in the Cambridge News one night about a certain party on Shelford Road who was fined for not having a Telly License. This address checked with the place we had spotted the “Television Detector” a month earlier. Crime, nor evading taxes, does not pay.

After witnessing the caliber of the Home and Third Programs I was only too happy to buy two licenses, I only wish I could get such a bargain in the U.S.A.

Television Detector on Patrol

The decisive factor in my love for the BBC is so obvious as to hardly need reemphasis. However I will add again, “God Save the Queen, the BBC has no commercials.” And if one gets tired of the English language as a whole, they need merely tune in French or German programs. With no commercials to push on BBC they have discovered a fact unheard of in America. The BBC engineers have found that speech can indeed be kept to a level below that of music. Knowing from American experience that the speech in commercials will come in at a level obnoxiously louder than the music in England I picked a comfortable listening level for speech and found that the music was too loud. Isn’t this strange? They have first rate radio engineers in both countries. Yet if you indignantly phone into U.S. station and say “please, my ears can’t stand these loud commercials” and I hate to get out of my chair every, is it 2 minutes, to turn down the volume, (and stand there for a full minute and three-quarters hearing the same set of 10 words being said frontwards, backwards, by a man, a woman, a male quartet and finally an electronic commercial generator), you get transferred to the engineering department where you are told that “Technically there is no difference in level between speech level and music level” and “we are monitored by the FCC and couldn’t possibly up the speech level” Etc., etc. Yet in England this same clan of engineers using similar equipment and measuring instruments get exactly the opposite effect. I now have to hop up and turn down the music that comes in after the news. Maybe the transmission quality of British air is different.

A second difference that never actually dawned on me in the U.S. occurred as follows in England: I was listening to Don Juan by Moliere and knew from the story that the end was in sight (both for Don Juan and the play). Glancing at a clock, I noticed it was 6:32. I began to suspect that my knowledge of the play was inaccurate, it must go on until 6:44 (1 minute for a commercial). But, no, it did indeed end at, 6:34. At this point, good (and I don’t mean organ dinner music) music filled in until 6:45. It suddenly came to me that for years I could foretell when the climax of a play was coming. First, immediately before the climax, a commercial would be interposed. Secondly, since the play must end in time for a final commercial, you knew at 6:28 that the climax just had to occur in the next minute. What a relief to know that either drama or music might just possibly end where the composer or author had intended it to end, and not end by the sponsor.

The only trouble with the BBC was that I got so spoiled by the absence of commercials that I no longer even turn my radio on for the news. I get so annoyed at the constant harangue that I just don’t bother to turn our radio on at all anymore. John, however, has now taken to baseball in a big way and listens to broadcasts of the Padres and/or the Dodgers. So I am aware that American radio is still on the air. Exactly why, I’m not quite sure.

This revival of good things to listen to, with no obnoxious noises in between, inspired us to greater heights and we embarked upon Our Cultural Winter:

Our Cultural Winter

On Continent in camping bus

Five boys running muck

The art-museums and concert halls

To us the doors were shut.

But once established in the Manse

In Fulbourn Cambridgeshire

Could culture once again to fore

Music and books inspire.

The BBC “God Save the Queen”

With no commercial din

Did please me ear right to the T

And my approval win.

To supplement the BBC

And profit from its love

We wished to see as well as hear

What we had heard before.

Tom, Bill, and John along with Dad

To Covent Garden went

To sit in Royal Opera House

By Carmen to be sent.

With polished shoes, white shirts and ties

Boys faces clean at Manse

And Blazers with school badges on

Knee socks and short grey pants.

The train to London crowded was

At Liverpool Street late

Then underground to Holborn Street

Change tubes keep left at gate.

Dress circle stalls and front row seats

Just time to catch our breath

When music started rich and full

And on to Carmen’s death.

In interval we had ice cream

Four waters at the bar

The boys explored through other stalls

To keep sleep yet afar.

The last train down to Cambridge town

At ‘leven twenty five

Caused us to leave before the end

And to Kings Cross to drive.

Front seats we had in diesel train

And, engine driver saw

And signals and oncoming trains

Delayed the sleeping law.

But finally did the sandman come

Afore the Cambridge stop

Then sleepy boys their macks did don

And home by two o’clock.

Now Mom the whole performance heard

By boys who knew it well

For they at bedtime weeks before

Were captured by the spell.

The next event in London town

The Nutcracker Ballet

Was heard in Royal Festival Hall

Vacation matinee.

Again at Christmas holiday

This time at Sadlers Wells

Was Hansel, witch, and Gretel seen

In house of sweets and jells.

Beside the music end the trips

We pantomime did see

To this, a farce on fairy tale

We also took Charlie.

Do pantomimes at Christmas thrive

In provinces as well

In Cambridge ‘Sleeping Beauty’ saw

For boys it struck the bell.

Then once again an opera came

Whose music knew the boys

La Traviata, Verdi’s work

Was heard in all it joys.

This time by coach to London went

Along with boys from school

And with them off to Rugby game

In January cool.

Now John whose birthday only comes

In multiples of four

At twelve years old at birthday three

Said ‘London town once more’.

Before arriving at Old Vic

For Shakespeare’s ‘Merry Wives’

To many railroad stations went

On engines Johnny thrives.

To Paddington and Charing Cross

Victoria by tube

Then last to Waterloo we came

For tea and sugar cube.

If this is Shakespeare give us more

The boys of Falstaff said

‘Good Mistress Page and Mistress Ford

Gave basket for his bed’.

A news and cartoon show we saw

Again at Waterloo

Than walked across the Thames and heard

Big Ben chime seven anew.

To Covent Garden once again

And in the massive door

The girls now smiled when us they saw

‘Same seats you had before’.

Les Rendezvous the first ballet

Then ice cream in our seats

For now the people knew us well

And made our joy complete.

Petruska with its dancing bear

Then to the bar we gird

Four glasses were with water filled

Before we said a word.

Pineapple Poll was last on fare

The girls by sailors won

At Portsmouth quay and then on board

H.M.S. Hot Cross Bun.

By now ‘twas March and yet to see

Was Royal Albert Hall

The D’Oyly Carte on tour it was

Perhaps we’d meet in Hull.

The art museums were yet to come

And tours upon the Thames

The changing guards and royal jewels

Would fill our spring with gems.

J.C. Webster.

17th March, 1960.

The Manse, Fulbourn, Cambridge.

Camping Coach

Easter time means a long school holiday in Britain. Since the school year runs from early September to late July, three weeks are allowed for Easter holidays. To pass this time we drove to Birmingham to see the D’Oyly Carte production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s, “The Mikado”, and there proceeded to a campsite on the Avon at Stratford. Next day Mary, Tom and Bill saw Shakespeare’s "Merchant of Venice" in the afternoon, while John was loco spotting at the railway station. Charlie, Dan, and I alternately napped, walked, or played catch. In the evening the roles were reversed. John and I went to the “Merchant” while mom baby sat.

Next morning after Charlie took an unintentional dip in the Avon (air temperature 45°) we proceeded on for a few days in Monmouthshire and Wales. I mention Monmouthshire by itself because at this point we were a little confused as to whether we were in England or Wales and asked a local shopkeeper, and were told we were in neither England nor Wales, but in Monmouthshire. Here we visited a Roman Amphitheater before proceeding through coal mining villages, slate mountains and historic castles. At Caernarvon, where the oldest royal sons are invested with their legendary Prince of Wales title, the boys really roamed. This castle is fairly well intact but not inhabited, a child’s paradise. All this time we camped in our Microbus even though at Aberystwyth the temperature dropped below freezing.

Months before in planning for these Easter holidays we figured it would be too cold to camp in our car so we hired (rented) a British Railway camping coach for a weeks outing in Scotland. Camping coaches are unroadworthy but habitable old passenger coaches that have been refurnished into three bedrooms (six bunks), a kitchen, and a rather large sitting-dining room. These immaculate coaches are permanently parked on sidings in picturesque villages all over Britain. The adjacent station is used for bathroom facilities and as a supply for paraffin (kerosene) on which everything runs (lights, heat, and cook stove). They hire (rent) for 1 pound a night and can be hired for one or two weeks. We spent the last week in April at Callander between Stirling Castle and the Trossacks in Perthshire. Callander was the terminus for many trains from both Edinburgh and Glasgow and I expected it to be picturesque, convenient, and active in switching and shunting. I wasn’t wrong.

We drove our Microbus from the Manse to the car park at Cambridge Station and got on the 6:18 diesel rail bus (similar to our RDC, Rail Diesel Car) for Bletchley to catch our Main line sleeper for Perth, Scotland. We had as much volume in luggage as in boys and being pre-warned on registering (checking) baggage through, we planned to carry ours. We had the porters get it on board for us. Diesel rail busses have one engine driver and one guard and the guard was pre-warned by our volume of baggage to expect a large party. When he saw the extent of our entourage he figured his job would be easier if he kept us together and somewhat segregated from other passengers. This he accomplished by putting us into the unoccupied smaller compartment conspicuously labeled “First Class", needless to say we weren’t.

The guard turned out to be quite a jolly and gregarious man and of all things a stamp collector. Not only did he collect stamps but he had some albums with him and showed us portraits of many Kings and Queens. We learned a lot of English history and found once again that the British are not hard to know or to get along with, at least if you travel byways with five boys. We crossed over the eastern (London-Edinburgh) mainline near Sandy and continued on the Cambridge to Oxford shuttle as far as Bletchley the transfer point on the midland (London-Glasgow) mainline.

While waiting about a half-hour in Bletchley John and twin shadows Tom and Bill spotted the loco numbers on the Mid-day Scot, Red Rose, and many lesser trains.

Very shortly the "Northern Irishman" arrived and we were soon ushered into our Second Class sleeping compartment. Unlike U.S. Pullmans, British Railway sleeping cars are just that, sleeping cars. They do not convert in daytime to seats, after all London to Inverness is only 530 miles and London to either Edinburgh or Glasgow is less than 400 miles. The trick is not to convert the sleepers to daytime use but to schedule these relatively short runs to night time hours, neither leaving too late nor arriving too early.

Our compartment had 4 bunks, ample for our traveling sleeping arrangements, John alone, Tom and Bill, Charlie and Dad, Dan & mom. These were permanent bunks running across the car leaving a small hall along one side of the carriage. No sheets, but ample blankets, lavatories at either end of the carriage. Quite ample for a nights sleep (for those who can sleep on noisy, bumpy trains). Our car was somehow shunted to miss both Glasgow and Edinburgh and arrived at Perth via Stirling at 8 a.m. (about an hour late).

Starting the first of May, British Railways have runabout tickets for sale. These tickets, good for specific regions or sub regions, allow the users unlimited use of trains in this region for a week. Our week in Scotland was, however 23-30 April and rules are rules, USA or GB. We figured, therefore, we would hire a Bedford Roadmaster (a sort of station wagon) for the week. This was why we went to Perth instead of to Callander directly. Previous correspondence with SMT (Scottish Motor Transport) had established that we wanted Britain’s most commodious (and rugged) car, the aforesaid Bedford.

We were met at the station by the SMT man and again went through instructions on the left hand gear shift, etc. etc. I suppose ten months in Britain had shaken my confidence somewhat in driving but I was more fearful of this stub-nosed, blue, jeep-microbus than I had been of the Consul we stepped into off the boat at Liverpool.

Although it was past breakfast time I wanted to get the feel of "The Blue Avenger" on the open road so we left Perth for Dundee via Glamis Castle and James Barrie’s (Peter Pan) birthplace. We had breakfast in a village between Perth and Glamis. It had been so long since we had eaten out that we asked for milk for the boys’ breakfast without specifically specifying "cold milk”. So came five cups of steaming milk (and when we left there sat 5 cups of luke warm milk).

As we might have expected, Glamis Castle was not yet open for visitors, so we proceeded to Barrie’s birthplace. It was while navigating the should-have-been one way streets in Kirriemuir that I noted that the brakes didn’t work. Only my Barney Oldfield training saved the closest lamp post as I dodged the ever-to-be expected parked car which made this cow path a cul de sac. This incident convinced me I needed more open roads. On the way to Dundee discovered that if about every two minutes, or before any potential danger spot, I would pump on the brake pedal with my left foot while maintaining a steady pace with my right foot on the accelerator the brakes would get primed and work when needed.

And so via Dundee, St. Andrew, and Stirling we finally arrived at Callander. I had discovered during this seven hours of driving that 10 months of experience driving on the left did me no good whatsoever when they switched the steering wheel on me. My microbus had no hood nor radiator ornament to guide me but with the steering wheel where it belonged I had no lateral distance judgment problems. I remembered no such troubles on my hired Consul, 10 months earlier. However, it was narrower and had a hood to use as a reference. I was no match for that Bedford. In the whole week I never did get used to "The Blue Avenger". Whether it was its width, the narrowness of the Scottish roads, the right-hand drive, the left-hand roads or the continual words of advice from 6 mouths, I don’t quite know. Before the week was over I had living testimony to prove my point. On one of our drives, around Loch Lomond, I met a lorry on one of these narrow gauge roads and he couldn’t keep his monster on his half of the imaginary center line. To miss him I crowded to the left and true to the ample verge (shoulder) principle on British roads I scraped the fence that marked the edge of the pavement. As I stated in an earlier chapter driving in Britain is a not to be forgotten experience.

But back to the camping coach. We arrived just as the station employees were leaving for a two-hour tea break (between trains) but they gave us the key, a gallon of paraffin, a list of local stores, bakeries, etc. showed us the station lavatories, and said details and questions answered in two hours.

I hadn’t seen a paraffin (kerosene) lamp since my sub-teen vacations at my Grandmothers Iowa farm, but a little experimenting and the secret of the lamp was learned, no Aladdin, but light. In the meantime my quite intellectually superior wife had worked out the operating principles of the paraffin stove. Dan and Tom had discovered they were hungry, John had decided which he considered to be the most ideal bed and at this discovery Bill decided the same thing. John had not yet discovered that having decided upon the best he should keep discreetly quiet and declare a love for another. Then when Bill had taken the other, John could take what he wanted in the first place. But after all it’s no fun getting what you want if a battle of some sort doesn’t precede possession.

At this point an enterprising, we were in Scotland now not England, dairyman stopped by and agreed to deliver 8 English pints of milk before 7 each morning if we would be sure he got his bottles back. Glass must be expensive in Europe, sometimes dairymen wouldn’t even sell us milk when they found we would be long gone within 24 hours. And milk bottles weren’t at all interchangeable; what with liters, and English pints, and various sized mouths. In fact we often found sterilized milk, capped like minerals (soda pop) the easiest milk to come by, right off the grocers shelf. We made a trip into town, a block away, to get gammon (bacon), eggs, bread, oatmeal, beans, butter, orange juice etc., and came back ready for our first home cooked meal.

As mom and Dan were cooking, a belly puffer arrived with a train from Glasgow and the switching began. Some cars were going on to Oban and others were switched off ready for the first trip back the next morning. They had no extra engines in Callander so the switching was done with the transient puffers that came through. Real excitement developed when the switchman got the guard car uncoupled from the buffet car but didn’t get the accordion pleated passageway between cars uncoupled. At the first puff the engine, guard car, and the covered passageway between cars left the station, while the buffet car minus its portion of the covered passageway was left standing in the station. Perhaps the seasons first audience, four boyish noses pressed against the camping coach window was too much for the crew. In any case, in nothing flat five boys and dad plus all hands in the station and many patrons of the buffet car were out inspecting the wreckage and making suggestions. Then came the decisions. All the decision makers had already left for the day and the engine driver, guard, and switchman had to decide what to do. The train must go on but there was now no obvious way of keeping the smoke, wind, and dirt out of the buffet car. About a half hours work with crow bars, huge wrenches, hammers, cardboard and crating lumber ‘and the passageway was temporarily, firmly closed. The gnarled passageway was thrown aside, near our camping coach, and the train was off.

Mom’s first paraffin cooked meal was now devoured and dad got to light the paraffin lamps, and fire (heater). The boys were tired and in spite of more passenger and goods trains, all with puffer engines, they finally got to bed. We didn’t trust leaving the paraffin fire (heater) on all night so at rooster Tom’s first stirrings in the morning Dad got up and rekindled the paraffin fire.

We were soon off in the Blue Avenger for Edinburgh. We had long ago found that Sunday, especially Sunday mornings, was the time to drive around any large city. It was lambing season and we saw many wobbly lambs most of them eating momma. Dan soon got the idea and kept pointing excitedly and saying "little babies". Edinburgh is a jewel, even in April and of course the high point of the trip was Leeries Lamp in front of Robert Louis Stevenson’s childhood home at least for Tom. Bill liked the castle, Charlie the kilted soldiers, and Dan the "little babies" (lambs in Holyrood Park).

The highlight for John was the Firth of Forth railway bridge. We ferried across right adjacent to it. The highlight for Dad was the Edinburgh University coed riding the ferry selling charity stickers for car windscreens (windshields). Mom got her usual 20 winks while dad herded the Blue Avenger back to our 8 wheeled home.

On Monday I had to visit Dr. Frances Ingeman (another American in Britain for a year) at Edinburgh University to arrange for getting some samples of speech from the Parametric Artificial Talker (a talking machine not of the phonograph or tape recorder variety). On my train trip home I occupied a compartment with a very interesting Scotch biblical book seller (wholesale only). In discussing the English & Scottish reformations he pointed out that the English were very foolish in destroying or desecrating the catholic churches in Anglicizing them. He said the Scots were too canny for that, they just repossessed the churches and converted them into Presbyterian churches with a minimum of upheaval. He, a Scotsman that is, gave me a copy of "The Scottish Reformation" free. A great day for US - Scottish good will.

Next day we Blue Avengered to Glasgow to see the double decker trams, not just double decker busses like other British cities. It was quite obvious that most such trams were not originally built as double deckers, but the upper deck was an old tired single-decker worn down at the wheels.

We came home via Loch Lomond and aforementioned encounter with fence posts in preference to lorry. The amount of paint lost was no where in proportion to the noise generated by the scrape and neither was proportional to the words of advice from the captive crew. The main words of advice were next time stop and let lorry pass you. So sure enough two miles further on as I was half way through a construction zone in what I presumed was a one-way traffic situation a lorry started in from the far end. As advised I stopped. The lorry came alongside and likewise stopped. Since I was first into the one-way zone and first to stop I figured he must have known he could make it by, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t, and didn’t. After sitting for about 2 minutes with not a word spoken I finally inched along with outside wheels right on a 2 foot drop off and inside (and unscratched) side within an inch of the lorry. In all this time the lorry driver uttered not one sound nor even looked right or left. This was obviously his road and even though I was there first I had either to back down for half a mile or creep by he was set, chin, lorry, and eyes. On our return we visited the pub for my nerves.

Wednesday, we visited Loch Katrine, the Trossacks, Brig-o-turk, and the back side of Loch Lomond; Rob Roy territory. We tried to photograph the long haired Highland cattle but found the hide and seek game with the sun too much for us.

Thursday, was castle day. First, Stirling, which shared with Edinburgh the burden of sheltering kings, queens, and governments for many centuries. It was here that the Telecast of Columbus’ discovery of America was viewed by the Scottish Parliament. It was also here that the present Alec Guinness movie, “Tunes of Glory” was made. This is indeed one fine castle with small murder rooms, official chopping blocks, ornate statuary, and kilted Scottish regiments.

However, little Doune Castle on a hillock within the Vee of the junction of 2 streams was by all odds the boys favorite castle. Doune Castle isn’t on the main road, in fact not in a road at all, but at the end of a lane. We stopped at the vergers house to buy tickets but instead got a torch (flashlight) and the keys. Here we literally had a castle of our own. This was not a castle for kings or queens, yet some royal prisoners were kept inside (or rather underneath). It had a basement (dungeon) and three floors on one side of an enclosed courtyard. The remaining three sides were surrounded by a 40 foot wall, about 6 feet wide. Tom and Bill soon found the top of this wall which had a walkway with arrow shooting holes looking outward and mostly nothing looking inward. They, of course, soon found they could circumnavigate this wall. Deadweight Dan and Charlie with Dad’s help also made it around. John watched.

We found the banquet hall, the circular parapets, the dungeons (with trap doors) the huge cooking fireplace (twenty people could stand in it) and even the indoor plumbing facilities. This facility, located high on the outside edge of the wall, was indoors from the inside and outdoors from the outside and may have been considered part of the defense arsenal. The boys were all over; defending, attacking, escaping, standing (or rather running) watch, but not banqueting nor counseling, these sedate activities could wait. No one got permanently lost although one reluctant prisoner, Charlie, had to be rescued by the lord of the manor, Daddy, the knights got a little over realistic. After reprieving all prisoners, we secured our bastion, inspected its outer defenses, left the password (and key) with the verger and set out on our crusade, to conquer the infidel, hunger. Our siege had been a little long and the defenders were hungry.

As we Blue Avenged homeward a game had to be devised to ward off imminent starvation. The game was that whoever could find a cairn, a black sheep, a triangular pile of turnips, a herd of highland cattle (we knew these were a mile from home), and a pheasant could have a lolly when we got home. Charlie found his "peasant" immediately but it was Tom, Lolly Tom, that spotted not only a black sheep but said sheep with twin black lambs. This of course delayed the trip for picture taking. We got home just in time to see the Inspectors looking over the gnarled passageway and slapping a few wrists.

Friday, the boys "puffered" to Stirling where we met them and visited the Wallace Memorial, this time dad stayed aground and momma walked Tom and Bill skyward. I guess John figured if Mom could make it he could too. As a reward for bravery we bought him a McGregor clan hat (Tom was a Stewart, Bill a Royal Stewart, Charlie a McDonald and Dan a Wallace).

Saturday was moving day and we were due at Perth at 0800 to turn in the remains of the Blue Avenger and catch the train, across the Firth of Forth bridge, to Edinburgh. We religiously lined up all the milk bottles, scrubbed down the boys and the coach, had our last paraffin cooked breakfast and were off by 6 a.m. Even so we just made our 0820 train, 60 miles away. We incurred bad luck by not throwing a coin off the Forth Bridge, no one told us this was the thing to do.

We arrived in Waverly Station in time for a second lunch, stocked up on cheese and tomato sandwiches and got aboard the 11 o’clock express to London. Many stone walls, lambs, and sandwiches later we crossed the river Tweed and were officially back in England. At Peterborough we transferred to a rail bus and arrived in Cambridge about supper time. On the drive to the Manse we stopped at White’s Dairy for milk and eggs.

After duly rekindling the fire in the coke cooker and the fireplace we rekindled the spirits of the boys enough to get them under eider down with hot water bottles, and so ended the Easter Holidays.

Noah (Webster) and the ARK

Even a scientist on a fellowship in England cannot escape his past. Dr. Kemp, my boss at the Navy Electronics Laboratory, had told me long before I left that he had been invited to give a paper at the Ergonomics meeting. This meeting was to be held in April in Cambridge and I was looking forward to seeing Eddy again. After I had told everyone he would be there, I got a letter from the Senior Psychologist in the Admiralty stating that Dr. Kemp had turned down the invitation and would I like to give a paper about my Navy work in his place. I’m sure no one was fooled by anyone. Our lab was not about to send anyone to Europe and back when his colleague was already there (at no cost to the Navy).

So my blissful Leave Without Pay status was to be voided for this one affair (at no cost to the Navy). And I again had to give a paper instead of enjoying a meeting once and just listening. But I must admit I rather like giving papers and feel a little useless just sitting.

Besides a fellow U. S. Air Force colleague of mine, Dr. Julien Christensen, was invited to give a paper and I thought the Navy should be represented (even at no cost to the Navy) so I sent in an abstract as requested and sent to my lab for a film report we had already made on the latest project I had worked on. After all, why not make it easy on myself and let my past work on film speak a great deal of my present assignment. To make a long story short, my paper interested the Senior Psychologist from the Admiralty, my old Essen und Trinken friend very much and he invited me to give it again at the Admiralty to civilian scientists and engineers as well as ranking Royal Naval officers. And to make another long story short within the month I was invited to spend two weeks (not 40 days and 40 nights) on board the ARK, i.e. HMS ARK ROYAL.

This, of course, presented some problems. First, how to get to the as yet unnamed port of embarkation in the longest most roundabout way so as to see as much of Europe as possible; second, how to convince Mary this was really a legitimate fact finding trip and not a two week pleasure cruise around the Mediterranean Sea. And third, how to get ahold of evening dress (they dress in Dinner jackets for the evening meal).

The first problem took care of itself, by the time both the USN and the RN got my security clearances straightened out and informed me of the exact dates of, and ports of embarkation and disembarkation, I had exactly one flight I could still get reservations on. A BEA (British European Airways) flight directly to Malta with a half hour stop in Naples, no 2 day stop in Paris, nor in Nice, nor in Rome. And coming back the dates coincided with the Whitsun school holidays and I didn’t dare enjoy Barcelona more than a day while the boys were raring to see more of England.

On the second point I had never yet convinced Mary that my trips even to Washington, where my mother lived, had any but the remotest relationship to Navy Department business. And my trips to sea, well, “I’d like to take a cruise for a week, you look after the boys”. Perhaps she gets suspicious because I do have some say as to when I go and I can almost always avoid the PTA Halloween carnival and sometimes even the Cub Scout Blue and Gold banquet. Anyway this was no exception and her parting act was to pack my bathing suit, some sun tan oil (which we had little use for in England) and my anti acid pills.

Of course, just the existence of problem three made her doubt the validity and even the existence of said sea trip. Why would anyone need a dinner jacket on a Navy ship? I hadn’t even told her yet that HMS ships are wet (they have a bar in the wardroom). However, the director of my adopted lab came to my rescue and not only stated that Queen Elizabeth (the first) decreed proper attire for gentlemen but even offered to lend me said dinner jacket. Now Donald Broadbent, the director of the Applied Psychology Research Unit, loved roast duckling and plum pudding (or at least some type of English food) and had given up bicycling for a motorcycle and/or car and had consequently outstripped me in many dimensions, scholastically, professionally, and girthly. And he had inherited this dinner jacket from his father-in-law who was more portly than he. Consequently, I could place my hand with fingers outstretched between me and the front edge of said trousers. A few tucks and stitches and everything was fine as long as (1) I wore braces (black) to hold them up and (2) wore said dinner jacket (large) to cover them up. I duly purchased my first pair of dress black shoes since my band playing days, together with black knee length stockings and black braces (suspenders) (suspenders are garters, I’m not sure what garters are, except that they have knights thereof).

Whereas I spend a week on board USN carriers with clothes in a duffle bag, I now had packed 2 pairs of shoes; flight deck shoes, (loaned to me permanently by certain carrier friends in return for some of our experimental ear muffs) and said black dress shoes; dinner jacket and accessories; beaucoup white shirts; the usual cold weather (for windy flight deck) clothes, and aforesaid bathing suit, sun tan oil, and anti acid pills.

As I had found out from a previous experience, if one leaves London before 9 a.m. on Sunday, one leaves Cambridge sometime on Saturday and stays over. John decided to accompany me to London and we visited Kings Cross station, St. Pancras station, Euston station, the British Museum (saw Rosetta Stone, and Magna Carta), Covent Garden to get last minute seats for the evening performance of Rossini “Barber of Seville” and then a double decker bus ride to Hammersmith, the underground back to Paddington station where we parted company for about forty five minutes. He wasn’t lost and I wasn’t lost - it was just that he was looking for engine numbers and I was looking for him. Finally, we both decided the Underground station to Kings Cross (to transfer to Russell Square and our hotel) was a good meeting place, and it was. By finding a walk-in milk bar we just made it to the “Barber” and our 50 shilling seats.

We could hardly believe even in a comedy that the Royal Opera House would have a scene where Figaro, the barber, would lather up the count’s whole face eyes and open mouth included, but there it was. And our old friend, the head usher could hardly believe we would come and leave Tom and Bill home. And a tourist from America, in the adjacent seat, could hardly believe an American would bring a 12 year old boy (complete with English school blazer and the thickest English brogue you can imagine) to an opera. And we could hardly believe we were actually in London, in Covent Garden and not just dreaming. Actually our whole trip had many qualities of a dream, all except those engine numbers.

Early next morning, long before our prepaid hotel breakfast was served, we got a cab for Liverpool Street Station where John was to catch the earliest train for Cambridge before I proceeded to the West Side Air Terminal. At the station we breakfasted on cheese and tomato sandwiches (what else, we were on British Railway property) and milk. I luckily asked a Bobby to see to it that John stopped copying engine numbers in time to get on the train (I had to leave before it left) and he told us the gate number was changed from its usual listing because of engineering work. And so I left with many trepidations, since as you may guess Mary had never been keen on John’s coming home alone from London.

I was soon at the Air Terminal, since at 7 a.m. on Sunday morning even the cab trip from Liverpool Street to Earls Court along Victoria Embankment and the Mall is fast. An hour later, I was bussed to the airport and legally cleared out of England. And thirty minutes later I was out of England (or at least so I was told, the tops of clouds look pretty much the same the world over). Paris looked just like the English Channel, all white and fluffy as did Dijon and Geneva. But Mount Blanc did show up as a black and white spine sticking out of the fluff. Soon we were over sunny and cloudless Italy, going down along the coast past Leghorn and over Elba. With great effort Rome could be made out, and Salerno. Finally, we turned in over beautiful Naples with Vesuvius in all its glory surrounded by clouds. After champagne and lunch above the clouds we had sweets and coffee at the Naples airport. We soon took off again over the USS FORRESTAL (CVA-59), over Capri, Sicily, and finally, the landfall in a severe storm of St. Paul, Malta. White fluff had given way to green rolling hills, to blue sea, to green Capri, and now to yellowish brown arid Malta. The temperature had increased 40 degrees and I was now carrying, the rain-top coat I had just purchased 30 hours ago in Cambridge.

I have landed many times at U.S. Air Force or Naval Air Stations to visit laboratories or ships with reams of advanced correspondence and security clearances only to meet with, “Who are you?” “Where’s your clearance?” “Who do you wish to see?” “Do they expect you”? They say they’ve never heard of you or your lab (this always happens on SAC bases). So being a U.S. scientist visiting a RN ship I figured I would really be ignored.

With trepidation I got off the plane only to hear my name being paged. I was promptly met, toasted (while my bags were unloaded) and whisked into a RN car before I could even, say how nice it would be to visit Valetta. Before I could really get used to sunshine and heat again I was on a small boat and soon was climbing up the after ladder to the quarter deck of HMS ARK ROYAL.

First Day on the ARK

My two weeks aboard HMS ARK ROYAL would substantiate Mary’s conception of my business trips. To begin with, I really had no specific purpose. That is, there was no immediate problem that needed information for solution. I was not loaded down with sound level meters, new wearable radios, or even any new sound attenuating ear muffs. I didn’t have half of my section with me carrying tape recorders or movie cameras. I was armed only with my film report on the development of a Flight Deck Communications System, my only intent was to determine similarities and differences between certain specific RN & USN functions, in particular, air operations and the flow of command information.

The first observable difference met me at the top of the ladder, Commander McCready. I have probably been on 20 different USN ships with advanced arrangements made on each. I have been met by 20 different Ensign Duty Officers, but always the same reaction, “Who are you, does anyone expect you aboard?” As I reached the quarter deck of ARK ROYAL, Commander McCready, with hand outstretched, said, “I presume you are Dr. Webster, welcome onboard, steward take these bags”. John McCready, the Electrical Officer on the Admiral’s staff, had been assigned as my liaison officer. His second statement was, and this is similar to the USN, “Let’s go to the wardroom” but then, “and have a drink”, very unNavylike. He explained to me about dressing for dinner, got me my mess number, 252, explained how to use it for drinks, laundry, and ships stores, and then took me to my cabin. He apologized to me about having to share my four bunk cabin with two U.S. Air Force captains for two nights (before they flew home to Wheelus AF Base). I was indeed quite happy to have company (and someone to show me the way back to the wardroom). I dropped myself into my inflated black trousers, tucked at the top, put on my dress black shoes, black stockings, black braces, and black bow tie, and voluminous black dinner jacket. The captains and I then proceeded back to the wardroom where I made an important discovery. Dinner jackets yes, but summer uniforms had come to Malta and everyone else had white dinner jackets. Well, civilians what can you expect? The other three civilians, however, had gotten the word and were resplendently white. This was indeed a gala occasion - white dress RN uniforms, two USAF light blue dress uniforms, one USN white dress uniform (a helicopter exchange pilot), one USMC jet pilot in the brilliant Marine dress uniform, an RAF and several Royal Marine dress uniforms, and quite somberly, me. Under the circumstances I was easily enticed into ordering a gin and tonic, if my jacket would not bleach perhaps I could.

I found the drink cost me tuppence (two pence, roughly two cents) or rather that it would cost me tuppence when I left the ship after all 252 chits had been added. I soon found no one cared, least of all me, about the differences between black and white. Within the hour I had met my U.S. friends, the PMO (Principal Medical Officer), the Dental Officer, the Engineering Officer, a huge fellow, Wings, the Air Officer, Little F (Lieutenant Commander Flying, you know Leftinent), and I think at least half of the officer compliment. Dinner was soon served and then we adjourned to the Quarter Deck for an evening movie. Here USN and RN are the same. The movie was horrible, even when you couldn’t hear half the words. Soon it was time to hit the sack. After the over abundant meal, the dull movies, and the long day, I was asleep in no time.

My next recollection was of the lights being snapped on in the cabin and a cheery voice saying, “I’m Smith your steward, here is your morning tea”. After I had finished the already creamed and sugared tea and was muttering about the time, 7 a.m., Smith reappeared and asked whether I would like him to also bring me orange juice. He told me tomorrow was laundry day and asked me if I’d lay out the shoes I wanted polished and what clothes he should lay out for me for dinner. Even Mary doesn’t look after me that well and I was too surprised to give a very coherent answer. It did occur to me that something should be done about dressing for dinner and we had a heart to heart chat. Smith informed me that at sea, jackets were not worn only dress shoes, socks, trousers, cummerbund, and short sleeved open colored white shirts. More problems; I had no cummerbund, no short sleeved shirt, and no way to hold my trousers up without braces (black). I asked him where I could find the ship stores, perhaps I could replenish and update may wardrobe. His answer, “Just make me out a shopping list, sir, and I’ll see what I can do”. It turned out all he could do was shirt, white, short sleeved, summer. But resourceful Smith and kindly McCready together got me a cummerbund, namely, one of McCready’s. The belt was a real problem. British men don’t wear belts, RN uniforms have no belts, ARK ROYAL stores had no belts. But USAF captains have belts and so it looked like maybe we’d get by for dinner.

But that was hours away - it was time to go to breakfast. I had been in England nearly a year and knew that tea or coffee was supped leisurely in the lounge, not at the table, after the meal. I also knew that anyone who is anyone reads “The Times”. As a matter of fact, I really did. When Mr. Beaumont back in the village, many months before, had asked what paper I desired, I quite by accident chose The Times. A good choice indeed, you don’t have to look inside for the classified ads, they are on the front page. The editorial page, the heart of The Times (it includes Letters to the Editor), and the most important news on the adjacent page are right smack at the center of the paper, sports and financial at the end and no comics, heaven forbid. Anyway, there was never any question where to find anything.

I sipped my tea with a copy of The Times and was feeling very much at home. Many of the officers I had met the night before remembered my name and smilingly said “Good morning”. All was well.

Commander McCready soon spotted me and within the next two hours we had met Captain Norton-Hill, the skipper; visited Commander Reynolds, Wings, in his headquarters Fly Co.; found the Action Information Room (USN’s CIC, Combat Information Center); the Engineering Office; the Aircraft Control Room; the Two Hangar Decks; the Doctors and Dentists Offices; the barber’s shop; the post; finally the quarter deck; and back to the wardroom at 1100 (the bar was open). Again I needed little Persuasion to try this time a Gordons and Tonic (four pence). By lunch I was relaxed again, in fact overly so, after lunch, don’t let Mary read this, I took a nap. Not that I don’t nap every Saturday and/or Sunday. Child psychologists say you should set for your children good examples; Not do what I say, but do what I do. However, my naps very seldom wear off on the boys, but let me rest my elbows on the dinner table, they get that right now.

My Monday night costuming; Donald Broadbent’s father-in-law’s trousers, USAF Captain’s belt; under Commander McCready’s cummerbund; with RN shirt, white, short sleeved summer; complete with Smith’s shoe shine job set me off with the best of them. MY only concern at the end of D(AR)+1 was that during the day everyone else wore Bermuda white short pants with either white knee length stockings and white shoes, or with no socks and open leather sandals. Could I bring myself to conform? My British winter suit was pretty warm for this cruise. Too late to think it out now, wait for Smith in the morning.

Neptune and Bacchus

Tuesday morning, D(AR)+2, at 0700 the lights snapped on and there was Smith with grapefruit juice, and cream and sugared tea. After his usual cheery, “Good morning sir, did you sleep well?” he followed with, “I’ll pick up your laundry at ten” and “Anything you need at ships stores?” Although I’m generally an early riser, at least for the past 12 years, and my head clears early I probably was in no condition to make the ‘ship stores’ decision. Either because of, or in spite of, my condition I said “Yes get me some trousers, summer white, short; some stockings, summer, white knee-length; and some shoes, summer, white.” We reached some understanding on size and he was off. Being wide awake now after all my important decisions I got up, shaved, and tottered off for breakfast.

While reading “The Times” and sipping my tea in the wardroom after breakfast the Admiral’s aide approached me and stated, “The Admiral would be delighted to have you join him for dinner this evening”. There is really only one response to this statement and I replied “I would be delighted”, which I was. Details were that he, Sublieutenent Graves, would pick me up, that is meet me, in the wardroom bar at 1900. Another civilian, a distinguished grey-haired designer of one of the two latest aircraft on board was also invited. This invitation again was a rather wide departure from my usual routine on U.S.N. ships. I had lunch with an Admiral on one of my previous trips but nothing like a formal dinner. Of course technically I was the Admiral’s guest and in reality he really knew I was on board, his staff had made the arrangements. Ordinarily I was sent on U.S.N. ships by our laboratory and although I generally checked in with the executive officer to explain my presence aboard I didn’t always even meet the skipper. And certainly no U.S.N. Captain nor Admiral could entertain all his civilian guests in person. Nevertheless this was a surprise to me and a decided contrast from my usual shipboard routine and brought up a few problems.

The major problem was again the belt problem. Captains Greene and Easterly were to be catapulted off the ship today to return to Wheelus, and with them their, and my, belt. Secondary problems had to do with etiquette or customs, or in general, in what order do you proceed through the array of up to 12 knives, forks, and spoons, I had seen at my one other really formal dinner. At a previous banquet, in St. Johns College at Cambridge, as guests of Sir Frederic Bartlett (along with other members of the Ergonomic, Engineering Research Society) Mary had been along to help with, or further confuse my bewilderment of courses and utensils. Even from my Tourist Class Dining Hall experience on the Empress of England I knew I could expect up to 7 courses; soup, fish, releve (never did figure out what that one was), salad, entree, savory, and sweets. From St. Johns I learned there were up to three liquor courses interleaved before after and somewhere in between these courses. And from both experiences I remembered there were far too many utensils and in many diverse sizes and shapes.

I must add at this point that whatever success I had achieved in the world was NOT due to my social graces nor to knowing and/or entertaining THE correct people. My pre college upbringing had been by a widowed Mother on a soldiers government insurance. I went to a State University on scholarships and was not a Greek. My noon meals in high school were always gulped down previous to retiring to the kitchen to perform the dish washing chores. I had been to many service club banquets as a high school solo musician. However I couldn’t really enjoy the food or relax and learn leisurely manners. You see I always had to eat lightly in order to have breathing room for performing on my clarinet immediately after the meal. In any case I hated collars and ties, (made blowing the clarinet difficult), and dressed up only for the rarest occasions. My heritage from sturdy Iowa farming stock and my unpretentious upbringing suited me well. I didn’t aspire to social graces and was ill at ease when living too highly.

So in addition to learning about air operations on D(AR)+2 I had to be sure to see U.S. Marine Captain Blair to borrow one of his belts. This was arranged at lunch. This left only the unsolvable problem of Admiral etiquette. After all, people spend a life time learning to eat as if they aren’t hungry and with the correct kink in the little finger. And other people learn the correct stories to tell and the knack of when to tell them. I guess my reason for not attempting to excel in these fields stems partly from my observations of failures, namely bores, who never quite learned the subtleness involved only the mechanics.

In any case Mr. Nolan the Senior Vickers engineer, the other guest, who looked to be a past master at both technology and social graces, and was an old personal friend of the Admiral’s met me in the wardroom bar before the dinner. He quite properly wanted to get my name, and give me his, before the dinner so that no embarrassments from mispronunciation or mishearings should mar the initial proceedings. In the process of getting acquainted ourselves we exchanged drinks in the wardroom before Sublieutenant Graves escorted us aft and up to the Admirals cabin.

The perversity of the Royal Navy in sticking to tradition could be seen in the location of the Admirals cabin. I had in years past visited “Old Ironsides” in Boston harbor and noticed that located all the way aft and just below the main deck was a spacious cabin with little window appendages in each after corner. That is on the stern all the way port and starboard were little protruding windows so that the skipper who occupied this cabin could see in all directions right from his cabin. In the intervening two hundred and fifty years U.S.N. ships had moved the Captains and Admirals cabin further forward, somewhere closer to the bridge. Admiral Smeeton’s cabin was however where I presume Admiral Nelsons cabin had been, all the way aft, just over the quarter deck. I might add that given the location of the quarter deck I would want my cabin just where the Admiral’s cabin was. It is just that on U.S.N. ships the quarter deck, if any, has also been relocated.

It was quite apparent on our entrance into the Admirals cabin that he and his staff had not missed the environment of the wardroom bar. His more senior aide, Lieutenant Commander Watson asked us what we were drinking but didn’t really listen to our answer. He suggested instead that we try the Admirals favorite, lovingly (and appropriately) called the “Bomb”. Now that we were properly served we were introduced to Admiral Smeeton who towered over me by at least a full head. Within two minutes he had found out what questions I wished answered on board, and given one his opinions either as to the answer or how to find the answer. His directness in these two minutes showed me why he was an Admiral. I somehow felt unmasked, but not offensively so. Having determined the general background for the dinner conversation he showed us into the dining room. Admiral Smeeton sat, of course, at the head, Mr. Nolan on his right, I was on his left. His Chief of Staff Captain Holmes sat next to me and the remainder of his staff were arrayed around the table in general such that Sublieutenant Graves appeared somewhat dwarfed at his end of the table.

I now had time to survey my surroundings. In addition to the usual formidable array of gastronomical cutlery I saw a new array of accoutrements. Sandwiched among the cutlery were four goblets graduated in size and height to give the appearance of an expanding spiral staircase. These stairs, I assumed, were aspiring to reach the mythical heights of the Greek God - Bacchus. The smallest goblet in both volume and height was filled with a liquid I had become familiar with at many Cambridge Psychology Department receptions for visiting lecturers, sherry. Sherry, according to my limited, sampling of English wines, was by all odds Britains best seller. The name itself was synonymous with “Dinner is about to be served”. Why sherry, a product of Englands old and long time enemy Spain, should be a national drink evades me. Of course it now comes quite commonly, and cheaply, from South Africa but this gives it only a 60 year history not nearly long enough to become a tradition, (Our house, The Manse was this old and was practically modern). Maybe sherry, not gold, was the real treasure captured by Elizabeth’s respectable pirates, like Sir Francis Drake, from the legendary Spanish galleons. Perhaps sherry helped sink the Spanish Armada. Or were the Spanish war appropriations paid in sherry. Whatever the reason, without England sherry would be as extinct as the Dodo bird.

Back to Bacchus’ Spiral. I noted by sly glances to left and right that the soup course officially terminated with the completion of either the soup or the sherry whichever came last. And so I made a near fatal decision, hereafter I would see that my goblet was empty before my plate and in any case both would be finished before the assembled, and very experienced, gastronauts.

So with the removal of the soup bowl, the first piece of cutlery and the minor member of the Bacchus spiral, came the fish and the dry white wine. And in line with my new strategy, and especially since I prefer dry white wine, or most any other wine, to sherry, I soon finished Bacchus’ number two (or five, counting the pair in the wardroom, the Bomb and the sherry). As is usual with strategies, or any decisions, based on insufficient facts an unforeseen emergency quickly presented itself. Namely the wine steward noting my empty number two goblet and acting in a most gracious manner, namely while I was answering the Admirals question and couldn’t say no, filled up number two again. So again, after the assembly waited for me to finish fish and Bacchus #2, went two more pieces of cutlery, another plate, and aforesaid goblet.

Now came the red course, after the pale purple, and sparkling white, namely beef and claret. At his point I was getting somewhat concerned about Bacchus’ Major, i.e. 4. The largest goblet was indeed large and loomed even larger in my imagination. Whatever could be the next course, I was getting stuffed and soggy and could hardly even enjoy the delicious beef and slowly sipped claret. I was soon very relieved to see the wine steward come, not with another bottle, but with a jug (pitcher). He filled Bacchus #4 with a by now much appreciated clear and somewhat maligned liquid called water. At this point the number of feasters sometimes seemed more numerous, namely doubled, but at least all chairs and people were sitting upright in the room. All of this time I was talking about as much as eating being prodded by a whole table full of people who couldn’t understand why anyone should eat with a fork held in the right hand and of all things facing upward. This was not the first elegant meal I had eaten in the last year where only I had balanced the peas on the concave side of a right-hand-held fork. I never could master the technique of smashing them on the convex side of a left-hand-held fork although my boy John had mastered it, much to momma’s dismay.

Now eating in accelerated time the savory course and the sweets course seemed to speed by and on came the fruit and the final offering to Bacchus (in a new goblet). Being a non-smoker the brandy was a good antidote for the sudden appearance of the clouds of cigar smoke.

Unlike the movie of Sunday night I’m sure the “in my honor, Texas cowboy movie” soon set up and showing in Admiral Smeetons cabin was appreciated by all. In general everyones attitude was non-critical, and at least in my case I’m glad it was. Texas cowboy movies don’t interest me nearly as much as Alec Guinness or the Boulting Brothers. And I have the unfortunate attribute of wearing my feelings on my face. At a church showing I’m sure I would have looked bored stiff at any cowboy antics. But after an evening with Neptune and Bacchus, any offering of Apollo, Calliope or Dionysus would be appreciated.

After a few concluding rounds of scotch and soda, now passed up by me in spite of the malevolent dark clouds, the party broke up sometime early Wednesday morning. I now appreciated my aft-located cabin. I just kind of flowed down three decks and into my bunk by the screws. Believe me this night, morning that is, the vibrations, cavitations, and other contortions of the screws made no difference to me. I am a perfect guinea pig for the sedative drug alcohol, the room doesn’t spin around my pillow. At least if it did I would never know it for I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

Venus de Cino

“Good morning sir, did you sleep well?” “I say -- good morning, --- sir? --- Dr. Webster? --- Good morning sir, it’s oh seven hundred, I just brought the can of grapefruit juice today, I hear you dined with the Admiral last night.” You guessed it, that bloke Smith and his bloody tea. He continued, I’ll just pick your trousers off the floor and hang them up” “‘I’ve set your grapefruit juice on the desk by your bed” -- I’ll be back at oh seven thirty hours, shall I bring some aspirin?” It is mornings like this that makes Smith’s job worthwhile. Now he gets his revenge. Smith had a great sense of humour, he laid out my yesterdays purchases; pants -- short, and socks--long, where I could get the full benefit of how Un‑American they looked. He then smiled from ear to ear-and added, “We’ll try them on you and send you off to breakfast as a full-fledged Limey” “Shall I snap the light off?” “No, you’ve accomplished your mission, just hold the ship still a minute and I’ll try the hot shower treatment.” A little more deliberately than usual I made it to the showers and was greeted with many cheery salutations, “Good morning, Dr. Webster: did you enjoy the Admiral’s party?” I couldn’t quite figure out how they could all tell I’d been discussing technical navy matters with the Admiral, insight I guess.

My British summer uniform, minus shoulder boards, made quite a hit at breakfast and of course I was so numb I couldn’t have cared less one way or the other. I spent most of the morning with Dr Bateson the P. M. O. (Principal Medical Officer) restocking on anti-acid pills and querying him on the general policy of liquor and ships or more specifically liquor on ships. A reserve MD, a British European Airways (BEA) flight surgeon, was on board for two weeks and we all discussed the medical and psychological aspects of the problem. They informed me that if a man couldn’t handle the problem himself he was reprimanded. If warnings and probation were insufficient the next step was to beach him. Incurables were cashiered out of RN. It was up to each man to know when his watches were and what his liquor capacities were and to work his behavior accordingly.

So much for those to whom this was a problem. Was the practice justified in the first place? There are scientific treatises written on this subject and we all agreed even a small amount of alcohol reduces capabilities on specific coordination tasks, etc. Although one has to work harder to overcome these handicaps, small amounts don’t disable any specific function absolutely or irrefutably. The danger comes in changes of attitude, that is one tends to take more chances on risky decisions. However, as has already been said each man knows when he has the duty and knows that he can be cashiered out of the RN, and that the whole custom could be abolished if consistently abused. On this account everyone is on guard and much self and ship policing is done to keep the situation in hand.

Assuming then that excessive imbibers are taken care of is any harm done? The consensus seems to be that morale is bettered. From my limited observation I tend to agree. It appeared to me that ships company and aircraft squadron personnel got on better than was my impression from my limited visits to U.S.N. ships. In general the officers tended to mingle more and appeared to get on well together. Even the Admiral’s staff seemed to merge into the ships company with no observable friction. Of course the wardroom bar is only one aspect of this togetherness. The whole command structure and control space layout for command is so different that this could account for the apparent togetherness. This point was elaborated on in my official report via navy channels, and I may say the bar was not mentioned in said trip report.

Even the Chaplain with whom I next discussed the problem agreed he had no quarrel with the bar problem. Although he agreed this could be a moral problem, and is when minors and women come into the picture, it was not considered by him to be a moral problem on ship. I found in general, among my limited acquaintance with my village pastor and the village vicar, that total abstinence, the policy of my home church, was not generally the policy of the village churches or even necessarily of the clergy. Since these are touchy grounds I’ll get off the subject post haste but I think the general problem is the same as we tried to answer by the eighteenth amendment. Is there really less drinking during prohibition? Or in dry states? This is a problem for each man and laws and availability alter the probabilities somewhat but don’t solve the problems.

My dinner with the Admiral and my three days on board had by now got me acquainted with everyone I needed to know to pursue my objectives of tracing out the flow of command information, especially in air operations. By Friday as we approached Toulon I felt as if I knew the officers, the ship, and how she operated. I was content to sit back and enjoy the ceremonies of an English flagship sailing into a French harbour. The Admiral flew off in a helicopter to meet the French bigwigs. The R.N. ratings in dress blues (the French hadn’t yet changed to whites) lined the deck. The Royal Marine band marched up and down the deck while the Royal Marine Guard detachment had rifle inspection. Somewhere inside the harbor nineteen guns were fired from shore, they missed. ARK ROYAL returned the fire, again no casualties. The quarter deck had been transformed from a ship to a stage setting of a ship. Goblets appeared from somewhere, bottles from somewhere else, and soon there was hardly room to maneuver. We were boarded by striped pants mufti, and French partisans, dressed in lovely evening gowns and the like. It soon became apparent that my life as a Civil Service Scientist trained to observe the navy in action was just right for this operation. And I do mean operation or at least I’ve never seen so many operators. By careful observation I kept noticing the number of beautiful French girls and an equal number of the young R.N. officers were dwindling. Not that some Commanders and Captains weren’t cutting dashing figures but at least one, C.D.R. McCreath, had a handicap, namely me. I told him to forget me, I could read a book or some such, but he was either loyal to his task, (my liaison officer); broke, or just unlucky. In any case after the clouds lifted and it could be seen that all girls were gone; he, two other Commanders and I left for dinner, at 9 P.M.

We were all in civilian clothes now and for the first time I entered a foreign country without passport or anything else. I now know how to infiltrate a country. Just as Hitler did in Norway, you simply walk in from a war ship. Of course getting on the warship may be somewhat involved.

Our evening was quite uneventful as was the next day with the possible exception of the movie we saw Saturday night. And of the movie I can’t say much because -1) it had no English subtitles and -2) if it ever got to England or America there would not be enough left of it to be worth talking about. You may guess it was about women, mostly nude women. I don’t mean most of the women were nude but that most of the women were mostly nude, let us say discretely nude. Ostensibly the movie had a story and it had to do with one man’s conquest of Veni or Venuses. However since all his Venuses had B B hair do’s and his conquests were so numerous and in such rapid sequence I got lost in my French. It doesn’t take much to lose me in French but my English companions also got lost. We all agreed a program should have been issued and big numerals posted somewhere on the feminine team members. Not on their jerseys, since on hooks these tend to fold up and the numbers can’t be read. The available useable space would be more amenable to tattoo than to needle and thread.

Lady Luck

England is a land of bicyclers and hikers. On Sunday the third civilian on board, Ken Lawson, asked me about joining him in a short hike. Had a fellow American asked me about a hike I wouldn’t have hesitated but I’d seen and heard about the physical powers of the present generation of my ancestral countrymen. Sure enough he planned to hike about ten miles to the inland village of Prevest and back again. After a little heart-to-heart chat about the lack of hiking shoes, socks (and stamina) and how much more fun it would be to hike around Prevest instead of to and from it we had a meeting of minds and agreed to leave in a half hour. This gave me time to don my hiking (flight deck) shoes and socks; he didn’t have any. I got my colored glasses and camera and we were off. Luckily he knew French and by a combination of luck and language we got on a bus headed for Prevest by about 1000. It was packed with natives; some in their Sunday best going to visit friends and family, others for a game of bowls on the village green. The bus meandered through valleys and climbed up and around coastal mountains and we soon started up a symmetrical cone shaped mountain that was crowned by a village and the crown of the village was the church. A beautiful medieval sight, this was Prevest.

Prevest on its symmetrical mountain top was the most easily defended mountain in the vicinity but not the highest. Our object was to climb upwards and seawards until we could glimpse the beautiful blue Mediterranean and maybe Toulon and ARK ROYAL. It was late May and if anything on the warm side. As far as temperature was concerned we were lucky, it was misty, however this made it impossible to take pictures. We climbed and rested, hiked and rested, asked in Ken’s French whether we dared trespass when the roads and paths seemed to stop. His French like my German lacked a certain degree of positiveness. Namely we were not quite sure where the man told us to go, or even whether he told us it was OK. But we went on the basis than if he was too unhappy, actions of some sort would replace or supplement words. At the next rest Ken told me a pleasant story about southern France, campers, and trespassing.

It seems a couple years ago a British Civil Servant and his family were camping in Southern France, just as my family had and would again. But you remember to a Briton camping means really communing with nature, farmers fields, spades, and the like. To us camping meant not communing with hotels nor farmers fields. We pitched our tent in organized campsites. Ken continued that the British Civil Servant asked a farmer in Southern France for the corner of a field for the night. The farmer said no. The Briton and his family camped anyway. Came morning, four bodies. Came trial, no witnesses.

So, unsolved murder. It seems no neighbors would bear witness against said farmer and so no case. Pleasant story, n’est-ce pas?

Well with that story under my belt we took off across some southern Frenchman’s farm after a non-conclusive conversation with him about whether it was OK to cross said farm. We soon forgot about these worries and started worrying about boulders, gullies, rocks, fences, underbrush, etc. However we soon came to a well traveled-path. We noted it was well marked with what I presumed were French Partisan markings, so we assumed it went somewhere. It could be noted that at many bends and angles one could note covering rock edges or boulders from which the path could easily be kept under surveillance. A few rests, gullies, caves, and boulders later we mounted a high ridge and saw Toulon, ARK ROYAL, and the Mediterranean in the distance. It was still somewhat misty but we could see enough of ARK ROYAL to remind us it was lunch time. Looking the other way we could just about make out Prevest through the mist. Ken’s dress black shoes were taking somewhat of a beating as I reminded him on board might happen (before I told him I had flight deck shoes). But after a little rest, and some fresh air on hot feet, we set off again for Prevest.

We arrived at an out door cafe at about two and decided to sample their vin ordinaire (the local wine). We were too hot, dusty, and tired to think of anything exotic, and didn’t trust the local water supply. Said water supply was right adjacent to this cafe and we saw many an urchin come with vase, pail, or kettle to carry home a potfull.

On empty stomach the vin ordinaire really relaxed us and reminded us we were hungry. This cafe didn’t have food so we proceeded across the street past all the bowlers to the local bus station, recreation center (the bowling balls came from here), bistro, Sunday eating saloon, gendarme hangout, and obvious village center. Again in Ken’s best French we ordered the specialty of the house and more vin ordinaire.

An hour later we were still waiting but were not in the least annoyed by the delay. This was better than any French movie. The door was always open to the air but not to unwary flies or wasps. Gayly colored streamers of ersatz glass beads hung in a translucent curtain across the door. With each entre there was a bustle of swinging strings of beads and believe me there were lots of entres.

This being the terminus of the bus there was a layover for driver and conductor. They shared a bottle of vin ordinaire and the driver promptly fell fast asleep in his chair. More bowlers came in for balls and vin ordinaire. Most of the families were already closeted in the larger inner room but at least one family of three generations trouped through for their outing of the week. A lad of about six came in to get some vin ordinaire to take out, ostensibly home, or perhaps he had a sister.

The most picturesque creature to part the curtains was dame charity herself. She was about as wide as she was tall, had long since passed 29, but not 49. She wore a striped dress. Two inch stripes, black and white stripes. Horizontal two inch black and white stripes. An escaped convict would have been conservatively dressed compared to Miss, or perhaps Madame, Charity. She had a book, some tickets, and a speech. We watched this petite, trim, walking zebra barrel make her rounds. She got many a guffaw and many francs and dispensed many tickets and put many names in the book. After she had enlivened every other patron and received many slaps on her somewhat hard to miss behind, she homed in on us. I looked like the softest touch so she concentrated on me until my gestures and “Je ne comprendee” got her focused on Ken. Now all eyes were on us and Ken’s French and her mission of understanding soon compromised us into parting with a new franc each. We were never quite sure what we were supporting, except it had something to do with the church, nor what we were going to win in the ensuing raffle. Since she could not, or would not, understand our names nor our addresses she compromised and I was entered in her book as the American, address U.S.A. and Ken as the Englishman, address U.K.

Our dinner finally came and was leisurely devoured in time to watch the French version of bowls, to walk to the church of the crown, and to catch the next bus back to Toulon. This time they had to wake up the conductor to get the bus on the road. By this time we couldn’t have cared less when if ever, we left this lovely village and its leisurely happy people.

I have heard from Ken since my return to America and his luck on the raffle was no better than mine, neither of us received any prize package from Prevest.

Bacchus Revisited

There was not nearly as much fan fare getting ARK ROYAL out of Toulon as in getting her in. There were a few flags flying but no cannonades, nor marching bands. You got the feeling this was Monday morning, business as usual, not Friday evening, pleasure is business.

During this week I visited the bowels of the ship, the engine and boiler rooms; met the stokers and heard their noises and felt their heat. Their environment is equally as bad as on USN ships, unsung heroes every one. I also witnessed a refueling at sea, always a spectacular sight, and watched rehearsals for operation “Shopwindow”. Shopwindow was as the name implies a show for visiting dignitaries, to be unleashed on Friday with the Barcelona bigwigs onboard. There was precision flying, buzzing (dive bombing) the ship, rocket firing at towed targets aft of the ship, and then what I considered the big event. USN carriers are either attack carriers, anti submarine carriers, or marine-landing carriers, ARK ROYAL was essentially all three. On board were squadrons of helicopters, propeller driven planes, and the latest jets. The big event for me was when all three type squadrons were launched, directed to rendezvous positions and then on a straight course starting miles astern of the ship they proceeded forward each at their own cruising speed and, flew over ARK ROYAL as one big umbrella, or as a marching column but in three dimensions. The trick is of course to time the operation so that at the exact time all of these squadrons are at the same spot (except vertically) they are also just over ARK ROYAL. Obviously a second before they arrive the jets are bringing up the rear and a second later the jets are the fore marchers. Quite a remarkable stunt.

However the highlight of the week was my second dinner with the Admiral, and Ken’s first. Thursday evening our last night at sea and the night before “Operation Shopwindow” for the Spanish Alcaldes.

The fun was not to duplicate my rather shabby behavior of the previous week but to watch the new sheep, Ken, being led to the slaughter. Not that he wasn’t forwarned. He had sought me out, early in the day, as an old hand, and sought my counsel. I had told him all the pitfalls, namely sip lightly. In fact I was still telling him this at the wardroom bar, while I was drinking lemon squash and he a Horses Neck, the standard ARK ROYAL drink. After his first Bomb I knew my advice was not getting home to him. Or at least it wasn’t getting to him as fast as something else was. I also noted he didn’t take my advice on the Bacchus Spiral but got himself caught up that fatal refill maneuver. By the after dinner liqueur he looked like a prizefighter just before the final knockout punch. At the movie, I can’t even remember what it was, he was amused no end. It couldn’t have been that funny or it wouldn’t have been released to this or any other carrier. I can’t quite figure what determines the choice of sea movies. There could be subtle psychological reasons for the choices made. For example, no sexually stimulating movies, in other words no French movies, on an all man ship. Men away from port at least five of every seven days and sometimes for weeks or months on end, wouldn’t appreciate this kind of movie. On USN ships at least no alcoholically stimulating movies for similar reasons, which rules out about half the Hollywood movies. In fact maybe the generalization is, no stimulating movies of any sort. With sex and alcohol already eliminated this would eliminate less than 1% of the remaining movies. This leaves cowboy and gangster movies and those musicals that aren’t either sexy or alcoholic, that is the ones that don’t sell anyway. On taking a more positive approach the angle is probably that the choice is made to depict life ashore such that everyone is glad to be at sea (except for the movies shown there). However in all probability the choice is not scientific at all but based on economics. Those movies that had no inherent demand in theaters or TV could be had cheaply by the worlds greatest navies. In any case one of the test phrases we use to test communication equipment on board is “Wardroom movies are like sleeping pills”. This also tests whether the listener is awake and/or alive. He needn’t answer or repeat back the statement he merely nods his head up and down. If he nods his head sideways and/or says “no”, we recommend he report to the Medical Officer for psychiatric treatment.

After the movie came the traditional Scotch and Soda and neither Ken nor I imbibed. He was already full to overflowing and my one rule was alcohol if it serves any purpose at all is to loosen ones inhibitions to better enjoy something or other. Since I have never had any difficulties enjoying sleeping, I just don’t believe in drinking before going to bed. Anyway it gives me acid indigestion and at this point I was again running low on anti acid pills regardless of Mary’s supply and the PMO’s reissue.

As I helped pour Ken into his bunk, I chided him on not listening to my words of wisdom. But just like me, comes a really big occasion in an otherwise, not drab but, smooth running life and we remember too well our college days and capacities and don’t remember the consequences.

The consequences in this case were that we just about missed our day of sightseeing in Barcelona. Ken either outdid my performance, has a weaker stomach, or fewer anti acid pills. I didn’t see hide nor hair of him for breakfast or for that matter during “Operation Shopwindow”.

We anchored off Barcelona about noon and I was ready for sightseeing right after lunch. Finally Ken came in for lunch but did not seem very sightseeing inclined. In fact he seemed mostly inclined to incline. However a few turns around the quarter deck, a couple aspirins, and a few cups of tea and he could understand the now or never aspect of sightseeing in Barcelona and agreed, reluctantly to catch a 1400 boat with me. At Toulon we tied up at dock, in Barcelona we dropped anchor off shore and had a long and choppy ride between us and quayside.

They were so far behind in their boat schedules that they finally got us on the Admirals barge. After we were aboard we had to mill around for ten minutes waiting for the official mail pouch. Before we even got started away from the ship I was beady with sweat all over my forehead and was in general more green than ruddy tan with pink cheeks. We had a long way yet to go and the coxswain seeing my state allowed me to stand outside in the air instead of staying in the lurching cabin (listening to some Naval Aviator tell how he always got seasick). By the time we got quayside Ken was feeling much better than I was. Barcelona didn’t look nearly as good to me as my bunk would have.

But re-echoing my arguments to him an hour ago cheery Ken said “Lets go, now is the time to see the old Spanish Village”. Luckily he wanted to walk, he always wanted to walk. A cab or train now would have finished me off. We saw and/or smelled the many narrow back streets and soon arrived at the Cathedral.

My impression was they should let some light in. Probably because of the dungeon like lighting, the iron grilled Chapels reminded me as much of a prison as a place of worship. The preponderance of black dresses and shawls, the lack of light, and the presence of numerous lighted candles was a far cry from the high vaulted well lighted Cathedrals I had seen in England. We saw the old town hall and other, ancient buildings before our “daddy’s” shopping tour. Ken had daughters and looked for dolls (and sherry). I was looking for cameras. Tom had been saving his shillings and had given me 30 on my departure to get him a camera like John’s. And Bill’s ten saved shillings were to buy the same camera. Ken’s French stood him in good stead in his doll shopping since neither of us knew Spanish. After all I’d only lived 30 miles from Mexico for 12 years. However in the camera shop after many gestures and the “non” response to Ken’s “Parlez vous Francais?” I heard the familiar “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” The Spanish cameras were bought “auf Deutsch”. Then Ken and I remembered; ah yes, Spanish Civil War, Germans, usw. I bought a purse-basket for Mary (to help carry my Spanish sparkling wine). We had just heard on the BBC before leaving England it couldn’t be called champagne.

It was dinner time and since neither of our stomachs were first rate we just snacked. Then we saw an honest-to-goodness lamp lighter with a long pronged stick walk up the wide promenade in the center of the Calle de Gracia. He first flicked the gas on and then kindled the wick. And he did it so fast that he kept up with us in our walk. Our night life instinct had been tried and tested in Toulon and the Admiral’s party so we soon boarded the bouncy boat back and had a good nights sleep on ARK ROYAL.

Saturday morning I paid my mess bill, was presented with my 252 napkin ring, left 10 shillings for my faithful alarm clock, tea and juice server, valet, shopper, and general confidant, Smith. Along with John McCreath I bade farewell to Captain Hill-Norton and Admiral Smeeton and to H.M.S. ARK ROYAL herself, my favorite ship. About an hour later at the air terminal we ran into Mr. Nolan, the Vickers engineer and a Commander who had been observing for two weeks. They were to have departed yesterday but because of a plane cancellation they had really done up the town. After their description and the attached price tag I’m glad our tastes had been satiated at the Admiral’s wine cabinet.

Customs cleared my cameras, basket, and sparkling wine (champagne) with hardly a glance. The passport checker looked at my well stamped passport and cleared me out of Spain. In fact he was busy talking to another official and stamped it a second time and I proceeded on to wait for Ken. But no Ken. About a half-hour later and just before time to board I retraced my steps and saw Ken in quite a state of agitation talking to a group of immigration officials. What was his trouble? Had I been in the company of a spy, an undesirable to Franco’s Spain? Just as I was about to see if I could be of some assistance he finally came on through. His trouble? He wasn’t officially in Spain. How could he be cleared out if he wasn’t in. You see his passport, as my own, was cleared out of U.K. but there was no mention of coming ashore into Spain (or France). My passport was so cluttered up they hadn’t noticed that I too was not in Spain. They, of course, had never heard of ARK ROYAL. And if he’d come off ARK ROYAL where was his uniform? By now the highest official had been called and his English and/or French was good enough so that Ken could convince him of his honest motives. At least he made a phone call, established the fact that ARK ROYAL was in Barcelona and so stamped Ken’s passport. On the flight home, over France we weren’t bothered by custom officials. At the London Airport, he and his compatriots went though one line while I, alone, went through the “alien” line. Neither official even noticed, however, that we’d never really been to anywhere, but only that we were back from Spain.

The Best Opera

John, Tom, and Bill had gone with me into London numerous times to Covent Garden, Sadlers Wells, Old Vic, Royal Festival Hall, and Royal Albert Hall. Dan didn’t take much to baby sitters, so he, Mom, and Charlie usually stayed home. Charlie was told in great detail about the operas the older boys had seen and to him, opera, London, train, and going off with Daddy in School clothes were synonymous.

In the spring at Earls Court was the annual Royal Tournament. This is a show put on by the Armed Forces; RAF, RN, Royal Marines and Army and is the epitome of pomp and procession, horsemanship, thrills and excitement. There are drill teams, acrobats, horses and horsemen, massed precision marching bands, and displays by commonwealth units.

Inveterate “telly (TV)” viewers, who had watched this show for years, told us this is an event not to be missed. So came Charlie’s big day, a trip to London to see his “opera”. This was an all out effort, the whole family was going (the reserves were thrown into battle). As usual, toward the end of our stay scheduling (pronounced in England as sheduling) problems became critical. In this case, by the time we got the word that the Royal Tournament was a must for kids (that includes Mom and Dad) the week end and/or matinee tickets were gone. And, in fact, only for a Monday night could we get seven tickets together. Mondays and Fridays were always bad for trips to London since these were John’s field game days. Since it isn’t cricket to ask for John to be excused from Englands spring and summer national game, we would have to go by train. You see, London is 54 miles from Cambridge, which at 2 a.m. would take two hours (Manse to Earls Court) but at 4:30 p.m. would take be between three and four hours. By train and underground, the trip takes 2 1/2 hours. Just to complicate things, the village school had to postpone their Sports Day (because of rain) to the self same Monday.

Sports Day was a must for Tom. He was entered in the free running race (no sacks, eggs nor soccer balls) and the house[7] relay. Since Tom isn’t the most gregarious boy alive and will only compete when he is fairly sure not to get the booby prize, this was his most important day in England (and also ours in our reflected happiness of his willingness to join and conform with his adopted countrymen). But, you see, the s(c)heduling difficulties, Charlie’s opera and Tom’s race on the same day complicated by John’s sticky wicket, and, of course, no time for Dan’s nap.

Obviously my work day stopped at noon. Loaded with fresh movie film the Webster troop, minus John, set off for the battle of the village green. Since I was a PTA board member, I helped set up the benches for spectators most of whom were parents. In fact, twice I set up the benches, once when told the finish line was at the east end of the field and once again when told the reverse. However, I was lucky, Reverend and Mrs. Swallow and a visiting county school PT (physical training) expert were appointed field judges. They had the unhappy task of not only determining who were first, second, and third in the races, but in the ensuing melee finding these self same three winners to give them their identifying ribbons. More than once there seemed some confusion between who broke the wire and who got the blue ribbon. I have a feeling Rev. Swallow’s church membership hit a temporary low for a few weeks after Sports Day. Although, who knows things like this can work in reverse, miracles do happen. Someone coming in fourth and receiving a ribbon in the resulting confusion might become a believer in higher spiritual matters. In any case, I was glad to have been a manual laborer and not a respected judge.

Headmistress Smith soon summoned the first heat of the sack race, and Mrs. Golding started them with the familiar “Ready, Steady, Go”. Things were very orderly, very proper, practically sedate. We saw no parent cheering on their own, and in fact, little cheering at all. That is until Tom raced. Then British aplomb to the contrary there was much cheering from at least two parents (and three brothers) and, I might say, to good avail, Tom won.

To cap off a perfect day at the races, Tom’s team also copped the house relay race. Tom was pleased as punch and since he was quite popular with his class anyway, he was now enjoying his day. The only low spot of the day was when they ran out of squash at the refreshment stand.

But time was running out and we had to miss the climax of the day, the awarding of prizes. We hustled the boys into the microbus, picked up Laura Collins and her boys and beat a hasty retreat to the Manse for a change from Sports Day clothes to “Opera” clothes. We then dropped the Collins off and proceeded to Cambridge to pick up John.

It was apparent from the parade of identical twins coming up Hills Road that the Second Form Cricket game was over and all we had to do was to identify John from all those boys in identical uniforms. After two false starts we located him, drove to the railroad station and with no time to spare, got on our train to Liverpool Street. It was always difficult for us to get proper accommodations on the train. It was more desirable to get into a compartment than to scatter all over a saloon car. There are, in general, three types of passenger cars: compartments that run completely across the whole car opening to the outside station platform on both sides; compartments that run only partially across the car opening onto an aisle which in turn opens onto station platforms; and saloon cars. Saloon cars have a center aisle and on each side of the aisle are pairs of seats facing each other with a small table in between. To better keep the brood together, to make lap and/or seat room for napping boys as well as to control untoward noise and other less predictable antics, it was always preferable and less nerve wracking for both us and other passengers to find a compartment. Compartments had doors that kept noises in or out depending on point of view. The compartments on the 4:45 train to Liverpool Street Station were the type with the side aisle and were located right behind the engine. With the whole troop in tow and Deadweight Dan in arms, we weren’t the most maneuverable unit and usually by the time we got aboard all compartments had some other occupants. I always fairly gloated when we barged in on some footloose individual I had seen pushing, rushing and shoving some minutes before to get a window compartment seat. I could see the “no not to me” look on their faces, but they always stuck it out and in fact, we usually got on jolly well once they had accepted their fate.

This particular evening we got in with two British Railroad men and they quite enjoyed the company. Their conversation and answers to John’s questions were almost enough to keep him in the compartment and therefore, relatively clean. Usually John and his twin shadows, Tom and Bill, would go to one end of the hall where they could lower a window and at all stops stick their heads out, while standing on tip-toes to copy down all the engine numbers.

But this evening our engine driver and helper (engineer and fireman) kept all the boys entranced with stories of engines and wrecks. Charlie didn’t like to talk of wrecks and in fact wanted off, but we persuaded him wrecks only occur on other peoples trains.

John, Tom, and Bill got so interested in the train stories they almost forgot it was time for nourishment. However, Tom, who is more stomach oriented than either John or Bill, soon remembered it was time for the three of them to go to the buffet car and bring back seven cheese and tomato sandwiches. Charlie was too excited to be very hungry and offered his sandwich to his new friend the jolly engine driver. Dan, although just two never treated food lightly and proceeded to eat and/or crumble and/or mash his sandwich all over his face, clothes, and seat.

Came time for squash and I thought I’d better accompany the boys to the buffet car. This always complicated things somewhat since, like John with his shadows Tom and Bill, I had my shadows Dan and Charlie. And at any emergency, like going between cars where the noises and rattles increased, Dan was prone to say “carrime” and stop dead in his tracks under my feet. When carrying a bottle of squash in each hand this sometimes got disastrous. But with moms leave we agreed we’d drink our squash in the buffet car and. just carry one back for her. Then started the usual parade. People don’t think too much about three rather grown (6, 8, and 12) boys filing through a saloon car, but add talkative Charlie and wobbly Dan and sheepherder daddy and usually papers come down from noses, snickers and giggles are generated, and many offers of “I’ll take that one (Dan)” are forthcoming.

All the boys even Dan are past masters at drinking squash from straws on moving trains and the trick is to stop the flow after one or two bottles per boy. Usually after one bottle, Tom at least gets hungry again and needs another cheese and tomato sandwich (he won’t eat tomatoes at home, but somehow British Railways mean cheese and tomato sandwiches and he wolfs them down and when next confronted at home with a tomato, he consistently rejects it). After the second sandwich he gets thirsty again and the habit is contagious, especially to Dan to whom food, next to Mom and Dad, is his greatest comforter.

We arrived in due time at Liverpool Street Station and paraded off the train toward the Underground. Neither pleading reasoning, nor threatening could keep John on the straight and narrow, he and Bill were off loco spotting. Tom being more dependable, more apprehensive and having thinner skin than John or Bill helped herd Charlie and Dan toward the Underground.

Anyone familiar with the London Underground Systems knows there is a loop connecting five major railroad stations (Liverpool Street, Kings Cross, St. Pancras, Victoria and Charing Cross) with as many major tourist sites (Tower Hill, Westminister, Baker Street, St. James Park, and Mansion House). Anyone familiar with boys knows that at least twice in the past our family had made the round trip first clockwise and later counterclockwise. The District and Metropolitan Lines run along certain portions of this loop, but the Circle Line runs around it ad infinitum in both directions. Earls Court, our destination, is one stop beyond the loop on the District Line and can be approached from either direction. Earls Court and Liverpool Street Station are on almost opposite poles of the circle so a Circle Line in either direction plus a transfer at some common station would suffice. No real choice, just get on. However, from past experience and a dogged purpose, John knew another way. Take the Metropolitan to Paddington Station and transfer to the District Line at Paddington. It all sounds simple enough and momma by listening to John’s explanation, complete with map, was convinced this was a completely logical choice. However, I overheard the scheme and put my foot down. You see, the Metropolitan Line leaves the loop at Paddington and starts out along the British Railway tracks (where just incidentally there were usually many name trains with name engines standing with numbers to be copied). To make the transfer you walk from one end of Paddington Station to the other and in the process of course pass over or along all loading platforms (with engines and numbers). John had pulled this on me once before and had gotten himself (or me) lost for a half hour and almost caused us to be late for the “Barber of Seville” at Covent Garden.

Anyway, we went that direction, counterclockwise, but on the Circle Line. I was by now so sure of myself on the Underground I hadn’t bothered to bring my map and didn’t know exactly where to transfer. With a squadron of 7 independent minds it pays to know in advance what you, the nominal squadron leader, plan to do. So, although I wasn’t worried, I knew there were four or more contiguous stations where I could transfer, I thought I’d bolster my own and Mary’s confidence by asking a native where to transfer. His answer was to say the least ambiguous. His statement was true and positive but his coloration of English vowels left me completely in doubt. He could have said Uxbridge Road, Worcester Court, or Regent Park. All I knew was that it had three syllables. When I asked him again his second pronunciation also left me completely blank. He rather sensed this and said he was changing there himself, just follow him. Poor man, he sat as far from us as possible and gave a feeble smile every time I caught his eye, but he would gladly have caught the next later train and been late for supper. Of course, where I had been completely confident before of making the transfer I now was committed to watch and follow our impressed guide: All along the route I kept stealing glances at the Underground map posted on the opposite wall and just barely unreadable. I had eliminated Tottenham Court Road, Gloucester Road and had just noted we had left Baker Street when I saw his agitated movement and sign language signal which communicated to me, break camp, fall in, prepare for imminent advance (or retreat, you are never sure which door will be opened).

As we came into Edgeware Road station our reluctant guard hurried out of our car pointed to the first car of an empty waiting train (obviously at its beginning terminal) and proceeded himself to get into the last car. And so five stations later, the first being Paddington, we disembarked at Earls Court.

We had made good time and arrived with time to spare at the exhibition hall and finally climbed to our airy and lofty seats. To entertain early arrivers there was a concert by a military band and Bill told Charlie operas always opened with an overture. Bill couldn’t quite explain why the lolly (ice cream) man came between the overture and the first act, but Charlie was too busy talking and eating to worry about Bill’s dilemma. Of course, mom, Tom, and I were trying to convince Charlie this wasn’t really an opera but more like a parade or circus. Having never seen a real parade, a real circus, or a real opera he wasn’t very convinced.

Soon (after convincing Tom he needn’t hunt up the lolly man for a second lolly, he could wait until one came around again) (after convincing Dan we really needn’t go past 10 people, down three flights of stairs, and mill through all the late comers to go to the potty again) (after telling John we would go to Paddington Station next trip and to get busy and read the program while the lights were still on) (after telling Bill the first act was a gymkhana, a horse riding and jumping affair like he’d seen on the Manor House Green at the village a month ago) (and after cleaning the chocolate off Charlie’s face) the trumpet fanfare sounded and the first horseman appeared and jumped his horse over the jumping course.

Soon, two Royal Navy drill teams carried their unassembled field gun through and over a series of walls and gulleys, assembled it, fired three shots (we pulled Charlie back off the roof) and retreated again the way they had come, all in about 3 minutes. Then some marching and acrobatics, a RAF missile demonstration, and a dog acting as a guard jumping on intruders (Dan’s been afraid of dogs ever since). Instead of getting sleepy, Dan and Charlie were bug-eyed. Then came the Musical Drive which is a series of top speed maneuvers by four horse drawn caissons (gun carriages). Each four wheeled caisson is drawn by four teams of spirited horses. To the accompaniment of a military band these horse drawn field guns gallop through a series of split second precision maneuvers. The program reminds you of the weight (and momentum) of the caisson and the fact that there is essentially no braking action, once unleashed the show goes on. This is really quite a spine chilling event with horses, drivers, and heavy guns missing each other by inches and always at a full gallop. Charlie couldn’t contain his excitement any longer. He stood up and fairly yelled to our whole family, “This is the best opera I ever did see”. Even above the galloping horses and the military band a certain section of the audience broke into broad smiles and audible laughs and we hurriedly got Charlie back in his seat. One thing is certain, Charlie’s first opera was a huge success and he is ready to go another one anytime. We are now putting him to bed with recordings of “Carmen” and will take him to his second opera whenever the chance occurs. We are convinced his joy will not be quite so demonstrable.

Independence Day

Our time was drawing to a close. We liked our stay in England and we liked our British friends and wanted to give a party. And when is a better time for an Anglo-American celebration than the 4^th of July? Consequently, the following notice was placed on the bulletin board at the Applied Psychology Research Unit:

Celebrate

Independence Day

July 4th

at the Manse, Fulbourn

Hot Dogs

Corn on the Cob

Ice Cold (if I can find some ice)

Beer & Pop (Minerals)

Watermelon (if available)

Bring wife (or husband)
&/or girl (boy) friend (preferably or)

& all the kids

Fireworks forbidden by state law

No speeches or band concerts

Come any time from 4 to 9

RSVP

J. C. Webster, et al

Then began the fun. The menu sounds strangely ordinary to American celebrants, but not to British storekeepers. To get the full import of the task ahead in procuring these common ordinary American dishes, let me first tell your about our past experiences in getting, say, a pumpkin for Thanksgiving pie, or dill pickles for our hamburgers or, say, just a can of sweet corn.

We eat corn as a vegetable with a meal, I’d say at least twice a week. It was quite natural for us to go into the closest village store within a week of our arrival and ask for a can of sweet corn. To begin with there is a semantic problem here. Every field crop in England, all the cereal grains; wheat, oats, barley, rye are called corn. Maize, on the other hand, just isn’t raised in England. I was brought up in Iowa and Mary in Illinois and to us corn (maize) was as common as grass and almost as common as weeds. It hadn’t really occurred to us that those stifling days on end of 90 degree plus temperature had something to do with the raising of corn. I remember one of my first conversations with an English farmer. In response to my inquiry as to the source of noise in his barn, he replied he was “threshing corn.” Oh, I said to myself he means “shelling corn”, but no he meant “threshing corn.” He convinced me when he told me he was also going to bale the straw. Since I had never heard of baling either shucks or stocks or cobs I was finally persuaded he was indeed threshing corn. The point is “corn” in Britain is the generic term for grain, maize is British for corn.

The other detriment to good international relations is the fact that in my travels around Britain I saw not one field of maize. For that matter, I saw none in Scandinavia, the low countries or northern Germany. In fact, at this point in our European travels I hadn’t seen any maize, period. So asking for corn in England is worse than asking for treacle in America or for swedes, or marrow. When translated to mean molasses, turnips, or squash the problem is half solved but even so these foods, at least the particular species grown and marketed in Britain, are not native to many parts of America and would not ordinarily be found in stock in, say, Browning, Illinois. So just as an Englishman asking for marrow in Browns General Store in Runnells, Iowa, would be thought of as eccentric, out-of-date, peculiar, foreign, and maybe even odd, so I was queried when I asked for a can of sweet corn in Fulbourn, Cambridgeshire, England.

However, once we got from corn to maize and from Britain to the Commonwealth we found in the fifth and last store in Fulbourn that corn from South Africa was available. It was frozen and it was on the cob, but thanks to a pioneering American Air Force family who preceded us in the village it was stocked in Mrs. Tyrell’s store. Occasionally she even had a small can of corn. Small being our next village procurement problem.

Frozen orange juice, our staple for breakfast was not available, not even on special order. So we settled on canned orange juice. Two problems arose; how to get a can large enough for a family of seven, and how to get some that wasn’t so sweet as to require raw lemon juice to make it palatable. In general, we found all foods in England too sweet for our taste. We habitually added lemon juice to their jellies (gelatins, like jello), and even the boys found too many layers of, and too thick frosting on the bakery cakes. We finally decided Israel orange juice suited our palate, but we got tired of carrying a dozen cans home every Saturday only to run out before the weekend. No company canned orange, tomato, grapefruit or any other juice in the tall can we are so used to seeing on our grocers shelves. The largest can of anything tomatoes, beans, juice, or treacle was too small. After much telephone work, letter writing and talking to salesmen, Mrs. Rodwell, at another Fulbourn store, acquired a dozen cases at a time of 6 Imperial gallon cans of Israel orange juice. A case usually lasted a fortnight and our orange juice problem was solved.

We never did conquer the size problem as applied to peanut butter. After cleaning Mrs. Rodwell out of 6 jars of peanut butter for 2 successive Saturdays she stocked up on numbers of jars, but couldn’t find a jar twice, three or four times the size to compare to the jar we get every week at our local Safeway.

Dill pickles are, to the best of my knowledge, completely unheard of in England. None of the village stores had dill pickles; gerkins yes, but what are dill pickles. They suggested a Continental Food Store in Cambridge and sure enough they not only had dill pickles, imported from Warsaw, but pop corn, and sweet corn (from Canada). About every third fortnight I’d go into Continental and buy a gallon and a half (or two gallon) can of Warsaw dill pickles, and some pop corn.

On just run of the mill unavailable staples like a can of pumpkin for Thanksgiving pie, the answer was just to present the problem to Mrs. Rodwell. She would then run into Cambridge and come back with a whole live pumpkin. This again was not just a commonplace purchase. In Britain they don’t celebrate Halloween and don’t have jack-o-lanterns, witches, and black cats. Instead 5 nights later on 5 November they celebrate Guy Fawkes Day. Now, Fawkes was a misguided guy who was going to solve the problems of the England of his time by blowing up Parliament. His plot, known as the gunpowder plot, failed only because of loose talk on the part of an accomplice. To this day I don’t know quite what they are celebrating: the fact that somebody had the foresight and initiative to want to blow up Parliament, or the fact that he failed. In any case, on 5 November bonfires spring up in everyones backyard (garden that is) and fireworks are blown up and shot into the sky in great profusion.

We did notice in someones garden a jack-o-lantern made out of marrow (squash) but no pumpkin jack-o-lanterns. We had a belated one on Thanksgiving as an aftermath of our real live pumpkin pie. But pumpkins are about as rare as maize and I suppose the reason is they grow together, in the same field, no one, no tother.

Then there was mustard. Mild salad mustard was just about too much for Mrs. Rodwell, she couldn’t really understand the problem. If you ask for mustard in an English store you get a dry powdery type of stuff that you mix with water. I’m sure the original use of this was to soak your feet in when you caught cold. But somewhere in the Spanish Armada days I’m sure some pirate on one side or the other found that the concentration of mustard used in footbaths had the same effect on the inside of ones head as a Mexican chili and the idea got back that if eaten this stuff was better than eating hot coals for cleaning up ones nasal passages and cleansing ones eyes with copious tears. Because if you eat English mustard, prepared as aforesaid, you find one gram is sufficient for a family of seven eating hamburgers with Polish dill pickles.

This topic was discussed repeatedly with the clerks and with all the patrons of Mrs. Rodwell’s store. They suggested that milk be used instead of water, or even salad dressing, or more generally, “what’s the problem?” “If you don’t like mustard with a wham use French mustard,” that brown grainy stuff that tastes like . . .” In any case, I was getting no where with mustard for my hamburgers.

Nor for that matter was I getting very far on the hot dog problem in general. Hamburgers yes, Mr. Whitmore the butcher would grind up anything we liked and usually added some liver to give it added zest. We now had our Communist dill pickles and only the mustard remained a problem. Hot dog wieners were a different story. Sausage seems to be the national wrapped ground meat of Britain. Comes “rag day” when the Cambridge University students stunt for charity. The snacks sold as a substitute for lunch are sausage hot dogs, in hard shelled buns and with nothing but foot-bath mustard. Or consider the snack bar at Liverpool Street station. One day John, Tom, Bill and I were in London to see and hear a matinee performance of the Royal Ballet at Covent Garden. On our return we stopped for a snack in the station and saw the sign hot dogs and eagerly ordered 4 only to bite into a sausage again.

I was about to give up on wieners and mustard when I noticed one day on the tube train some of these card advertisements that I unconsciously read and ignore. This one said in three adjacent panels for the best hot dogs try Cooks wieners with Hunters mild mustard on Friesbies buns. I noted this in my Cambridge diary and on my next visit to Mrs. Rodwell I said, “What about it, I want a dozen Cooks wieners, a jar of Hunters mild mustard and some Friesbies buns.” Confronted with facts and figures I was told that at Sains Butcher shop in downtown Cambridge, where they cater to even the craziest of whims, wieners could be purchased. She would talk to her host of salesmen again and within a fortnight we had mild mustard. She started stocking it for us but my sales campaign to get my English friends to try it got no where.

However, by mid June after nine months in the village I had located sources of corn (frozen on the cob), peanut butter in peanut sized jars, Israel orange juice in giant sized cans, dill pickles from Warsaw, mild mustard, and a source of wieners. All of the shop keepers thought us a little eccentric wanting such rare and exotic items and especially in such quantity. It isn’t that some English people don’t have large families, although on the basis of my sampling I found none, but that they shop once or even twice a day. They shop with bicycle or pram or send an older, 6 to 10 year old, child to buy enough for the meal or the day, but certainly not enough for the week.

With this past history we can approach the Independence Day Menu.

Corn-on-the-cob was probably the easiest item of the menu to come by. Not that it was really easy, but we had gone through this procurement problem with Mrs. Tyrell earlier. The only real problem to conquer now was how to get 30 packages on Monday, 4 July. The problem was this, we had a small ancient model refrigerator in our furnished house (which put us in the upper 10 per cent in this category), but it, of course, had no freezing compartment and even so it had capacity limitations. Or to sum it up, we had no place to store any frozen foods. We wanted to pick them up at the store on Monday morning. The store had its problem too. It had but one small frozen food display-dispenser-storage freezer and to stock 30 packages of corn meant not keeping the usual stock of ice cream, peas, beans, French fries, and fish for other customers. I must say every grocer in the village went out of their way to please us, or most anyone else. They existed on service and knew it. Mrs. Tyrell was no exception and to help us celebrate Independence Day she let all her other stocks reach a bare minimum so that on Saturday when her wholesaler came she could store 30 packages of South African corn-on-the-cob. We appreciated this and dropped an extra half-crown into the collection at the Chapel on Sunday - she was the treasurer.

Since we had already worn thin the patience of another grocer, Mrs. Rodwell, by requesting such oddities as pumpkin, dill pickles, mild mustard, and large quantities of peanut butter, and orange juice, we didn’t ask her to get our watermelons. Instead we went to a downtown Cambridge fruit stand and made advance requests for watermelons. Of course, this didn’t work. On Monday morning when I stopped by he acted as if he’d never seen me before and said “We’ll have them in a fortnight”, a phrase I got fairly tired of hearing since we heard it every time we asked for anything that wasn’t immediately available.

So in desperation I went to the source. Every day between home and work I passed, and often tangled with the loading lorries of Tildens Fruit and Vegetable Wholesalers. I phoned them, got transferred to the catering department and inquired about watermelons. Yes, they had some, just in from Cypress bound for Mildenhall the closest American Air Force Base. Yes, I could come by and pick up six, which I thought completely inadequate for a party of 50. But they were wholesalers, did I know a retailer to bill the purchase to. Yes, I knew and was well known, and repeat well known by at least three of the five village stores. I gave them the name of Mrs. Rodwell the aforementioned supplier of live pumpkins and gallon cans of Israel orange juice.

So the watermelons were picked up by me and charged to the ever suffering Mrs. Rodwell. The major problem yet remained how to cool them and keep them cool. As with Mrs. Tyrell, Mrs. Rodwell suggested and did indeed repack her large store refrigerator and managed to get two of our six watermelons in. But there were still four to go and besides Mrs. Rodwell’s early closing day was Monday. Namely, her store would be closed Monday afternoon so she gave me the key to the store and also to her house since shop and house were but different rooms of the same building which was the same for every other store or shop in the village.

The hiding place of the other 4 watermelons came almost by accident. It was now time to go to the “Six Bells” to pick up the beer and the ice. Since this was still late morning, neither the Six Bells, nor any other pub, was yet officially open. So I drove into the backyard and entered by the back door. Who should I spot in the legally closed pub but our milkman and his helper imbibing in a liquid white only on top and by law not available at this hour. At this point an idea came to me in roughly this form.

1. Milk as it comes from cows is body warm.

2. Milk as delivered from the lorry is day cool (or warm).

3. If it stayed this warm from milking through bottling to delivery it would be sour.

4. So, the village dairy, Whites, must have a fairly good sized refrigerator.

5. If they had a good sized refrigerator it would hold 4 watermelons (and 4 cases of beer).

6. Since we were the biggest milk drinkers in the village (7 people and a refrigerator), and

7. Since the milkman, especially caught in the act of recreating at the wrong time with the wrong liquid in his possession might be suggestible.

8. He might store said watermelons (and beer).

9. He did.

So my cooling storage problem was solved, especially when I added that I would accidentally open one case of beer and not count how many cans I retrieved. Here again adaptability was shown inasmuch as the normally locked walk-in refrigeration would purposely be left unlocked this special day.

As I say, I was in the Six Bells to pick up beer, minerals (soda pop), and ice. Except for the ice this had been quite a painless operation. Of course, none of the village pubs had any access to, or use for ice. This was not only true of the Six Bells, but also of the Robin Hood, the Bakers Arms, the Red Lion, the White Hart, and the Coach and Four. However, in a previous discussion we had pondered the possibilities and came up with the fishmonger, he would have ice. This proved to be true and while Mr. Graham the proprietor of the Six Bells contacted the fishmonger, Mrs. Graham agreed loan us her “copper”. A copper being a large semi-circular wash tub, enclosed and mounted on legs to be about waist high. It was the very recent predecessor of a washing machine and having a two-foot diameter held much ice and beer.

So I picked up four cases of canned beer, four cases of minerals, a copper and 50 pounds of the fishmongers ice (wrapped up in a tarp). Half of the beer and minerals I took to Whites Dairy and half home to the Manse. The copper held half the ice and beer, but wasn’t large enough for the minerals. So about this time I spied my boys plastic wading pool, which was also our camping bath tub. It worked fine when pulled under the shade tree from which I hung the bottle openers. So much for the iced drinks.

Now to the hot dog problem. About the middle of June a fair was held on the Midsummer Common in Cambridge. I should say is held because it has been an annual affair for roughly 600 years. We loaded our boys into the bus, picked up John’s friend Paul Newman, the signalman’s son, and were off to the fair. To my utter amazement I saw, smelled, and tasted hot dogs. The traveling gypsies and carnival vendors had discovered what no other group in England had yet discovered, the hot dog. Not only that, but maybe because hot dogs had not yet replaced the sausage as Britain’s favorite outdoor snack, one vendor had large cans holding 150 wieners, left over and sitting up on his counter. After sampling 16 hot dogs, we bought a can of 150 wieners and after much other activity headed home.

There were other solutions to the wiener problem and one we really should have tried. Dick Whitmore, the village butcher was one of our chief suppliers of victuals. We soon discovered that meat prices in the village were much to our liking. Our American evening meals of chili, spaghetti, baked beans, enchiladas, and meat loaf soon gave way to filet steaks (Tuesdays and/or Fridays), lamb chops (Monday and Thursdays), pork chops (Wednesdays and Saturdays), and a beef roast on Sunday. The reason was simplicity itself, for the first time in years we could afford meat. We didn’t bother telling Mr. Whitmore how many pounds of this or the others we needed. Instead he asked us how many in the family and from then on we got 7 steaks, 7 pork chops, 11 lamb chops, and a 5 lb. roast. They must have weights and balance secret agents in England because he religiously put our purchase on the scales each time, however, he never looked to see what the scales said but always proceeded to find a newspaper that we didn’t take to wrap our purchase up in and as I remember it, he always charged us 12 shillings regardless of what we got. For $1.64 you couldn’t eat better.

Mr. Whitmore heard of our coming party and offered to supply us the wieners. This surprised me a little since I had never seen any prepared meats in his shop. No luncheon meats, no bolognas, no tinned hams, or canned beef, no wieners, but ah yes “Our Sausages Contain Artificial Preservatives”. I asked him where he would acquire our wieners. His answer was simple and to the point, “I’ll make them”. This sounded OK to me but before I gave him the go ahead I though I’d better check with Mary. Mary asked me “Are you aware that wieners are pre-cooked?” “No, I wasn’t”. It hadn’t even occurred to me, I suppose marshmallows are likewise pre-cooked. Mr. Whitmore’s reasoning was very sound. On ground meat, for example, he always ground up only the best beef for us and added liver to give it more food value. Or for our Thanksgiving dressing, he wasn’t about to let Mary make the stuffing, he prepared some sausage derivative that was out of this world. His idea now. If they can make wieners, I, by using only the best ingredients, can make them better. Here for the first time I had some doubts. Sure enough, he had prepared for us meats fit only for kings, but wieners? He really had never tested them and didn’t even know the ingredients, he asked me. I hadn’t the vaguest idea, so you see I had my doubts. I reluctantly refused to put him to the bother of preparing 150 wieners. But to this day I wonder how they would have been, and hope he wasn’t offended by my refusal.

Anyway, we had our can of wieners and had only to contract with Dixons Bakery to make us twelve dozen “sausage” buns, long. The bakery, like the butchers and the barber shop, was one of our favorite haunts, and for the same reason. Meat for a family of seven, $1.64, haircuts for two-bob (28 cents) and bread for eleven pence (13 cents). Cornish Pasties, steak and kidney pies, sausage rolls, and sweets of all types for similar prices. We had only two mishaps on our twelve dozen rolls. First, through a misunderstanding of American history (or a subconscious purposeful lack of memory) our first batch of rolls were prepared for Monday 27 June, not Monday 4 July. We weren’t even in the village the weekend of 25 June, the supposed pick up date, and I’m sure the villagers had special price on sausage rolls, long. When I reminded them on Tuesday, 28 June about my special order for the weekend they quite apologetically told me of their mistake (and I bought four dozen rolls, our family uses lots of everything in the food line).

The other mishap was that sausage rolls, long were (1) not as long as wieners, canned and (2) were crusted, hard. Actually minor details but nerve wracking to Mary who wanted everything American.

And so with the cooperation of most of the village shop keepers, their suppliers, their cold storage facilities, and with nearly a years experience of obtaining common American but uncommon English foods, we managed to stage a gala Independence Day on enemy soil.

The celebration itself was an anti-climax. Everyone found the house. Sir Frederic couldn’t come. No one got lost, no children fell in the mineral ice-tank, and no babies, asleep in our upstairs bedrooms, were forgotten by their parents.

I was kept very busy explaining and demonstrating how to brush melted butter on hot roasting-ears, and how to manipulate teeth to extract corn. Mary was more than busy keeping enough corn ready to eat and we were both busy encouraging people that it was OK to put lots of mustard on the hot dogs. I made a trip to the dairy for more beer but the watermelons were far from successful. My misgivings about only six for fifty people never materialized. Even by staging an impromptu watermelon eating contest among my boys and any takers, we finished only one and a half watermelons. My family finished another one and a half at lunch on the fifth, and we had watermelon galore for our final three weeks in England.

Some mention was, made of the historic event we were celebrating, but the general comments were “George III was a little bull-headed”, and “Oh, yes I guess we were fighting the colonists in that war with France, how did it come out?”

Where’s Charlie

As the year to visit London, narrowed down to 6 months, and as the 6 months narrowed down to 6 weeks, we decided maybe we should start thinking about visiting London. Of course we really had made quite a few visits to London: Our first train trip when we walked over the area from Westminster to Piccadilly (and nearly lost Bill); our camping trip to London to watch horses eat out of nose bags; and many visits to Covent Garden and to Sadlers Wells, Royal Festival Hall, and Old Vic, and numerous British Railway Stations. However we’d yet to see the Crown Jewels in the White Tower, Greenwich, the zoo, Madame Tussauds, and the queen. So we had our work cut out for us.

John had railed and ranted and raved about going in to see the wedding of Princess Margaret and the Jones boy. We told him the view we’d get ten rows back on the kerb would not be worth the mauling we’d take nor the near suffocation we’d suffer from crowded trains, undergrounds, etc. He wasn’t convinced but we did stay home and watched the big event on a neighbour’s telly.

Next came Trooping the Colour. We succumbed. We went a day early and bought some new camping equipment since Grandma was going to travel with us this coming summer. We camped in London in the far from ideal Crystal Palace campsite and got down to the Horse Guards Parade in what I considered ample time. They hadn’t even blocked off the streets yet. Of course we had to park well south of Westminster Abbey and by the time we walked to the Mall there was a solid wall of humanity four feet thick and between 5 and 6 feet tall. We backed off about twenty feet and used the cardboard periscopes, but seeing a helmeted head bouncing up and down and presuming the bounce came from a horse underneath is not a very satisfactory way to watch a parade. Our boys along with other English boys climbed some trees but the Bobbies soon put a stop to that. Finally we gave up and retreated to the pond in St. James Park. Actually this was fine. The boys fed the ducks and swans, martial music could be heard in the background, and I could sit down.

Mary was quite unhappy, she wanted the boys to see the Queen. So after my weary bones felt relatively rested, and the boys had run out of big bird food we walked up toward the Mall about a block from Buckingham Palace. Things were somewhat better. To begin with the first row or two were in the street, the next ones on the kerb. And I imagine some disillusioned souls had already left. Anyway, we started watching again and then the cavalier spirit of the British population started to work. A man in his fifties standing ahead of us who kept hearing Charlie’s “Where is she, momma, where’s the Queen?” hoisted Charlie up on his shoulder. Another man beside Mary hoisted Bill up, I put Dan (the smallest) up and Mom tried holding Tom up at appropriate times.

Our timing was perfect, in short order here came the Queen. Charlie was elated, “Look, she’s riding a horse.” “Won’t she fall off, she’s sitting on the side?” A lady beside us remarked, “She looks smashing.” Even Dan was excited and pointed to show mom the lady on the horse. Bill and Tom who by now knew every word of “God Save the Queen” were literally beaming from ear to ear. John and Mary were standing on tip toes, thrilled to the quick. I must admit I was somewhat impressed also. I had seen her riding with President Eisenhower in Washington once. But the whole atmosphere here was exciting. Beautiful horses, dazzling uniforms, precision marching, polished silver and brass, and the stately look of Queen and horse was really quite a bit more exciting than an army truck full of TV and newsreel cameras, then a covered limousine. Our day was a success, Charlie told everyone he met, “I saw the Queen, she was on a horse.”

On another occasion we drove in to see the British Museum. Shrunken heads and mummies made the biggest hit, although everyone was impressed with the Rosetta Stone and the Magna Carta. In the evening John, Tom, Bill and I went to Royal Albert Hall to see the stars of the Ballet Russe. Mom, Charlie, and Dan were in and around ZW which was parked in Hyde Park. Actually in the summer it doesn’t get dark until 10 or 10:30 and before the boys went to sleep they had a good frolic in the park. In Royal Albert Hall we had front row seats. Not second row, but front row seats. Before the performance started one of the violin players kept poking Bill with his bow. The performance was first rate as were the squashes and lollies.

One day when John was in school the village boys got a day off so we went to Greenwich to see where time begins. We saw the ball drop at 1 P.M. Twenty-four hours later, they would raise it again at 1 P.M., exactly. We linked the boys up with one foot east and one foot west, balanced on the zero meridian. We saw the “Cutty Sark”. It really is a ship and not just a bottle label. The biggest thrill was driving through Rotherite Tunnel and behind the tea warehouses to the Tower. The excitement of course being the “tea horses” eating their lunch from their nose bags.

Probably the biggest occasion was the day we visited the zoo. Really the hometown zoo in San Diego is unbeatable, but with children one must visit the zoo. It was getting to be second nature driving into and even around London. In other words, we had finally paced ourselves. We were in no hurry, there is no point in being in a hurry unless you take the underground. If you drive up to London or around London just relax. If you are in no hurry you will make out fine.

We parked outside and walked into the zoo. We chose the corner with the chimpanzees, and rabbits, and sheep, namely the children’s zoo. We really didn’t get beyond it. We sat, I always appreciated sitting, and watched the trained chimpanzees have tea and a jolly play time with their keeper. I was not overly amazed at the chimps’ eating habits. Their act was one I saw about three times a day. Perhaps they were a little better coordinated, and showed somewhat better table manners than my boys, but the differences were slight. Why everyone found their mannerisms, so funny I’ll never know. Such antics annoy me, and have for 12 years. I guess familiarity breeds contempt.

After the chimps then the hens, and guinea pigs, and the rabbits to be petted. We spent a full hour among the domesticated animals. Finally Tom decided he was more hungry than curious and we left the children’s zoo to get some lollies. At this point the discipline in the ranks fell apart. The boys went every which direction. Dan stayed with me nursing along his lollie, Bill wandered off for a drinking fountain, momma went to see the seals, Tom was looking for the next lollie man, and John decided it was time to look for the men’s room. In a more or less expanded flank formation we proceeded in the general direction of the rest rooms.

After helping Dan and seeing to it that all the rest of the boys went potty while they had the chance, we assembled outside again. By this time momma joined us again and in her usual momma’s way she started counting noses. She soon asked quite routinely, "Where’s Charlie?" So I repeated the questions "John, Tom, where’s Charlie?" It now became evident that not only was Charlie among the missing but no one had seen him for quite awhile. Emergency plans went into operation. "Tom, go into the Men’s Room and look, John go around that block of buildings, Bill, you stay with me. We’ve already got enough trouble.” Mary was darting hither and yon calling in a very loud voice, “Charlie”. I kept looking at the sign that said “Lost children to be returned to this gate”. And we were at “this gate”.

In her wanderings Mary ran across a woman who asked if we were missing a small boy. Why would anyone think we were missing a small boy? After all we were only scurrying this way and that, yelling, tearing our hair, and looking frantically down every path. Why would anyone think we were missing a small boy? She said she had seen (or rather heard) a small boy being drug along by a woman down that way. Mary waited for no details but took off running the way the woman pointed. Many minutes later Mary and Charlie returned. Judging from the cries Charlie was still making there is no wonder that the woman told Mary she had heard an unhappy small boy.

We couldn’t or can’t, figure out whether the woman was actually trying to make off with Charlie or whether she didn’t read all the signs that said to take lost children just the opposite way from the way she was taking Charlie. Anyway that finished up the zoo.

We were planning to see Offenbach’s “Orpheus in the Underworld” at Sadlers Wells that night so we headed for our favorite children’s snack bar, namely St. Pancras station. We had found that the Welsh rarebit and associated epicurean delicacies, like Angus steak sandwich, orange squash and ice cream were just the thing for childish appetites. We could always find a parking place on the side street just outside. And when training, some of our favorite Cambridge trains used Kings Cross Station just across the street, and the underground stop for the Piccadilly, Circle, Metropolitan and Northern lines was handy. The snack bar at St. Pancras was newer, cleaner, and usually less busy than the snack bar at Kings Cross and had become our standard eating out place in London.

On the way to St. Pancras we passed Madame Tussauds Wax Museum and found space in a car park. We were quite taken by these lifelike figures and became too absorbed. Too absorbed, because we soon heard a faint sound like the cry we had heard earlier in the zoo. Faint not because the source was not loud enough but because the owner of said loud cry was a long distance away. Almost in unison everyone exclaimed, "Where’s Charlie", and John being fleetest of foot soon came back with the boy destined to get lost this day. However we had no further trouble with him that day, he knew he had two strikes on him.

After our sumptuous repast at St. Pancras we drove on to Sadlers Wells. We found a parking space in the street on a small block-square-park within two blocks of the theater and mom started her baby-sitting again while John, Tom, Bill, and I went to see an updated version of Orpheus. It was really good, I’d swear it could run on Broadway for an extended run. The new English translation was both understandable and riotously humorous. Even the smaller boys were splitting their sides. When they jazzed up the familiar gallop tune that Saint Saens later borrowed, at half (or quarter) speed, for the Elephant in his “Carnival of Animals” the audience disrupted the whole show and insisted on an encore. It was mid June and as in Sweden a year earlier we saw evidences of how far north we were. When the show was over at 11 P.M. it was still twilight.

We were getting so we almost knew our way home from London now without a map. In any case England has one highway sign convention that I’ve never seen equaled anywhere. Before approaching any major intersection an easily read sign tells the way to all major highways out of London. For example we would ordinarily be looking for A14 to Cambridge or A11 to Newmarket (Fulbourn was between Cambridge and Newmarket and could be easily reached from either A14 or A11).

If we happened to be on A10 then A10 would be listed at the top together with the word Cambridge written in big letters then the whole designation A10 CAMBRIDGE would be underlined with a broad white line. If the closest way to A11 through this intersection was straight ahead, the designation A11 NEWMARKET would be underlined with a black and white checkered line. Or if either A10 or A11 turned they would be underlined as before but a large left or right pointing arrow would be appended. In other words a solid white separation between the top and subsequent designations meant you were on the road so underlined.

The checkered underlining meant you could get to that road by following all such subsequent checkered markings. When the checkered mark became solid you knew you were on the road you were looking for. This system is nearly foolproof all you need know is the name of the important city in the direction you were going and you really don’t need a road map.

Since all roads really do lead to London you can hardly ever end up going the wrong direction on the correct road. For example A2 (Dover) comes up to London from the southeast, and A1, The Great North Road, comes up from the north and both terminate there. To go on west take A4 or for Brighton take A25 south. Likewise A10 from Kings Lynn and Cambridge, and A11 from Norfolk and Newmarket terminate in London. Other roads coming up to London from the north are A5 (Liverpool via Birkenhead) and A6 (Manchester).

Our last really high brow entertainment was "Aida" in Covent Garden. The boys and I had already seen Carmen, La Traviata, and Barber of Seville (John and I only), in Covent Garden; Hansel and Gretel, and Orpheus, at Sadlers Wells and numerous ballets at Covent Garden, Sadlers Wells, the Royal Festival Hall, and Royal Albert Hall. However we felt more at home in Covent Garden than elsewhere. At our very first opera (and at all others that we came to by train) we had to catch the last train to Cambridge at Kings Cross at by 11:05 P.M. I could see this was going to necessitate leaving before Jose sunk his knife in Carmen (which was just fine as regards the boys’ sensibilities).

So before the last act I explained our problem to the understanding people in the aisle seats next to us and they traded seats with us. I also explained my problem to the usher to ask what was the least noisy way out. He showed us and then added, “Cambridge, you say. During the war I was stationed at a small village right east of Cambridge. Is there a Fullbrook, or some village like that near Cambridge?”

We could hardly believe what we’d heard and asked him, "Could it have been Fulbourn?” “Yes, that’s the place, do you know it?" “Know it, that’s where we live.” In the ensuing discussion we found he was the head usher.

Whether by coincidence or not at our next appearance at Covent Garden we had the best seats in our price range, and his daughter was the usherette. Came the first interval and she was there with ice cream before we even got out of our seats.

On our third and subsequent trips everyone greeted us with a jolly, “Good evening, Dr. Webster, and how are your boys tonight?” They would then add, "Same seats as you had before." Even the barman had our four ice waters set up when he saw us coming down the steps.

Our new found friend also advised us that if we ever got down some morning he would show us through the opera house. We had made such a trip through the Vienna Opera House and found it very interesting. Covent Garden was indeed our favorite theater. We loved the operas and ballets and we were treated like kings. Each time we went we were approached by many people who wondered who was this that would bring three boys (aged 6, 8, and 12) to the Opera. On ballet days there were always lots of children, but not at the operas. When they found we were of the cultural barbarian class from the land of Hollywood they were really amazed.

Our emotional farewell to London was at Aida in Covent Garden. Even in this longer opera and after an afternoon of sightseeing all the boys, even Bill, stayed awake. During the martial scene they were transfixed.

Our real farewell to London was Grandma’s fling. We made a whirlwind ZW tour with a night at Crystal Palace. Mostly we drove around and saw the Wesley Chapel, the American Embassy, (the new one that Britishers consider a cultural monstrosity), the statues of FDR and Abraham Lincoln, Buckingham Palace, The Mall, Trafalgar Square, Whitehall, Westminster Abbey, Piccadilly Circus, Hyde Park, Covent Garden, The City, Greenwich, The Tower, Wimbledon, Hampton Court Palace, with stops at the British Museum and the Museum of Science and Industry. The Science Museum was new to us and was the big hit of the day. The ancient steam locomotives, and the do it yourselves simple scientific facts display were much admired. Charlie was fascinated by the life-sized locomotives. We lapsed into our unconscious sight seeing selves momentarily and the call went up, "Where’s Charlie?" But no one was really concerned. Tom just went back to the locomotives and picked him up. This time he was not lost nor noisy, until we dragged him away from his “favorite spot in all London."

Be Prepared

On a Thursday evening about two weeks after John’s Sunday School debut, a knock was heard at the back door of the Manse. It was a timid knock and I didn’t hear it over the strains of the Home Service broadcast of “Music of the Masters”. Mary couldn’t hear it over the roar of our ancient, but highly prized, “fridge”. But John, completely absorbed in his Latin homework, heard it over both the BBC and the vibrating fridge. In came a small thirteen year old blond boy who I recognized as being a Sunday School classmate of John’s. John told us it was Paul Newman and Paul now bashfully took off his cap and asked us, “Tonight is scout meeting night, can John come?” The usual questions, “Is your homework done?” “Just about - I can finish it in the morning - have Tom wake me up”. To further Anglo-American good will I told him to go ahead, but not to tarry after the meeting.

John loved scouts and within a week we found the scout store on Perne Road and bought shirt, beret, knee socks, short khaki trousers and the shoulder patches, Cambridgeshire Troop 57, Fulbourn, and the book “Be a Second Class in 20 Weeks”.

Within five weeks he was three quarters through, but then came the usual slow down. Sustained achievement seems as foreign to eleven year olds as to veteran civil servants. So came D-day (departure day) minus 3 weeks and John still didn’t have his Second Class.

It narrowed down to this, John must plan and execute an 8 mile hike. Because of farewell parties, final trips to London to see all those things we had a year to see and just plain put-offishness the date of the hike narrowed down to one day – Sunday, 10 July, and to the hours between 1100 and 1630. Sunday School had been rescheduled to 1000, from 1500, because of redecoration and relocation plans in the chapel and we had invited the congregation over for tea after church, at 1630.

Before the boys went to Sunday School at 1000, we told John to get his gear laid out and his plans set, there was no time for lost motion. At 1030, it started raining and I picked the boys up and brought them home (they hadn’t taken their macks).

The general plan was this: John and Tom would walk east a mile along Fleam Dike until it intersected the abandoned railway right-of-way. They would then proceed south another mile along the old hedge-lined rail bed until it intersected Balsham Road. At this junction, I would substitute Bill for Tom (and bring dry socks, my idea, not considered by John). Bill and John would then proceed south another 3 miles along the old railway (the real purpose of the hike) across the Roman Road to A604. Again, I would meet them here and drive them west a mile to a point 3 miles directly south of Fulbourn and substitute Tom for Bill again.

So with Wellingtons, macks, umbrella, lunch, map, pencil, and notebook John and Tom set out in a pouring rain.

At the first rendezvous at Balsham Road and the old abandoned station, I met Tom and John and they were soaked. The weeds had been thigh high and had dripped water inside their Wellingtons and gotten their pants wet. However, the rain had stopped so I took umbrella, wet socks, wet macks back home, but not Tom, he was going to continue. Wellingtons are worn without shoes and dry socks were obviously only very temporarily dry. There is no way to dry out the inside of cloth lined rubber boots. Anyway the boys could have cared less and soon Bill, Tom, and John trudged out of sight.

A half hour before Church, I set out to transport the boys the mile along the busy highway and pick up Tom and/or Bill (and/or John for that matter). They were somewhat behind schedule and covered with chalk (the foundation of East Anglia). They gave me some story about barking dogs, farmyards, corn (wheat) fields, and, in general, made their intended discovery that the right-of-way was no longer in certain places, the hedge-lined path non-existent. They were convinced that hiking through fully grown grain fields was no joke.

To save time they ate while riding and were all set to go when I unloaded them for their final 3 miles. Of course, neither Bill nor Tom would come with me and since by now the sun was shining brighter I relieved them of extra sweaters and left them to continue John’s hike.

I was late for my last chapel service and sat there wondering how the shirt-sleeved boys were doing on their hike and how Mary was doing with Dan and Charlie while preparing for the approaching tea. I had all but forgotten the English cliche about the weather, if you don’t like it, wait an hour, it will change (they don’t from long experience, say how it will change) when I noted the sun streaming in the window, wasn’t; I soon was horrified to hear first the pitter patter of light rain drops and then the clicking and clacking of wind blown hail on the windows. I didn’t dare leave early, having arrived late, and in any case, I had promised to take many of the elderly ladies to the Manse for Mary’s tea so I sat and suffered, thinking of pneumonia and for once, sunny California.

Finally, the service was over and. I tried to unobtrusively rush out to go pick up my youthful hikers. But, of course, I didn’t make it. Mrs. Morton stopped me to apologize because her parents were home sick and wouldn’t be able to get to the tea. I told her to be sure to come sometime next week and bring her parents then. By then, my car load had collected around me and I thought my best bet was to get them to the tea and then leave Mary long enough to rescue our semi-drowned boys.

With this plan in mind, we made a dash for the microbus only to see a dead heat occurring with three drenched boys. So now, I had six elderly women in their Sunday best and three drenched and half frozen boys in their weekday worst. Came a second compromise, wet fish in back, dressed pigeons in front.

In the meantime, of course, the other members of the congregation had proceeded ahead of us to Mary’s tea.

Since the welcoming committee, namely me, was still missing, Mary had to greet the congregation wondering where fifty seven percent of her family was. When I reached the Manse and Mary saw the boys she was to say the least, torn between motherly instinct (getting the boys dry, warmed, and presentable), hostess instinct (serving a quiet dignified tea to the chapel congregation), and divorce.

As is usual in times of crisis, the best (and least expected) traits of man and beast evolve. John in one of his rare older brother, insightful acts hustled Tom and Bill upstairs and had them back down dressed like little gentlemen within ten minutes. The chapel ladies, being old hands at serving tea, had the tea and biscuits dispensed in near record time. Leaving me, surrounded by Dan and Charlie, to cruise from room to room to explain about drenched boys, to tell of our complete happiness in the chapel, its activities and fellowships, and to explain about our travel plans, and to listen to expressions of bon voyage. English people may be hard to get acquainted with, but we were having too much fun getting along with them to notice it.

As for John’s Second Class, he made it but he has yet to learn the scout’s motto.

Renew Your Driver’s License

Mr. H. M. Customs, representing in this generation Mrs. H. M. Customs, was not the only overzealous red tape artist. We were to leave California on 2 May and my driver’s license was to expire on 11 November, exactly 6 months and 9 days later. Had it expired 5 months and 29 days later I would have had no trouble, but . . . Being a methodical, well condition, law abiding citizen I phoned the San Diego office of the Department of Motor Vehicles and told them I was going to be out of the state for a year and wanted to renew my driver’s license.

“When will it expire?”

“November 11.”

“And when are you leaving?”

“May 2.”

Pause (with much counting on fingers), “Sorry, you can’t renew it unless it is due to expire within six months.”

“But November is 6 months from May.”

“But November 11 is 6 months and 9 days beyond 2 May.”

“But I’ll be in Europe....”

“Sorry the law’s the law, if you want to make an exception write to the governor in Sacramento good-bye.”

“Sputter . . . , curse . . . -*&!*!$#%!” My thoughts were: if the governor has no more important things to do than listen to complaints about plus or minus ten days, he is getting grossly overpaid; and if his chosen representatives are so letter, instead of intent, bound on interpreting laws they are next to useless.

I decided, after much research, why the law is so written. It was to keep people whose licenses had been adversely endorsed (with violations such that one more violation would cause suspension) from wiping the slate clean with a new license. It had never occurred to me before that anyone in his right mind would ever renew his license before he had to, two dollars, you know. Or has it been raised to three?

Anyway about ten days later at a different hour, in order to get a different clerk, I phoned again. The first part of the conversation went as before except that at a crucial spot I inserted that I had no citations or adverse endorsements on my license. All it said was, “Must wear glasses.” However Miss H. D. Bound was as adamant as Mr. V. Short Site and must also have been a Republican (since the present governor was a Democrat) and suggested again that I add to the governor’s complaint file.

About this time I appealed to the AAA (not Agricultural Adjustment Act) and they said,

“Don’t worry, we’ll make you out an International Drivers Permit.”

“How long is that good for?”

“One year.”

“But I’ll be gone about 16 months.”

“Don’t worry.” So case closed until one year later in April when I wrote a letter to AAA in London; “My International Drivers Permit is about to expire, I wish to renew.” In reply a form letter: Fill out application; send picture; sign statement that you have currently active drivers license from home state . . . . Letter #2 to London: “I don’t have a current state license, it expired 11 November, 6 months and 9 days after I left California. You see . . . Mr. V. Short Site and Miss H. D. Bound and the governor and . . . sputter, sputter . .” Reply: “A new law has been passed in California . . . renew it by mail.” Letter #3 to London: “OK.” Letter #4 to Sacramento on 4 May: Unquote, due to the stupidity of laws and/or law administrators in the sovereign state of California (to whom I just sent an income tax payment even though the income was earned in England) quote, “. . . my drivers license has expired . . . I can’t renew it without a valid California license . . . AAA told me it can now be renewed by mail . . . please send forms . . .”

Of course in the meantime my International Drivers Permit had also expired. So I made a trip to the Cambridgeshire County Council Building, on Castle (long since demolished) Hill.

As you might expect, it wasn’t simple. Aliens can drive for one year in England without an English drivers license. This can be legalized with an International Drivers Permit or on an English Visitors Permit but not both. That is the year cannot be exceeded by using the International for its full year and then the Visitors for its full year. However since the English Permit is ordinarily good for a year from time of issue Mr. U. Z. R. Roads was unhappy. He had to see his boss Mr. T. X. Collector. Just short of a phone call to the Queen, Messrs. Road and Collector decided that if I could somehow prove I wouldn’t overdrive my year they could issue said license. Why they couldn’t just short date it was beyond me. I must say however that as compared to Miss H. D. Bound and Mr. V. Short Site these people were paragons of reason.

My proof was simple enough; my car (with £180 of camping equipment but minus £18 of seats) was in England on a Carnet and this stated in quite unintelligible French and German that said car would not remain in England over 12 months. Being reasonable Englishmen with some room to maneuver in, instead of completely rule-bound American clerks (or stating it another-way, being clarks instead of clerks) they were convinced by reasonable proof and good intention. I was issued a license good until 21 April 1961, one year from date.

I was now driving legally again, and would be until 21 July the date of my departure from England. This gave Mr. T. P. Dog in Sacramento eleven weeks to process my mail application and send me a California license in time to get a new International Drivers Permit to drive around Europe. Incidentally the California license would also make it legal for me to drive my car from the port at Long Beach to San Diego when we arrived back in the “land of the free.”

Having told Messrs. Road and Collector that my Carnet would get my car (and me) out of England within 12 months it now occurred to me I’d better renew said Carnet. I had entered England “with VW in carnet on June ‘59 and I guess smuggled in £180 worth of camping equipment plus 2 Swedish blankets, numerous German pots and pans, Swedish plastic dishes and cutlery and maybe even Charlie’s Norwegian shoes, he’d left his beside a lake in Sweden. I was planning to leave on 21 July. In any case the carnet was dated 31 May, the day before we picked up our VW and 2 days before it was converted into a Zigeunerwagen (Gypsy wagon). We called it our “ZW”.

I knew, not from the French or German instructions, but from conversations with Mr. D. M. G. Expeditor, the local AA man that ZW could not reside in any one country over 12 months, and I presume could not by judicious jumping stay in Europe over 14 years (15 including Luxembourg. So I wrote the Overseas Touring Services of the AA (not Alcoholics Anonymous) for a carnet extension. Mr. O. B. J. French, appropriately named for his position as head of OTS, AA, apparently couldn’t understand French, German, nor custom seals and notations any better than I could. He replied, “I am forwarding your application to the Commissioners (of Customs and Excise, the bosses of my old friend from Harwich, Mr. H. M. Customs) . . . but I notice that your car was imported here initially on the 29th June 1959, and I think you ought to bear in mind that the Commissioners may refuse to grant an extension beyond the 28th June 1960 by which time you will have completed 12 months in this country without a break, the total period normally allowed to visiting motorists.”

I replied that if he would but have looked he would note that ZW with full crew had “departed Dover on 24 August and returned to Dover on 26 September, . . .”

Within two weeks I had, “Further to our previous correspondence I now have pleasure in enclosing Carnet No. 716999Ed which has been extended by the C of C and E...to 27th August, 1960.”

So ZW was again legal, as was my Drivers License until 21 July, the day I was to depart from Harwich (I hoped Mr. H. M. Customs would remember about the seats).

On l July I got a receipt from Mr. T. P. Dog of Sacramento saying by implication that everything was well in the state of California. Armed with this somewhat sketchy evidence of a California license I signed the statement on the International Drivers Permit application that I had a valid license and sent it to London, knowing that if challenged I would needs produce said license but hoping that the noted efficiency of United States workers would get said license to me before 21 July.

Other paper work ground on, I renewed my international car insurance. This again was prepared for me and given to me at the VW factory in Hanover in June ‘59. About the only thing on it I could read was on the back page under

“NAMEN UND ADRESSEN DER BUROS”

GB Grossbritannien and Nord-Irland: Motor Insurers’ Bureau,

60 Watling St., London, E. C. 4.

So when it came time to renew my insurance I wrote to 60 Watling St, expressing my desire to renew my VW insurance. Their reply:

Mr. J. C. Webster,

The Manse,

Fulbourn,

Cambridge.

Dear Sir,

I have to acknowledge your letter received here on the 11^th May but regret that I am quite unable to help you in regard to the information you require.

The Motor Insurers’ Bureau is not an insurer and is not in a position to issue a Policy of Insurance or to give information on insurance matters. I can only refer you to an Insurance Company which transacts motor insurance in this country, or to an Insurance Broker.

Yours faithfully,

(signed)

Secretary.

I submit that this letter contained the least information of any I had ever received. They could have said the same thing in one word, namely No. Had I phoned they could have said, “Wrong Number.” Note the impartiality, they didn’t tell me which insurance company they preferred or recommended.

Consequently I wrote to Hanover, and got in reply:

Herr Dr. John C. Webster

c/o Mause (which means auf Deutsch, mouse)

Fulbourn/Cambridge

England

Sehr Geehrter Herr Dr. Webster !

Wir danken Ihnen . . .Der Pramie in Hohe von DM 169, 90 equals $41 . . .

konnen Sie uns durch Scheck ubersenden zw. durch Ihre Bank . . . “

hochachtungsvoll

VOLKSWAGEN-VERSICHERUNGSDIENST

G.m.b.h.

i.A.

Why they quoted Herr Dr. Webster of England a price of $41 I don’t know. I sent them £14/13/1 and in short order got another unreadable green international insurance card.

By now the AA had my Camping Carnet in order and tickets for Harwich-Hook-of-Holland for ZW and many people. But come 21 July and no California Drivers License.

By the evening of 21 July: ZW was insured, was across the channel and was updated on Carnet, but was slightly illegally driven. I had an International Drivers Permit but only a flimsy receipt in place of a California Drivers License.

Even the Carnet was getting a little tacky looking and after having crossed four borders where pages from the Carnet were removed routinely (still dated as expiring on 31 May) we crossed into Germany from Luxembourg on the Mosel River.

I was half expecting trouble here anyway since my German export car license 114-Z-9724 proudly worn by our ZW now for 14 months, could be out of date. In England after 90 days we had bought a license sticker that goes on the windshield and essentially keeps up to date the license on the bumper. But we had turned this in as we onloaded at Harwich. We now had according to my best knowledge an out-of-date license. A year earlier at this self-same entry point we had paid a German road tax for entering Germany a second time. At that time I had a good laugh over Germans and their sense of chain-of command.

For my story let me call the 3 German Customs Officials, Herr General, Herr Capitan, and Fritz (Herr Private). I drew Herr Capitan and he was busily trying to figure out, from a book about three inches thick, how much road tax I would have to pay. My insurance and Carnet listed the ZW as an “Achtsitzer.” But a close inspection showed it no longer to be an “8 seater.” He was shifting around between Kombi, DeLuxe, Camper, and Transporter. Fritz in the meantime had just finished with a victim and could see the Herr Capitan was having trouble. Fritz was obviously an old hand at this and in nothing flat pointed in the book to Camper. If Fritz hadn’t pointed to Camper I think perhaps the Herr Capitan would finally have arrived at the same logical conclusion. However since Fritz did suggest Camper, the Herr Capitan insisted it was a Kombi and made out all papers accordingly. Fritz seeing his advice was not being sought nor appreciated went about his own business, which at this particular hour was having a coke. To make things official the Herr Capitan had to get the Herr Generals initials on his papers. But Herr General looked at ZW, looked at paper, looked at Herr Capitan, looked at 3 inch book, and started pointing, referring to back pages etc., usw, and finally made out a new set of papers, labeled Camper. Herr Capitan was quite indignant, Fritz finished his coke, and Herr General bade me, “Gute Fahrt.”

Now about a year later, but as in California, in a new and larger building, and staffed with more Fritzes, I came again upon German efficiency: I was met by, “Sprechen Sie Deutsch.” “Ich spreche etwas Deutsch, do you speak English?” “A little, wir werden Deutsch sprechen.” “Javohl.” He then took my green insurance card and Carnet and disappeared into the honeycomb of organized efficiency. Soon I was summoned, as I had expected to be, and was trying to guess how much this would cost me in road tax. Instead the Herr General, in a new and more private office, had my Carnet and was shaking his head in a negative and “these stupid tourists” attitude. He pointed to the date stamped religiously on every page that said expires 31 May, ‘60, this now being 30 July ‘60. I quite proudly turned inside the front cover and pointed to the new date 27 August ‘60. He seemed greatly relieved and took pen in hand and crossed out and redated all the remaining pages in the book. He smiled and waved me on. One more momentous decision made, or averted. Whether having found one error he considered his duty done or whether you can use German export licenses indefinitely I will never know. He waved us on and on we went down the beautiful Mosel valley.

Two days later at my first mail stop, in Bonn, I looked in vain for an official looking letter from Mr. T. P. Dog in Sacramento, no letter. We then proceeded to enjoy Germany, Switzerland, Austria, and Italy. By the time we got to Montpelier, France, our next, and next to last Poste Restante stop, I was, getting a little concerned about the drive from Long Beach to San Diego. In 16 months, no traffic officer, customs official nor anyone else ever asked to see the International Drivers Permit. But I wouldn’t drive 16 hours in California without the proper license. In a heavy and gloomy rain at Montpelier France on Thursday 18 August after only four months from initiation, or 15 weeks from my first letter to Sacramento, I received the license. The same license I had tried in vain to get a year and 4 months earlier when, except for 9 days, I could have simply passed an eye test, and a written exam on traffic laws, paid two dollars, donated a thumb print, and posed for a picture and saved at least 10 letters, two man days of time, an extra (English) license, and much ill will.

Since, as you can see by the above tale I had “purposely” allowed my legitimate California license to expire, I had to start from scratch to renew my license upon my next birthday after my return to California. The mailed license was just a stop gap and was not considered to be a legal bona fide renewal. I spent the morning of my 41st birthday taking an eye exam, a written exam, posing for a picture, donating a thumbprint, AND TAKING A DRIVING TEST. In addition I was lectured about letting my license lapse between 11 November ‘59 and 1 August ‘60.

And this is why taxes are high in California.

Farewell Enchanted Village

It wouldn’t be fair to say that Mary didn’t miss her automatic dishwasher, automatic washing machine, soft water, deep freeze, garbage disposal, large refrigerator, gas stove, and electric sewing machine. Provided in The Manse was a small fridge, a tiny rotator- less washing machine, and both an electric stove and an Aga (coke) cooker. During the winter when the Aga cooker was in operation 24 hours a day we had a perfect garbage disposal. This is also the reason that what we call trash or garbage cans are called dust bins in England. In fact everything except tin cans and glass are indeed dusty ashes before they are disposed of. If you think a trash can is heavy you ought to try lifting a similar sized dust bin. The other advantage of incinerated garbage is that the smell (except in the incineration process) is gone as well as the germ and pest breeding places and the bins don’t need to be picked up as often.

Dishwashing though not pleasant and mostly done by mom was shared somewhat. I thoroughly enjoyed doing them on Wednesday evenings while Mary made her weekly visit to a hair dresser (in her home of course). This was a rare treat for Mary, it’s something we considered an unnecessary luxury at home. The point was that the BBC Third Program had their chamber music program on at this time and I could listen to this delightful music and thoroughly enjoy the dishwashing. At home the automatic dishwasher makes so much noise you can’t really enjoy the radio even in the next room. And the programming on U.S. stations plus the commercials make this pastime obsolete anyway.

She missed her sewing machine. She first tried taking simple jobs into the Singer Sewing Machine Office in Cambridge. But she heard the word “fortnight” so often for an hour’s job that she gave this up. One day she noted this ad in the butcher’s window:

Singer Sewing Machine, 2 pounds

Call at the White Hart

I hadn’t yet made the acquaintance of this pub but did so forthright. In the inevitable living quarters attached to the pub was the innkeeper’s wife with a Singer Sewing Machine, serial number 1. It was huge, heavy, run by a treadle, and in general used mechanisms that antedated the machine I remember of my grandmother’s back on the Iowa farm. But it worked, it sewed beautifully, it was lovely. After bringing Mary down to give her OK we loaded it in ZW and crowded up the kitchen (the coziest room) at The Manse a little more.

Mary was delighted, she sewed up a storm. She liked it so well she wanted it electrified and brought home. When we took it to the Singer Sewing Machine Company in Cambridge to add an electric motor, they just couldn’t believe it. They almost bought it for their museum. But they added sadly, “The modification kits we have will not convert THAT machine.” They implied we should try to use a James Watt steam engine. They didn’t ask audibly if we lived near a stream with running water but implied as much. Mary was very unhappy about the lack of ingenuity shown by these people and the incredulous looks instead of staid respect for her perfectly wonderful machine.

What Mary missed most however was not the lack of her gadgets but the absence of her continual round of friends. The fridge made enough noise, but it didn’t make sense and it didn’t drink coffee. At home the coffee pot is never off the stove and there are few hours in the day when some church or school parent acquaintance isn’t passing on the latest word. The closest neighbors usually don’t show up too often. However their children do; about 12 hours a day. I imagine the reason they don’t show up more often is for fear some reciprocal arrangement for sharing children might be suggested. The general attitude seems to be, “If she’s got 5 already playing, what difference will my two make.” Multiply this by from 2 to 4 neighbors and you have on the average a 100 % difference. In one of her calls when collecting for the Polio Foundation she called on a neighbor about 4 houses away whose boy had spent every day of the entire summer, from dawn till dusk in our yard. The woman didn’t even know who Mary was.

The church friend routine is so strong however that the lay leader if he needs his wife to pick him up at work just automatically phones our house first, then the church, then his home. In the church directory our number is listed as an alternative for their number. They were considering making two listings in the phone book, their home number after his name, and ours after her name. But they decided why waste the money everyone knows this anyway.

Anyway it was the absence of dedicated coffee drinkers that really upset Mary. But only for the first month. Once we had finally settled down in Fulbourn, familiar patterns began to evolve. Mrs. Ferguson, the Air Force dentist’s wife, was soon sampling the coffee and passing on the accumulated words of wisdom from a two year’s stay in the village. Then there was Nora Woods, Tom’s Sunday School teacher, a native from Wales whose accent Mary soon had unsnarled. Before long Pat Bowering and Andrew, age 1, found the scent of coffee. Andrew and our Dan and Charlie got along famously except occasionally when Charlie got particularly annoyed he would state quite loudly that, “Andrew is dahft.” Miss Ward, Charlie’s Sunday School teacher stopped some, but she worked during the day and confined her calls to the evening. Mrs. Rodwell was in a lot and soon introduced Mary to the Ladies Society of the Church (we attended the Chapel). Rev. Swallows’s wife soon had Mary’s name on the mailing list for the Church Ladies activities and Mary attended. Mrs. Swallow also called and tried the coffee.

At Myrtleberries Mary and Charlie soon met Christopher Rouen and his mother Margaret Argue and another very welcome playmate showed up. And strangely enough (from our American experiences) Charlie spent many hours in the Argues’ thatched roof cottage. Then the Collins moved to the village with children our boys met in school. Laura Collins and Mary met at the Church Ladies Society meetings, and Laura too succumbed to the coffee hour. It wasn’t long until Mary was back in her old routine. She knew more about the village activities than the reporter for the local paper.

The Chapel also had extra curricular meetings but the times were such that Mary couldn’t easily attend, namely after Tom and Bill were home from the village school but before John and I were home from Cambridge. And in general the Chapel women tended to have grandchildren instead of children at this stage in life and didn’t have as many things in common to talk about.

We didn’t neglect the Chapel activities entirely by any means. Every Thursday evening they had a Fireside Meeting. You see they even name meetings after their national folly. I have implied earlier that it is the sight of a fire that keeps them warm not the heat given off by the fire. We never have Furnaceside Meetings in America. The strange thing about their Fireside Meeting was that as I recall their meeting room was about the only one in England that did not have a fireplace. Their Fireside Meeting was not blessed with much heat at all and certainly was not beside an open fire. Be that as it may the meetings were always interesting and always well attended.

In fact the Chapel amazed me in member participation. Although the number at Divine Services varied from say 30 to 50, it was fairly constant. In general 40 worshippers came on Sundays. At the fireside meeting about 40 people generally came. At their “Harvest Sale” or “Sale of Work” about 40 people showed up. When they hired a coach to take them for their annual summer picnic-outing, about 40 people showed up. At their annual business meeting roughly 40 people showed up. For a congregation with a membership of 30 I considered this to be commendable if not absolutely unbelievable.

I think of our home church; membership 600, attendance at Divine Services 400, help at Rummage Sale 50, attendance at board meetings 30.

At the fireless Fireside Meetings they always had an outside speaker who was usually first rate. Depending on the program tea was served in the Interval or after the talk if there was no Interval. At tea the final sale of raffle tickets was made and then the high spot of the evening, the raffle. Considering the collection figures announced each Sunday and the expenses discussed in the annual meeting, these raffles must have been a major source of income.

Mary’s activities had now pretty well stabilized. Friends for coffee at least once a day; Church and Chapel meetings; shopping in both Fulbourn and Cambridge; revisiting her coffee friends for tea; and in her spare time looking after me and the five boys and keeping up the household chores (with few electric maids).

Her most special activity didn’t come off as planned. Kings College has a Boys Choir School, a famous Chapel, a long history, and a special Christmas Concert. The Boys Choir sings in the Chapel and everyone in Cambridge and elsewhere comes to hear them; very few actually get inside. Mrs. Ferguson knew a friend, who had a friend, etc. and miraculously ended up with two tickets. So weeks before the big event she asked Mary to accompany her to this truly gala occasion. Everything was put in order, I was instructed exactly how to look after the boys for a few hours, the best clothes were rolled out and all was in readiness. We packed all the boys in ZW for the ride in to Cambridge as I drove the two ticket holders in. Everyone in the village was envious. We drove over to pick Mrs. Ferguson up and we waited. Mary went to see what the trouble was and we waited awhile longer. Finally torn between anger, disgust, and remorse Mrs. Ferguson came out to explain. She had seen the tickets two days ago and laid them up in a special drawer. Her children found the tickets and used them to play train with. Somehow or another the tickets could not now be found. We were ready anyway so we drove in and left them out at Kings College where they waited in the peons (non ticket) line. They never got into the Chapel. Children are little angels, sometimes.

John had made two sets of friends. Those in his school and those at the village. He ate lunch with his house, Cam, at school and then generally he went loco spotting. Actually Cambridgeshire High School for Boys bordered right on the British Railway Tracks and from a street overpass within a block the station itself was in visual range. His best friend was his twin. Leslie Waters and John had their third birthday on 29 Feb. 1960 and together were half as old as every other boy in their class. John had other paper wad throwing, loco spotting friends but his standby was Leslie. On several occasions I took him to Leslie’s house for a Saturday afternoon.

John’s village friends were from his scout troop, his Sunday School class, from his Cambridge school or Reggie Whitehouse, the landlady’s son. By all odds his best village friend was Paul Newman his Sunday School classmate who had taken him along to scouts. Paul’s dad was the village signalman who operated the level crossing gates at the railroad station. Paul was a year older than Johnny but smaller. He had long straight blond hair and was as kind and considerate as a thirteen year old boy is likely to be. We took Paul on many of our shorter excursions and Paul was invaluable to John after such commands as, “We’ll go as soon as you get the yard cleaned up; the paving blocks chopped; the dishes washed; or the car washed.” Paul and John, often accompanied by Tom and Bill and sometimes by Dad, Charlie, and Dan would go for hikes along Fleam Dike or the old Roman Road, or to the railroad station. Paul was practically our sixth boy on many Saturdays.

John was especially well liked by his Sunday School teacher, Mr. Hardwick. The major reason being that at this age many children, especially boys, drop out of Sunday School. Mr. Hardwick’s drop out rate this year was very small because they came to see what the ill wind had blown in. They had an odd ball in captivity and they came to see the performance. John had always been interested in Sunday School and his American experiences, his interest, and his geniality rubbed off and kept Mr. Hardwick’s class from diminishing in size or interest. This pleased Mr. Hardwick and he became a good friend of our whole family.

He took John and I on a guided tour of the enormous cement plant in which he was the chief electrician. We started at the quarry. Later we climbed way up atop the conveyor that dumped the slush into the long rotating barrels in which the water was evaporated and the resultant dust was, ipso facto, cement. He showed us the electro-static smoke and/or dust collector which helped reduce the dirtiness of the smoke going up the very high chimney. We saw the furnaces, the loading rooms, the small and ancient little steam engines, the whole lot. John almost lost his fear of high places as we clambered over catwalks, and up and down ladders.

Tom and Bill got along well with their village school classmates as was evident at the Field Day when Tom was well cheered in his racing. That girl Sally could outrace the whole bunch of them. It was well the girls raced only against girls.

As the time approached for us to leave England for our return trip all of our new made friends looked dearer in our eyes. We bid my scientific colleagues farewell at our Independence Day celebration. We parted from our Chapel friends at a tea after the worship service the day of John’s hike. The village school held their Speech Day (graduation exercises) the afternoon before we left.

For Speech Day they do indeed have an important speaker and then each class performs something or another. The songs, skits, poems, choruses, and short talks were a pure delight, Townley Hall was packed. After the Speech Day exercises, we bade farewell to Headmistress Smith, Miss Golding, Mrs. Harold, and Miss Ringrose (Bill’s new teacher; Mrs. Harrison was pushing a lovely little girl around in a pram). Tom and Bill were hitting and chasing their classmates for the last time. Or perhaps vice versa the girls, especially, were running Tom and Bill ragged again.

Mary was saying goodbye to Laura Collins, Pat Bowering, (the Woods and Fergusons had already moved from the village), Margaret Argue, and the Sells, Rodwells, Swallows, and other newer friends.

We came home from Speech Day to find that John was being visited by Leslie Waters and another schoolmate. They had ridden their bikes out the 4 miles from school to have a last play at rugger and to put the final touches on John’s near perfect English accent. When it came time for them to leave I was packing in the upstairs window.

I saw them mount their bikes and ride away down Pierce Lane. John stood forlornly in our front garden waving to them disappearing around the bend by Myrtleberry’s Store. I’m sure I felt as wretched as he did. Neither he nor I were yet prepared to leave our ramshackle old house in our quaint friendly village.

Leaving home is one thing, you are very apt to return. Leaving an adopted, temporary home is quite another. You are leaving behind scenes you will never see again, friends you will never hear again, and memories that you can never relive again. Fortunately the memories can be cherished, and shared. The scenes and friends can be remembered and will fade away into cherished memories also. But these memories grow fainter with each passing year just as the friends grow older and the old scenes are lost to modernization.

John had done a splendid job of fitting into his trying school experience. The departure of the boys in their short grey pants and black school jackets and caps brought a big lump into my throat. I am sure John had a similar lump. He was being torn by an emotion set in action by me. We could have stayed in America, then this parting would never have been necessary. The fact that parting was such a sorrow for all of us was the living proof that we had been thoroughly happy in our stay.

Paul Newman, John’s village friend, came over after supper and was soon joined by Mr. Hardwick, John’s and Paul’s Sunday School teacher. We all sat around an open fire and discussed Fulbourn, America, Christianity, Friendship and fellowship. Long before anyone really wanted to stop talking Mr. Hardwick bade Mary and I a fond farewell and then took John and Paul out under the stars for a final word to God.

John, carrying a newly autographed Bible, and Paul soberly returned and went back to sit before the fireside. I remained in the scullery getting all of our camping gear in order to load on at daybreak for our dash to Harwich in the morning. I was still at this menial task in the disheveled scullery when Paul came to bid me farewell. All he said was, “Goodbye, Mr. Webster”, but the sermon on the mount could not have touched me as much. A thirteen year old boy, the son of a signalman, a boy passed over by the eleven plus exam, bothered to come say goodbye to me. The tears in his eyes, his complete sincerity, his lack of embarrassment as he clutched his cap in his hand and hurried out the back door completely overwhelmed me. He had not been sent by his dad or mom to make his duty call on us. He came probably over the protests of his parents who probably realized how busy we would be on our final night. He came to bid farewell to his true friends because he wanted to come. If he wasn’t spiritually inspired to come, his coming certainly had a spiritual effect on me.

Prince Charlie himself could not have made me feel stronger ties to England than this guileless child. Our whole year in the village was exemplified in his sincere sorrow at our imminent departure. My sorrow on leaving was expressed perfectly on the face of this blond haired boy. I’m glad he did leave rather hurriedly so he couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

I only hope John will remember this boy of small stature, and lowly birth who went out of his way to get John in the scout troop and into the fellowship of other good companions in the village. His thoughtfulness may well have made the difference between our perfectly glorious year and a year that could have been a complete fiasco.

Our actual departure next morning was a complete anti-climax compared to our simple parting with our village friends the day before. It was however very gratifying for me to hear from Mrs. Whitehouse our landlady and patron saint as I handed her the key, “You’ve made The Manse a friendly house, the whole village is sorry to see your family leave.”

My only thoughts were, no one could be as unhappy in leaving as is the Webster family from top, Dan to bottom, Dad. However, this whole fairy tale episode had to end sometime and now we were Homeward Bound:

HOMEWARD BOUND

In mid July with heavy hearts

We leave of England took

One week of school to boys was left

We boarded boat for Hook

In Holland were the tulips gone

Round cheese in red was wrapped

Canals and dikes were all about

In Rotterdam we napped

To Antwerp, Brussels, Waterloo

Napoleon met his fate

Then on to Paris once again

For NATO meeting date

Notre Dame from boat we saw

Versailles for palace grand

From Eiffel Tower we city saw

From cars we dodged and ran

Belleau Woods and River Marne

Cathedral high at Rheims

To Luxemburg in driving rain

For beauty as in dreams

Old Roman Gate in Trier we saw

Grape vines on Mosel grow

At Koblenz, Mosel joins the Rhine

Down river did we go

Psychologists at Bonn did meet.

A paper dad did read

Beethoven’s birthplace visit we

Colognes cathedral heed.

Up river past rock Lorelei

Past Heidelberg and on

Through Forest Black to Switzerland

More rain, the sun was gone

Through Lichtenstein and Arlberg Pass

Then Innsbruck in the rain

Through Brenner Pass then came the sun

To Italy again

Verona, Florence, on to Rome

In catacombs descend

To colosseum, Vatican

and Arch of Constantine

In Pisa man from tower fell

A horrible sight to see

Along the riviera coast

Where only air is free

Near Nimes a Roman aqueduct

To Costa Brava go

In Barcelona big wide streets

Madrid tall buildings grow

Toledo then to Portugal

Our final camp we pitched

In Lisbon bright and shiny ship

Ourselves and car was hitched

To Trinidad and Panama

The weather hot did grow

Pacific Ocean hove in sight

And up its coast we go

To Long Beach did our steamer sail

Our car and us ashore

Toward San Diego did we drive

Then in our own front door

Our sixteen months in Europe done

Our normal grind resume

Our camping gear from bus came out

Again we sleep in room

Our younger boys their accent gone

But John did his retain

Friends, church, and school our pictures saw

Our memories fresh again

My work resumes, the boys to school

John’s French and Latin out

Nor Rugby, cricket, soccer ball

No more short pants about

Now Phys Ed, shop work, orchestra

No science nor history

But social studies, English, math

No home work misery

Our house a shambles, rent overdue

Our bikes and toys astray

Our church jobs waiting our return

New church in splendor gay

Adjustments made as time goes on

Americans we again

As Christmas comes around the world

Best wishes we proclaim.

An American in Paris

After driving in England for a year any highway system on the continent would look good. Before getting to Rotterdam from the ferry landing at Hook-of-Holland I was adjusted to driving on the right side of the road again.

Our quick tour of the Netherlands was very pleasant. The camp site at Rotterdam was excellent. The reconstruction of Rotterdam was likewise very commendable. The toy village of Madurodam at The Hague is a must for children. The boys were fascinated with the scale model buildings, and trains, boats and airplane that ran (but did not fly). They also enjoyed the canal boat ride in Amsterdam.

At Volendam grandma bought them some clogs (wooden shoes) and we bought some Edam cheese in Edam. As we approached Utrecht to see the two-piece cathedral (the middle part fell down a century or so ago) boys on bicycles met us and escorted us to our destination. Two points were obvious: they could make better time on their bicycles than we could in our ZW. And we couldn’t have lost them if we had tried (and their price was high).

Our picnic on the quay at Antwerp was first rate (primarily Edam cheese and bananas) but the harbor ride around Antwerp wasn’t Amsterdam, nor Hamburg, Copenhagen, Stockholm (or for that matter New York City). The civic square was ornate but the famous paintings in the cathedral were out for cleaning.

We didn’t spend much time in Brussels or Waterloo since we’d been there a year ago and climbed the Atomium. Neither campsite in Brussels is very good and we were glad to be on our way toward Paris. We knew from the previous September that the camp in Bois de Boulogne was very apt to be full. So we stopped about 20 miles short of Paris for the night and arrived at Bois de Boulogne about 11 A.M.

Our suspicions were correct although at 11 we had no troubles getting in. We were directed toward the tent-on-car section and found an open space between two other ZW’s with two other 114-Z licenses. We didn’t think too much about it, we had seen many 114-Z’s with tents and families and made it a point to talk to as many occupants as possible. One family, an elderly couple, were home and we found out they were from California. This again didn’t surprise us much since at least one of every three 114-Z’s were from our clime. So after a short chat they pulled off for London and home. No one was home in the other ZW, which unlike ours was red and off white, but like ours had the striped tent. This was laundry day, loaf day, relax day. We didn’t even leave the campsite.

Late in the afternoon a man and wife about our age and with two teen-age boys hove into sight up the road. From the general direction of their travel we guessed they might be our next door neighbors. However they didn’t stop at the other ZW but came straight to ours. The man stated quite forthrightly in plain American English, “If you aren’t from Southern California you can’t camp here.” Somewhat taken aback by his blunt statement, but filling the bill, I stated, “We qualify, we’ll stay.”

We then found that they were the Mahans from Oceanside, 30 miles from San Diego. One boy was theirs, the other their boy’s friend. The boys went to a military school in Carlsbad that we’d seen play football across the street from our house where was located another military academy. And so it went.

After the evening meal while their boys were doing their dishes Mrs. Mahan came over again and I overheard a conversation that went something like this: Mrs. Mahan, “We’ll be leaving Saturday for Bonn.” Mary, “So will we, that’s where we are going.” Mrs. Mahan, “Harry will be attending a meeting there.” Mary, “So will John, that’s why we are going to Bonn.” Mrs. Mahan, “Harry is going to read a paper there.” Mary, “That’s what John will be doing too.” Mrs. Mahan in a confidential whispering like tone, “You don’t suppose we’re going to the same meeting do you?” And then almost in a Whisper, “Harry is a psychologist.” Mary then confided that I, too, was a psychologist. At this point there were loud shouts of “Harry, Harry, come here, we’ve found some kindred souls.” And then we reintroduced ourselves, “Dr. and Mrs. Harry A. Mahan of Oceanside, and Dr. and Mrs. John C. Webster of San Diego, Harry and Eleanor, John and Mary.”

We then started talking in earnest. Harry was a teacher at Palomar College and a clinical psychologist at Norwalk (mental hospital). We knew some boys, twin sons of the man I shared rides with to work, that went to Palomar College. Yes, he knew Owen and Roger Sessions. Then he confided he knew a psychologist from my lab in the hospital at Norwalk. This stopped me cold. To my knowledge none of our experimental psychologists had a second job as clinical psychologists in a mental hospital. Harry added, “He’s not on the staff, he’s a patient.” Had I been gone that long? Which one of my colleagues had cracked up?

Then I remembered. About 12 years ago, shortly after I’d come to the lab in San Diego, there was such an incident. Essentially overwork, a fellow who was building his own house and working in the lab full time.

And so it went. I told Harry about the NATO meeting of Military Psychologists in Paris, the object of my visit, and he decided to join me on the morrow to attend the opening session and see if there were any papers of interest.

Apart from the meetings we had time to revisit Versailles, for grandma. We had been there last summer. The boys got Mom and grandma up to the second restaurant level of the Eiffel Tower. However Tom and Bill were kind to their maternal ancestors, they didn’t get the full treatment allotted to me a year earlier.

We took the Metro down to the Louvre and again nearly severed family relations. With eight people in a group ranging in age from 2 to 62 with a skewed distribution of youngish ages trouble is always just around the corner. Or in this case just up the stairs and beyond those fool gates that close either automatically or by the whim of some fiendish operator who waits until somewhere between 1 and 7 of the family is through before he closes the gate. I don’t think we ever once got all 8 people through such a gate onto the loading platform at one time.

Needless to say our visit to the Louvre was cursory. Charlie couldn’t see Venus de Milo for green apples. “Daddy, it’s broken.” or Mona Lisa, “She’s not very pretty.” Winged Victory, “Where’s his head?” Then Dan added his usual phrase, “Carrime.” That brought things to a quick conclusion. My arms said, “Let’s go home.” At the Metro station going home the boys had to go to the potty. They kept wondering what that charwoman with her cleaning rag was doing within touching distance of the latrines. However since no Frenchmen seemed concerned about it, I didn’t get concerned. I just told them, “She’s cleaning the place up.” And so she was.

Although I was getting a little tired of boat trips, it was at least a way to sit down. And, since we had given up the Metro as neither safe nor sane for eight, the boat trip up and down the Seine gave me a needed relaxation from driving.

Driving in Paris is the closest thing to complete chaos I have ever seen. Best I can make out if you want to turn left, you get in the right lane, and always start a right turn from the left lane. If you want to go straight, get on a German Autobahn. I’m sure driving is a game in Paris. The morale of the French is low, they really haven’t won a war since Napoleon’s time, and it appears to me they make up for this by winning every imaginary auto race.

At one intersection I saw two Frenchmen shaking fists and uttering oaths after a minor collision. A gendarme stood fifty feet away completely oblivious of the whole affair. This affair was obviously not of his doing and he had no concern in the matter. A century ago a duel would have settled the affair or perhaps this was the duel. I am thoroughly convinced that the popularity of the Citroen, Junior Grade (with canvas top), is that no car in Paris traffic will last out the year, so why get an expensive one, or a sturdy one. My advice is: get none at all.

Another time I saw a lady motorist on the outside of a lane of traffic apparently trying to get in the lane of traffic. This in itself is rare since lanes of traffic are almost unheard of, since this implies some sort of order. However because of parked lorries, etc., this was essentially a one lane street and I thought she was trying to wedge in. I was in no hurry and wasn’t moving fast anyway so I stopped to allow her to pull in front of me. Nothing happened and then I noticed her motor was stalled. She couldn’t move so I started forward again. About the time I had filled in the gap I had left for her, her motor started and there she was. I’m sure her car at least, if not all French cars, had no clutch and/or no neutral and/or no brakes. As soon as the motor turned over she was moving and cutting off the extra layer of dust on my front bumper. And I might say not moving slowly or cautiously. I learned my lesson, never give an inch in Paris traffic. If you have the inside track keep it, it won’t last long.

I was very amused however a half mile further on when said French lady now about five cars in front of me suddenly decided, while over at the extreme right side of the street to turn left across two lanes of traffic (pardon me, I mean across a space wide enough to handle three lanes of traffic but currently headed by two cars). At this intersection was a gendarme who was obviously new on the beat and who could see that by turning left at this particular moment in time she would hold up five lanes (pardon use of the word lanes) of traffic, two in her direction and three approaching. He had in fact stopped all traffic in that particular direction and was motioning the cross traffic to go. This was the only intersection I remember where one poor human being tried to regulate the oncoming floods of apparently driverless cars.

Anyway Fifi was not going to be awed by any gendarme. In any case since her car either had no brakes, clutch or neutral gear, or else she had no legs and was driving with a hand throttle, she made the standard Parisian left hand turn, namely from the right lane. At the conclusion of this turn she ended up on a collision course with the unmounted gendarme. She somehow managed to stop the car, probably by turning off the ignition and throwing out an anchor, just short of the thoroughly frightened, angered, and resolute gendarme. In shouts and gestures understandable to all, he told her to back her car back around to where she had started her illegal (if such a thing exists) turn. Of course the inevitable happened, her motor stalled again. For the first, and probably only, time in Paris intersection history, everyone was motionless. Everyone was annoyed with her and sympathized with the gendarme, another historic first. They just hovered around with loud guffaws waiting to see what happened. The gendarme did not give in and allow her to proceed forward but he did finally motion us on and I didn’t get to see the end of this melodrama.

Driving in Paris was worse than driving in London, or up and down the fiords of Norway, or, I imagine, in Dante’s Inferno, and orders of magnitude worse than driving the Los Angeles Freeway system. We essentially gave it up. My California Freeway nerves, tendered with a year’s driving in what up until now I considered the worst highway-traffic conditions in the world (England), couldn’t take it. We decided to leave Paris a day early.

The sad thing about it is that highwaywise, Paris is much better off than London. It is just that Paris drivers are insane and Paris traffic engineers have not yet discovered the greatest and cheapest boon to expediting traffic movement, paint. Even in the American city of independent thinkers, Boston, after a few years of lining radiator caps up on painted lane dividers, it soaked through that by keeping between two painted lines on a marked street, twice as many cars can proceed as when straddling the most centrally located line. If Bostonians can learn to toe the mark, I believe Parisians could. However I may be underestimating them. Perhaps their zest for living it up couldn’t be subdued with a paint brush.

I can tell them from personal experience though that the experience of driving 60 miles per hour on Los Angeles Freeways has just about the same zest as 35 on the Champs Elysees. When driving more or less with the traffic in Paris, and I say “more or less” with the traffic since you can’t really drive with the traffic it zigs and zags too much, you make about 35 mph. At this speed my pulse rate, blood pressure, adrenalin level, and ulcers were near the maximum tolerable, or 60 mph, Los Angeles Freeway state. Parisians are thus really only spinning their wheels, they are really not getting anywhere. However we did get somewhere, namely, whence.

Paris in all its charm is not worth the nervous strain it takes to drive its streets. And since we preferred the tranquility (and the wine) of the Mosel valley we left for Bonn a day early. My views of an American in Paris in 1960 were different from George Gershwin’s expressed musical views of the 1920’s only in that the hooting of horns has now been outlawed. Tacit horns may well quell the noise and sweeten the air for pedestrians, but for harried fellow drivers more is needed than quietness.

Achtung!

After already deciding that Saturday was the day to leave Paris it was not surprising to witness Saturday dawn with a torrential downpour. Then like France itself we had franc problems. Grandma had joined us for our last fling through Europe. And it was decided to distribute our jobs somewhat and she was treasurer. The general idea was we would use her travelers checks up first and then start in on ours. This had a few drawbacks. To begin with Grandma had lived alone for years and her bank was between her work and her apartment which were themselves only four blocks apart. Buying groceries for one at a store within two blocks of her apartment also had her spoiled.

She lived in Washington where purse-snatching is not unheard of and she had long ago got in the habit of not carrying more than she could afford to lose. With an eightfold increase in appetites, and an unestimateable increase in the difficulties of money transactions, grocery store availability, and language misunderstandings, we had franc problems. Namely we had about enough francs for lunch and that was it. As in America on Saturday, French banks, and practically all institutes of money exchange were closed. We had one basic decision to make, spend an hour or two trying to find a Shylock open on Saturday or get out of France by supper time. Before I start any trip I always get $10 worth of currency in each of the countries I plan to visit so that amidst all the other difficulties in crossing a border I don’t just have to get me some new money. And so it was I had German Marks and some Belgium Francs (good in Luxembourg) but our treasurer had practically no French Francs.

After a few futile (and wet stops) at some closed institutes of high finance and since I hated Paris traffic anyway I decided we could make for Luxembourg. In about two hours (in Paris traffic 2 hours seems like 2 days) we were headed for Chateau Thierry, Reims and Luxembourg.

Come lunch time and we saw the sign Belleau Woods American Cemetery and an arrow pointing at right angles to the road. Fifteen minutes later we splashed to a halt at this WWI cemetery. It isn’t always so that the caretaker meets you on your way in, but then again it isn’t often that you are the only visitor. His mission was this: was just leaving for lunch, would we wait a half hour? Yes; we too had to eat. He advised us to pull up adjacent to the garage attached to his office and reception-room. He showed us where to get water, where to get rid of water and left us more or less in possession of the facilities while he went home to lunch. On his return he ushered us in the back way through his office and into the reception room where we signed our names just below the Mahans who had left Paris for Bonn a day earlier. He gave each of the boys a brand new, old (48 star), U.S. flag and sat us down for the story of his pride and joy, the cemetery and the battle of Belleau Woods.

His most interesting tale concerned the furniture in the room. This was an allied victory and cemetery and so the reception room was furnished by England, France, the United States, and Russia. The two wooden arm chairs were Russian. They looked identical but he pointed out and demonstrated that they were not identical. These were parlor chairs that were customarily used by guest and host. He had each of us sit in the host chair which we agreed was mighty comfortable. Then we each tried the identical looking guest chair and found it uncomfortable. It seems that in the host chair both the arm rests and the seat tilted upward slightly so that you were essentially “held in”. In the guest chair the visually unnoticed tilt of arm rests and seat was downward. You had the uncomfortable feeling of “slipping out”. And here is the secret of short visits. Make the guest fidgety while you the host, in the same type of chair, are comfortable. Those sly Russians.

The rain hadn’t let up a bit so I drove the ZW around to the front and we all, including the caretaker, packed in and drove (over what is usually a sidewalk) right up to the memorial chapel. He had some umbrellas for climbing the stairs and he then continued his history and architectural lecture. Before we left he picked some roses for Grandma and Momma and two hours after we had arrived for a routine 15-minute visit, we were off again into the pounding surf.

It wasn’t long before we passed through Reims the historic Cathedral and Joan of Arc city. It was still pouring down rain and we still had no excess of francs so we didn’t even slow down. In a little village beyond Reims we came to a ford or really a flash flood runoff with water standing about two feet deep, for about 100 feet, across the highway. I knew our engine was mounted high and to the somewhat incredulous gaze of half of the assembled villagers we did not even hesitate like some other cars were, but went right on through.

It was dusk when we reached the Luxembourg border and we were running on our reserve gas but now we could use our Belgium Francs. It was completely dark, and still raining when we pulled in to the excellent campsite in the city of Luxembourg. Pitching a tent in a steady rain which had been packed up in a steady rain is not really a chore to delight one’s heart. But there was no real alternative. We did however break our budget by eating in the campsite restaurant. It was luxuries like this that caused us to exceed our average running expenses of $10 a day (gas, food, and lodging). In this case we hardly considered it a luxury. The ground was so wet it was difficult to even keep your footing since we were on a slight slope. Trying to keep young boys (who have a touch of pig in them anyway whenever they see a mud wallow) out of the mud and from bringing mud into the ZW was hard enough without inviting trouble by cooking in the mire. We ate out.

Grandma wanted to see the House of Pearl (Mesta), namely the American Embassy and then since we had visited beautiful Luxembourg the previous year we hurried on to Trier. As we crossed the German border I noted a GB (Great Britain) license on the car ahead and in the Wechsel (money exchange) I saw this chap who was obviously English and found he too was a psychologist transferring operations from Paris to Bonn. I also noticed that the border station had been enlarged and modernized since last summer. Typical of the place and times: West Germany 1960.

While taking the boys through the old Roman Gate in Trier, I was tapped on the shoulder and a familiar sounding American voice said, “Hello, John, long way from California.” And there was another psychologist, Dr. Clark Wilson, from Los Angeles. This was getting to be almost annoying. Why travel to Europe when you can see these people at home? Of course you never do see your friends and acquaintances at home and we had a long overdue chat.

It started drizzling again while we were visiting the Roman amphitheater in Trier so we decided to push on down the Mosel. Although not quite so ethereally beautiful the second time, and in the rain, the trip down the Mosel is still one of my favorites. We didn’t stop at the ruined castle at Bernkasel-Kues as we had a year earlier but went on to Cochem to make camp (in the drizzle).

Lunch next day at the “Deutsche Ecke” at Koblenz and into the campsite south of Bonn by evening. The Mahans had preceded us but hadn’t dried out spot for us. The week in Bonn was spent in meetings, visiting Beethoven’s birthplace, the cathedral at Cologne (and the chair lifts across the Rhine), Dusseldorf, Neanderthal, Wuppertal, and wading in the Rhine (at our campsite).

John had studied about the Neanderthal man and we visited the museum there. The caretaker was a coin collector and wanted in the worst way a buffalo nickel (they had an animal preserve at Neanderthal). Since the caretaker spoke not one word of English it was a chore finding out he wanted a buffalo nickel. My German was strained to its limit.

The trip to Wuppertal was for one purpose alone and soon all the boys and I were on the monorail tram that straddles the river and provides rapid transit service. On these side trips from Bonn we traveled the famed German Autobahns and felt like we had left England’s antediluvian roads and were prematurely back in California. Even Autobahns (and freeways) clog up however. After our week in Bonn we meandered slowly down the east bank of the Rhine past Remagen, up to the top of Lorelei Rock and finally past Rudersheim, and Wiesbaden and back onto the Autobahn again. Coming into Heidelberg both lanes were backed up for miles. A half hour later as we passed the cause of the jam, we saw about four smashed up cars. By now they were on the shoulder and/or in the center island, but the traffic was still snarled.

The campsite at Heidelberg was packed. Our tent lines criss‑crossed our neighbors. We couldn’t even get the attached tent up. Europeans love to camp and choice sites are full. Next day, Sunday, in exploring the hills above Heidelberg Castle, we kept seeing U.S. Army temporary signposts, route markings, etc. The boys thought, “Oh, boy, maneuvers today.” Being an inveterate tax payer I answered “Picnic and beer bust.” Sure enough, they were the advanced units transporting watermelons, ice, beer, etc. along the marked routes. The boys had mounted one of our Belleau Woods flags in the window and some of the units stopped to talk to us.

Soon after we left Heidelberg, the Autobahn was bogged down again. I cussed and fumed and vowed I’d take country roads in the future. We crept along bumper to bumper for about 5 miles and a half hour. My blood pressure rising by the minute. Finally we crossed a slight rise and ahead was a sign auf Deutsch which translated roughly into, “Construction zone ahead, one lane traffic.” The methodical Germans were alternating every other car getting the two lanes into one and passing by said sign. The thing that puzzled me was that there was no construction, this was Sunday, and the second lane was not obstructed. The only thing that caused the trouble was the sign.

Why was the sign there? Was this an example of German thoroughness, obstinacy, or forgetfulness? Did some worker on Saturday forget that the next day was a holiday and carelessly allow the sign to remain after all equipment and obstacles had been cleared away? Did the foreman, in his usual thorough manner, want a double check against any possible accidents? Did he clear away obstacles and equipment and yet reroute the traffic? Did he himself wear a belt with his suspenders? Or was it the “let them suffer” attitude? Make the highway user aware of the work we are doing on his highway, any advertising is good advertising.

In any case, there it was, a clearly illogical situation. And also obviously illogical. The sign itself did not block traffic, the area in question was completely in sight, and obviously unobstructed. Yet these methodical German drivers were obeying the letter of the law. They were not questioning the absurdity of the situation. I’m convinced that a similar situation in America would have been reacted to in a completely contrary manner. Drivers would have sensed the situation and reacted to the situation, NOT to the sign. Americans respect permanent signs enforced by fines in good hard cash. Temporary and illogical signs, not backed up by a policeman (and his ticket book), would have been ignored.

Is it this trait that keeps getting the German nation into wars? Do Germans as an ethnical group tend to give blind obedience to laws? I won’t try to answer, but this highway experience certainly got me wondering about good and bad rules and/or laws and obedience to same.

Roman Holiday

Since our itinerary was never strictly fixed and since I had enough of German autobahn conformity, I decided to get off on back roads. We therefore left the autobahn and forsook our supposed target of Basel Switzerland and headed instead for Schaffhausen. The Black Forest was not as black as my childhood remembrance of Hansel and Gretel led me to believe it would be. Of course we weren’t out looking for strawberries and leaving a path of bread crumbs to find our return path. I can’t really say we weren’t leaving a path of bread crumbs. But much as I would have liked to retrace our travels our present path was toward Rome.

We found no stooped stranger to tell us of magic ways to prolong our stay. We could have used a little magic to operate on the weather, or to transfer some southern California summer weather to us. But why condemn this beautiful green continent to perpetual summer droughts just to dry our tents out. Besides 13 years of no summer rains made me appreciate rain, even if we did have to camp in the mud.

We passed the last German border in our German ZW with German license plates and still no road tax. Another financial matter I couldn’t fathom concerned Deutsche Mark (DM) Travelers Cheques. In January I had been invited to give a paper in Essen, travel and per diem to be paid by German government in DM. I knew I would be back in six months, so I converted my DM into DM Travelers Cheques. For DM 400 I purchased DM 400 worth of Travelers Cheques, no extra charge. I was, dumbfounded but figured maybe they discounted them when cashed in. Now I had cashed in DM 400 Travelers Cheques for DM 400. I think I ought to tell American Express, or Cooks, about this. I’m sure they could sell more travelers checks or travelers cheques this way. That’s what I call pleasing the customer.

Just as I was thinking of how well I had made out in Germany financially I looked at my map and saw this surveyor’s nightmare of a border. I was in Switzerland but to stay in Switzerland I had to cross through a quarter mile of Germany again. This type of thing not only keeps surveyors busy but also makes more spoils jobs for the winners of elections. This is the one border in Germany where even a political appointee could perform in a first rate fashion. All this guard did was wave at us as we went past.

Our camp in Schaffhausen was fine and relatively dry. In fact it didn’t rain either that night nor the next day. We saw the falls on the Rhein (no more barges) and proceeded to Zurich for a Sunday afternoon outing. A beautiful city and lake. But we had no time to get in trouble.

We refueled between Zurich and Buchs and like many another European gas station the standing room for cars was limited. After fueling the ZW but while grandma and some of the boys were refueling and defueling (in the upstairs bathroom of the proprietor’s house, and station) I decided to pull the ZW across the road onto a large vacant spot. When the proprietor saw that I was leaving grandma and a spare boy or two in his care his sign language took on monstrous proportions. He only stopped shouting and waving his hands when he saw me stop and get out of the car. A real humanitarian that man, after all I’d already paid for the gas.

We camped at Buchs on the Swiss-Lichtenstein border and bade goodbye to the Rhein. The camp was at the foot of a small castle, but the meager army of campers we bivouacked with, was insufficient for a morning assault. We therefore picked the castle capitol of Lichtenstein, at Vaduz for our assault. We were pretty well repulsed. Visitors do not get in. We did buy some stamps and took in the marvelous view of the mountain backdrop and Rhein valley. We were soon completely routed by our old enemy, the rain, and proceeded eastward.

The Tyrol must be beautiful. What we saw of it through windows translucent with rain, and through an atmosphere of 110% humidity, would lead us to believe the Tyrol must be beautiful. The green rather broad valleys were terminated by probably what were awe inspiring mountains. A recent National Geographic article to the contrary, I do not know to this day what all those small windowless log cabins that fairly saturate the fields are for. There seem to be about one per acre. Maybe if it rains as much as my statistical sampling would lead me to believe (namely all the time) these are, to keep the newly cut hay dry. There are enough of them that they could keep the workers themselves dry. No worker would be more than a minute’s run from shelter. I’m fairly certain they were not granaries nor animal shelters, “Was fur hauser sind das?”

I had known from my advanced planning that the Arlberg Pass could be negotiated on a comfortable car-carrying-train through a tunnel. But not wishing to tie myself down to an exact hour of an exact day I had not made advanced reservations and consequently we did not ride the Underground through the Pass. We had our lunch across the road from the Underground station under a mat covered car park. I suppose the woven mat was a sun shade although it worked equally well on the rain.

The trip over the Arlberg Pass could equally well have been a trip through downtown London in the fog. All you could see was tail lights and bumpers and approaching head lights. Only two differences might distinguish between London and Arlberg. First the road was even more twisty and curvy than London’s streets. Second, we seemed to be in low or second gear most of the time. They were repairing the highway, or resurfacing it, or rebuilding it (as in London, not straightening nor widening just resurfacing). We therefore had many gravel, or worse, stretches, and much construction equipment, many lorries, and much stopping for one way traffic (just like London). It was probably just as well that we couldn’t see the precipices we were all but falling over, but the total effect was far from awe inspiring (just like a London fog).

We descended from the clouds but did not lose the rain. It was still raining when we pulled into the campsite in Innsbruck. The camp was on a slight slope and as we slithered to a stop we knew we could only move one direction, forward which was downhill. The hillside was a complete mire and anyone going uphill just spun their wheels, they didn’t really move. The camp had a snack bar and under the circumstances (we didn’t want our stove to flood out) we had wiener schnitzel at real tables. Their dark beer was more like liquid pumpernickel bread and was not the tranquilizer needed after a day’s driving in the rain.

Camping in the rain is not a highly desirous experience, but it is not completely catastrophic. With grandma along had purchased a detached two room tent (in addition to the tent that attached to ZW). This second tent had an inner lined room complete with a water proofed ground cover. Although the humidity was high inside the room was not actually wet. The trick was to repack the tent with a minimum of mud getting rubbed off on the tent or the repacker. Canvas cots sitting off the ground plus sleeping bags made the wet weather camping healthy enough. No one caught cold, pneumonia, or TB. And no time was lost in assembling the tents nor breaking camp. The ZW was of course always high and dry. Here again the problem was of tracking mud in and out. We had purchased a fuzzy welcome foot mat and it was well used. The rain dampened our spirits, limited our vicarious sight seeing, and hurried us along through Germany, Switzerland, and Austria, but it did not drive us into hotels nor dampen our exploring desires.

We never did really see the peaks around Innsbruck. We did however get away next morning since all cars ahead of us (downhill from us) had pulled out earlier. We didn’t ride up the sky lifts as I had originally planned but decided that the course of prudence lay south through the Brenner Pass.

We had no sooner turned south and started up Brenner Pass when Italy’s sun slipped over the pass and warmed our hearts (and dried our canvas roof rack cover). We saw a few more light rains in Italy, Spain, and Portugal but the Brenner Pass essentially separated us from our omnipresent dark cloud. Perhaps Joe Ptschk fell off on the ascent.

The descent from the Brenner Pass to Verona is beautiful; green, sunny, mountainous, sunny, picturesque, sunny, had a parallel railway to entertain the boys, and was sunny. We got our tents dry at our camp at Trento where the boys found the largest ugliest toad I’ve ever seen. They really kicked their ball around and unlimbered after many days in ZW and tent.

Verona was just as easy to get lost in as the year before. I didn’t even try to find Juliet’s Balcony a second time. The week of rain had apparently dampened my romantic ardor. We found the Roman Amphitheater, this time decked out for Puccini’s “Girl of the Golden West”. It seemed somehow ludicrous to see a stage coach bearing the label, “Wells Fargo” sitting outside the ancient Roman Amphitheater. People are creatures of habits. Charlie recognized the sidewalk cafes from a year ago and since we had pizza a year ago, we ordered up another pizza. This neighboring establishment also had much to learn from Johnny Pernicano of La Jolla.

I didn’t even consider visiting Venice again, so we left for Bologna, where ZW was due for another inspection. Dan was asleep in the nest and since this was a short inspection we just left him there as we lounged around in the grass outside. Our peace was soon shattered. The mechanics wondered what sort of new noise was built into VW’s. They hastily lowered the ZW from its grease rack removed said source of noise and brought one unhappy boy back to peace and security.

The trip from Bologna to Florence convinced me that Italy is no place to have a mobile war. Beautiful mountain country. No wonder Florence was the hub of the renaissance. Poets, painters, scholars, monks, and artists have always flocked to beautiful sunny Italy. Tourists and the idle rich have followed (or probably led). Although we had enjoyed the preponderance of horses for tractors, hayracks and shocked grain for combines, and people for equipment on north European farms, we now could hardly believe the preponderance of oxen, one share-one man plows, donkeys, and two-wheeled carts.

In Florence we abandoned ZW and took to horse and carriage for Dan and Charlie’s favorite sightseeing (namely the horse). In our usual more or less forced lack of enthusiasm for details we saw external sights only. It as on the hot side and Dan was slightly feverish so we got in ZW and got the air circulating as we headed for camp at Siena.

This was a first rate camp and a very interesting city. Sunny Italy began to look more like sunny west Texas, than rainy east Texas as we proceeded toward where all roads lead. There is not much question that greenery and water go together. Sunny southern California like this section of sunny Italy is sun brown and not rain green.

We spent three days in Rome and saw all of the standard sights. In grandma’s words in a letter to friends upon her return:

“On Friday evening we made camp north of Rome. We had time to drive into the city before dark. The first stop was the place where the Olympic Games were to be held beginning the following week. Rome in all its splendor is still there. The Colosseum comes first to mind. It is so large. Our Charles (4 years old) went in with Johnny and reported, ‘They’ve got cats in there.’ And so they had. Lots of them. Old ruins of colosseums, arenas and theaters were dear to the boys. There were lots of tiers of seats to climb and they ran up and down all of them.

“I liked our drive out Appian Way. There were ruins of many monuments and markers along the sides of the road. The boys liked this too. We stopped at the Catacombs which they did not like. They liked best of all the statue commemorating the Romulus and Remus legend with the live wolf at the other side of the building. After I got home I read in the newspaper an account of the Russian woman athlete who won prizes at the Olympic games being taken to see this and she too enjoyed it. She is reported to have given a real live wolf call upon seeing the live beast. That must have been fun for her escort.

“Of course we visited Vatican City. While I can’t remember just where it was the statue of Moses by Michaelangelo stands out in my memory for the sheer power evidenced. We saw Saint Peter’s Cathedral and the Sistine Chapel and associated art museum too hastily since one should spend several days there. We saw the Forum and the many Fountains of Rome and much, much more. There are new and modern buildings in Rome but there are also those narrow winding streets that surely were not planned for modern vehicles. Rome was one of the most interesting cities of all.”

We saw all of the standard sights because I had purchased the boys two illustrated children’s guide books before leaving England, namely, “This is London”, and “This is Rome”. We stayed around Rome until we had seen the works. One of the reasons the boys didn’t take to the catacombs was “This is Rome” said,

“The earliest burial-places of the Christians were the underground Catacombs. When you go inside them today you are given a candle at the entrance instead of a ticket.”

And at least in the catacombs we visited electric lights were used instead of candles. The other reason was that boys expect catacombs to be caves, and caves like old castles are to be explored, ran around in, and certainly not to be guided through.

Unlike Venice we found Roman vendors respected and catered to a family of eight and not look upon them as helpless prey. On our first afternoon at the Olympic Game site when Tom wanted an extra bottle of pop, the vendor just gave him one.

We found in fact that south of the Po, Italians just loved our family. Whenever we stopped for gas or food natives within a hundred yards flocked around to pamper the boys. They were offered sweets and pop, patted, and Dan was held on many laps on many occasions.

We were now thoroughly dried out and on the hot side although for an August Roman Holiday we were indeed lucky and relatively comfortable. We all tossed our coins over our right shoulders into the Fontana di Trevi and promptly started driving the wrong way up a one way street. Our wish may have been interpreted to mean forcefully retained instead of to voluntarily return, but we backed out before being apprehended. We now started the last leg of our trip, toward the port of departure, Lisbon.

Perils of Pisa

My fellowship tenure in Europe was coming to an end. My wife Mary, our five boys (John - 12, Tom - 8, Bill - 6, Dan - 4, and Charlie - 2)[8] and I had spent the school year in Cambridge at the Applied Psychology Research Unit and we were now taking our last fling around the Continent. We had just spent three days in Rome and were journeying toward our port of embarkation in Lisbon. We were all looking forward to the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

John, the budding scientist, wanted to duplicate Galileo’s experiment at this shrine to the beginning of modern science. Tom and Bill were always interested in getting atop the highest vantage point in town. They had already gotten the whole family up in the Atomium in Brussels only to find the way down is via an outside open air stairway. We almost had to leave John up there ..... he wasn’t coming down.

At the Eiffel Tower, Mary said she’d look after the young ones. John refused go. Lucky me, who had been afraid of heights since that day in early childhood when I climbed to the top of my grandfather’s huge hay loft and made the mistake of looking down, got to accompany Tom and Bill to the very top. There was also the TV tower (Fernsehturm) in Stuttgart and St. Michael’s church steeple in Munich. You might guess that the enthusiasm expressed by Tom and Bill was not whole-heartedly shared by me.

Charlie and Dan, knowing John and I were somewhat apprehensive of heights, seemed to know they could grow in stature by wanting to go up too. Regardless of what it was, I might say, they wanted to go too. The summer before at Cannes, Charlie saw John, Tom, and Bill run and jump into the shallow surf. Thinking this must be the thing to do, he ran and jumped in and, of course, upset all equanimity on the beach with screams and struggles ‘til I, who hate the water waded out and pulled him in.

Anyway, Pisa was the objective of the day, and of all days, a Sunday. To top it all off, just as we approached the outskirts of Pisa, it started to drizzle. I should have read the omens and kept right on driving. But in due course we spotted the coach tour buses and street vendors and looked around to see a really beautiful cathedral and campanile (namely the Leaning Tower of Pisa).

After a short, and I might say doomed-from-the-start consultation, it was agreed that I would take all the boys up to the top of the tower. Meanwhile, Mary and my mother, who had joined us for this last five week tour, would leisurely visit the cathedral. As was usual in these circumstances, I didn’t realize what had let myself in for until all help and succor, in the form of Momma, was beyond recall. I always figured that if anything was too absurd or too dangerous, someone would stop us. But I now believe I know what goes on in the minds of the concessioners. They must believe that certain people, especially Americans, must be insane anyway to travel with five small boys. And even though it is doubly insane to try to herd them atop the tower of Pisa (or for that matter, around the ruins of Kenilworth Castle, or aboard the Paris Metro, or into Covent Garden Opera House) why should they object if someone is fool enough to expose himself and his children to such situations?

Of course, they knew many things I did not. They knew, for example, that there are no guard rails around the outside of the open observation balconies. They knew that drizzle makes the Italian marble very slippery. You could probably safely say that we both knew the Tower leaned, but I had only read about it. They knew that the winding stairways were so narrow that, at most, I could keep in touch with only two boys at a time. And I must admit that even I knew I had only two hands and five boys. I also knew that after three weeks traveling with Grandma the boys knew that harsh words of command were no longer in vogue and that, in general, anything went.

In any case, we were greeted with a big smile and the boys were given their usual pats. Italians love children. In Rome the soda pop vendor just gave Dan his second bottle free. The older boys didn’t dare test out the limits of the Roman vendor’s generosity, but he did give them all medallions of Pope John.

We were now on our own, free to discover the wonders of the Renaissance World. In farm terms, the tower is one big silo, hollow on the inside. In castle terms, it has a circular stairway between the inner wall (of the silo) and the outer wall. In terms of geometry, every 270 degrees or so, it has a doorway onto a balcony. In sightseer terms, these balconies make fine vantage points for viewing the cathedral, the roofs of Pisa, and other sightseers. In artistic terms, these observation balconies with their tall slender columns make the tower a very beautiful sight. In safety terms, the lack of guard rails around these balconies is outrageous, just as the addition of guard rails would be outrageous to the aesthetic beauty of the tower. Vertigo-wise, the lack of guard rails, the lean, and the height of each successive balcony would make Hitchcock a new setting for a thriller.

The first 270 degrees proved to me that it was a hot day and humidity was no blessing either; that going up a circular stairway that first went downhill and then uphill tended to disorient one’s sense of balance and heighten one’s vertigo, and that keeping five boys together and in line was impossible.

The first observation balcony proved to me that it doesn’t take much of a lean on slippery marble and no guard rails to convince oneself that the sights of Pisa weren’t that interesting; that little boys haven’t much sense or caution about dizzying heights; and that Tom and Bill had already struck out on their own.

At the second balcony, Charlie and Dan again wanted to drag me out for a 360 degree sightseeing circuit and I had great trouble reasoning with them. I always had trouble reasoning with Dan (Daniel Webster, that is, and in his case, we shorten the famous story title to Daniel Webster, Devil).

At the third balcony, John, who was ahead but in sight, wouldn’t even poke his head out. Dan was more anxious than ever to go out. And me, I was getting short of breath, long on sweat, slightly dizzy and very annoyed that Tom and Bill were long gone into what by now I was completely terrified of. And I was ready to go down.

Between the third and fourth balcony, in nearly complete darkness, my heart stood still. I heard some blood curdling screams and a sharp retort like the firing of a small cannon. It didn’t take much imagination to guess that something had fallen off the tower. And it didn’t take much counting to realize that I could only see two boys.

Hurrying as much as you can with a two- and a four-year-old boy, I clambered up the remaining steps to count noses. I soon found John .... he wasn’t too far away. But Tom and Bill were nowhere in sight.

To gain the last dizzying height on the tower of Pisa you must go outside on an open balcony, follow along for maybe five feet, (it seemed closer to fifty), and reenter another door into the bell room. Came the next dilemma. John would reluctantly go it alone, but I was not about to go out on that slippery, tilting, cliff edge with both hands encumbered by fidgety boys. Luckily another man, an Englishman, saw my plight, and asked Charlie if he would take his hand and navigate along the edge to the door into the room atop the tower. Only after entering this room and seeing Tom and Bill atop the ladder leading up to the edge, did I breathe sigh of relief. At least whatever fell off the tower wasn’t a Webster!

Down below, Mary had also heard the screams and the crash, and with her usual faith in my ability to look after the kids ran out of the cathedral at top speed to see what had happened. She saw a ring of people around some object which she guessed at once was a human body. She couldn’t get close enough to see whether it was man, woman, or child, but could just glimpse some gray like Charlie’s pants, and white like Charlie’ shirt. She lost no further time in clawing her way close enough to ascertain the horrible sight of a man splattered over the stone churchyard below the tower.

Up in the bell room there was a flurry of conversation, most of it in Italian, some German, some French. I overheard the English words, “Did you see him fall?” Not wishing to panic the boys I said nothing, but urged them downward as best you can urge two mountain climbers who had just reached the apex and two small mountain goats whose main characteristic in life is inertia. After listening to, “Let’s go outside and look for Momma”, “Why can’t we climb up those ladders Bill and Tom are on”, “Let loose my hand, Daddy, I want to go down by myself”, and inevitably from Charlie, “Carrime”, I soon got the engine, Tom, started down. He was eagerly followed by Bill, to whom caution was a waste of words. John, whose show of bravado at the bottom was now replaced by a greenish-white face and many thoughts of “Why can’t I just admit I am afraid of heights and stay with Mom”, followed. At my command he was holding onto Dan. Charlie and I brought up the rear. Charlie was still on his feet but I kept hearing more frequent and louder cries of “Carrimedad”.

Except for the lack of panting in going down, the trip was worse than coming up. It was now definitely hot and humid, dark and windy, nauseous and disorienting. It is hard to imagine how disconcerting it is to go down a pitched stairway to find certain parts of it apparently not going down at all, and other parts cascading down at a tremendous rate. In any case, disconcerting thoughts kept going through my head. Accident? Suicide? Murder? My one thought was to get out into the fresh air and get away from Pisa.

It hadn’t occurred to me until we got to the bottom and started out, that policemen and other red tape artists might be more than just slightly curious about this type of incident. I wondered why the jam of people at the door. It really wasn’t raining that hard! I was pushing my way through to get at that nearly vital fresh air when I saw the reason for the delay.

Police investigators look the same the world over. They always wear hats, they always look wise, and they tend to scowl. It dawned on me about this time that I couldn’t speak Italian and that I couldn’t speak for my boys. Had they really seen anything? Perhaps they even jostled someone and caused him to fall. In any case, the air was stifling, we were packed in like sardines, Dan could see nothing but legs and was being confined to a smaller and smaller radius. Charlie had now won his argument and my arms were beginning to feel like those of Atlas holding up the weight of the world. It also occurred to me that Mary might like to count one, two, three, four, five boys and that I couldn’t make these or any other thoughts known when crushed in an Italian mob dammed by an Italian police investigator.

We stood in this stifling mass of humanity for fully forty-five minutes until reinforcements came in the form of a German interpreter, a French interpreter, and thank God, an English interpreter. Now for the first time the crowd began to move. When I got to the interpreter, wondering what under the sun John, Tom, or Bill might say, he asked if any of us had seen the man fall. Like little cherubs they all answered, “No,” and I answered “No,” and we were allowed to leave.

I turned Charlie’s head from the blanket covered body and told John, Tom, Bill and Dan to go straight toward Mom, who was standing in plain sight, and not to look around.

By now the sun had emerged. The setting was beautiful. The marble cathedral beckoned in all its glory. The river, as all rivers to all boys, begged to be explored. However we took time to buy one set of colored slides, got in our car with a minimum of words, and drove post haste out of Pisa.

Two days later in an English language paper, Mary found this clipping:

Pisa, Italy, Aug. 16 (A.P.). - An unemployed Italian leaped to his death yesterday from the 188-foot Leaning Tower of Pisa. He had 20 lire (three cents) and an empty cognac bottle in his pockets.

I had all five boys intact and for all I care, you can let it lean.

Isabella’s Spain

Children have short attention spans and by the time we found a beautifully situated campsite on a hill overlooking Sestri Levante between La Spezia and Rapallo their thoughts and conversation were off the Perils of Pisa. I won’t say they had forgotten it. I am not sure they ever will really forget it. However their immediate consciousness of the event was lost in the beautiful sunset from the hill. The sunset was reflected in the sky by clouds and in the town below from the steel ribbons of the curving railroad tracks. We climbed atop ZW and took colour slides of the reflected beauty. A day of contrasts; a ghastly tragedy and a heavenly sunset.

Genoa takes on a completely different character when approached from the southern coastal routes and reached in mid-morning. Last year’s tortuous approach from Milan and the continual battle with petrol lorries made Genoa the end of a nightmare and escape was the only thought. This year’s approach was restful and beautiful and so was Genoa. Pretty, wide streets; beautiful clean buildings; happy souls.

Last year the autostrada terminated in the dingy dock and factory area and we saw nothing but squalor, and filth, and heard only factory noises and auto horns: Narrow, dirty streets, smoky old factories, weary souls.

This year we were retracing the steps of Genoa’s most famous citizen. I had in fact made reservations to board ZW and family on a ship in Genoa to follow Columbus to Spain (via Marseilles and Barcelona). I was overruled however and we took the land route followed perhaps by Columbus’ cabin boy. We took the Genoa-Savanna Autostrada and looked down on the road leading to the wonderful hilltop campsite of a year ago at Cogoleto.

The end of the autostrada marked the end of our peace of mind. The riviera in August on an English type highway is not beautiful. Eleven months earlier, past the tourist rush, it was. In August you see the rear ends of Fiats, Renaults, VW’s, MG’s, Porsches, lorries of all types and the whizzing front ends of same. The sea and girls in bikinis you see little of. Elsewise you would be seeing stars and angels. Resort towns in resort seasons are traffic traps. I kept thinking of my cancelled ship reservations. That is when I had time between bumpers to think of anything. In the few odd looks I did get the Mediterranean was still beautifully blue, and green in the shallower shore reaches and the mountains that toppled into the sea were beautifully green. But I had seen enough cars to last me a long time.

Italy in general is a queer mixture of old and new characterized generally by beauty and ugliness. Whether other countries forbid billboards or just practice good taste, in this case moderation, I can’t remember. All I remember is once you cross into Italy you are suddenly affronted by hideous roadside advertising. On one stretch of road the reflectors marking the edge of the road were obviously installed by Esso. Instead of reflecting just a kindly warning light they reflected the word Esso. This is capitalism in the extreme. Private enterprise taking over state functions in order to reflect their name before the public. I was not impressed, I bought AGIP gas. The AGIP chain are no slouches on American commercialism either. Tourist articles in leading magazines to the contrary we

saw very few, say one hand’s worth of, motels in any country except Italy. AGIP not only had motels but also snack bars in conjunction with their filling stations. They not only had all these marvelous things but on leaving an AGIP equipped-town a sign would soon pop up and in easy to read symbols and in good taste, tell where the next AGIP station was (how many kilometers) and what collateral facilities it had; like motel, snack bar, and/or garage mechanic. Except for Italy and generally except for AGIP stations one did not fuel his car and his family at the same establishment. Ofttimes a snack bar would be adjacent or across the street but this could not be taken for granted. Nor could you always find a rest room at gas stations. We noted this particularly in Florence.

In these respects Italy is more similar to the U.S. than any other country. Motels and snack bars are fine, billboards are an affront to any but an advertising man’s good taste.

An important discovery was made in Monaco. There is a sea level route and a sky line route through or around Monaco. The sea level route is earthy, it leads to Monte Carlo, and to a millionaires’ yacht harbor, and with slight detour to the Palace of Grace. The sky line route is ethereal. Most of the traffic disappears, the scenic beauty can be viewed through eyes of angels, and a Roman War Memorial build by Hadrian can be seen in all its majesty dwarfing the mere belongings of millionaires, looking like the toys they really

are, far below.

This year as the year before we drove through Frejus. The difference was that in the interim a dam had broken and a great flood had devastated the area. Luckily I had spent some of the intervening time on the ARK. Marseilles like most French cities and villages control their residential speeding problem by the use of cobblestone or rough brick pavement. A blind (or kidnapped) person could tell every time a car in which he was riding went through a French village. Rough seas, suddenly replace the glassy ocean as the bearer of his land cruiser. Likewise the time of day in France can be determined by the density of, and relative movement of the cars, motor scooters, bicycles, and lorries. At high noon the torrents are loosed and the roads become impassable, this is the exact time to stop for your picnic lunch. From about 1230 until 1345 the roads are absolutely deserted. In Italy you have the feeling a plague has hit the land. It is eerie completely ghost like. Whole towns seem deserted. With no traffic whatsoever on the roads this is the time to travel. Around 1400 things get pretty bad again. Comes 1600 (4 P.M.) and every vehicle stops in its tracks. Some will make an effort to get off the road (except in England) and all will have tea.

We considered our flying trip as a kind of sampler, looking for places to spend more time when we revisit Europe with older boys. Marseilles we will spend more time in. A colorful, sunny town where there seems to be room to breathe, and nice semi-tropical air to inhale. We only paused because we were headed for Arles. Our camping book said the camp at Arles had hot showers. This was catch up day for showers, laundry, haircuts, and staples. We arrived in mid afternoon instead of late afternoon. Same old story, “What do we need to wash for?”, “Who wants to take any old hot shower?”, “Let’s get the kick ball out.”

We compromised. After selecting our spot and setting up the detached tent, and offloading the gear from the roof rack, we went sightseeing. Arles is another ancient Roman town and we saw, while the boys ran all over the amphitheater and the theater. Next came haircuts, then lollies, and finally back to the camp for showers. But still no enthusiasm. Soccer, yes; tag, yes; hide and seek, yes; showers, not necessary. Although I finally coerced them in it was not easy. Can’t figure what ails boys, I love a hot shower, especially when they only come once a month.

Next morning we detoured back from Nantes and saw the Pont au Gard, a wonderfully well preserved old Roman aqueduct built on a bridge across a river. Actually one of the most impressive sights we had seen. Those Romans were a great people and perhaps the Pax Romana was the greatest, most peaceful, and law abiding of all civilizations.

Joe Pftsch caught up with us again and the rains came. It was raining especially hard at noon when I had to stop in Montpelier for my last Poste Restante stop. Here were many letters; from T.P. Dog in Sacramento with my California Drivers License (I was now driving legally for the first time in a month), a letter from Rev. Smith saying that Mary and I could have all our old Church jobs back, and an overdue insurance payment that somehow escaped all my automatic bank payments, and my financial expediter; all sorts of good news. I must admit I was happy to hear from T. P. Dog and Rev. Smith, although I vowed I was going to be just a church citizen (the usual no work, no pledge kind) instead of a church leader upon my return.

We hit the French noon crowd as pedestrians in Montpelier and under umbrellas yet. We spent most of the time dodging puddles, umbrellas, and drain spouts. ZW was due for an oil change but as I say it was noon. The VW people were out for lunch. So we too belatedly ate lunch.

Actually we were about out of the contagion region for Petrolorryitis. Fiatitis was almost unknown in this region of France, but a new nervous disease, Citroenitis was widespread. This disease was caused by two germs; a large one whose front legs spread further apart than its hind legs called Citroenormous, and a small one with an arched back called Citroenimous. These germs, in the land of the forest, attacked one almost exactly like a similar species in the land of the virgin forest, the Mercedocochi and the Volksicochi. Neither Citroenitis nor Mercedyitis were anything like Petrolorryitis so we felt we were about clear of the worst type of this nervous disease. The symptoms of any of these diseases are high blood pressure, unchristian thoughts concerning fellow humans, tense muscles, especially of the right foot, and short, choppy, irritable, speech among all car passengers. In its worst stages it causes hallucinations; beautiful cities, like Genoa take on horrible characteristics; and scenic drives like the riviera become overpowered by the seeming sight, sound, and smell of automobiles. Patent medicines, the same kind as used for snake bite remedies or to fight common colds, have a short seemingly alleviating effect and then the disease gets worse. The only real cure is rest, completely-off-the-highway rest. Some people seem immune to these diseases, most of them live in Paris, but these same people are those most apt to be carriers of the disease. Many, if not most, highway deaths are caused by variations of these same diseases. The disease is most contagious at noon and between 1400 and 1800 and for this reason we tried to cover as many miles as possible between noon and 1400 and get off the arteries of contagion by 1600 or 1700. Since we were nearly out of the contagion region we foolishly ate lunch during the golden hour and fought off the disease during its worst period.

We soon left the flat country we’d been in for two days and started over the Pyrenees Mountains. We were soon changing money, showing green insurance cards, carnets, passports, etc. and entering into the foreboding land of Spain. Foreboding because their system of traffic accident control involves confiscated cars and enforced lodging in a local jail. Like our good neighbor to the south in California. I had been in Barcelona briefly and knew that political policemen, Falangists, shared policing duties with civil and traffic policemen. We soon encountered a pair of these splendidly dressed Falangists walking along the highway carrying submachine guns. We were to meet many more, about every ten miles near the border and perhaps every 25 miles in the interior. Needless to say the boys, John and Tom at least, were not too happy with these soldiers carrying real guns. Having no TV to watch and forbidden to go to run of the mill movies my boys are really not very well up on this type of thing, that is guns, killings, etc.

The Costa Brava is Spain’s resort area for Frenchmen, Englishmen, Germans, and Americans. It is simply more of Brighton, the Riviera, or southern California. We were not much taken with it since we were on a traveling and camping holiday, not a swimming one. For a week on a beach I’d take Costa Brava over many more, crowded places.

The first thing to get used to in Spain is the scarcity of gas stations, not every town will have one, and large cities have very few. The next thing is the scarcity of organized, guarded campsites, except along the resort areas. The best thing is the distance your money goes, for food for example.

Tourist wise, Costa Brava and Barcelona are extensions of lands north of the Pyrenees. Barcelona, and Madrid, are very classy cities; broad beautiful avenues, large and tall buildings, (Madrid is the skyscraper capitol of Europe), lots of cars, trams, and busses. They have old narrow, dark, windy streets, but they have avenues that would make New York City or Paris drool. However once one leaves Barcelona for Madrid, or Madrid for Lisbon, Isabella is still queen.

Petrolorryitis is next to unheard of. However like any other disease it takes only one germ to infect you and perhaps kill you. And like other diseases your resistance goes down when the hordes of germs are absent and the single one may be fatal.

The users of Spain’s highways are donkey riders, ox-drawn two wheeled carts, horse, donkey, mule, or ox-drawn gypsy wagons and the inevitable pair of machine gun carrying Falangists usually walking but sometimes on bicycles. Pack mules followed by walking people, women and children carrying bundles of sticks, hay, or balancing water jugs on their heads are as numerous as motor vehicles. The highways are not necessarily good, but for the traffic they bear they are completely adequate. In fact we made better time in Spain than at any other place except on the unclogged autobahns.

As previously stated however familiarity breeds contempt. One of the rare petrol lorries I did meet used a statistically safe technique of rounding a blind mountain corner at top speed with horn blowing. He knew from years of experience that although the probability of meeting one donkey, or cart was say 0.10, his chance of meeting two, one in each lane was about 0.00001. He therefore blared around the blind corner, saw a donkey cart in his lane, swung over into the passing lane, where lo and behold I was also going to be in about one second. He could have cared less, after all he had blown his horn and there he was, it was up to me to drive over the precipice or run over the donkey cart. He did condescend to pull back into his lane fast enough to rub the feed bag off the donkey’s nose. This plus a good dose of brakes and right rudder, on my part, avoided a statistical improbability.

I soon became a petrolorryitis germ carrier as regards donkey carts on straight aways but didn’t carry my brashness and knowledge of statistical probabilities to corners or hills. It was a pure delight to drive in Spain. Who cares about a few thousand mules, donkeys, ox carts and gypsy wagons as long as there aren’t fifty million cars approaching or riding your bumper.

The few camps they do have in Spain are wonderful. At Zaragoza and again at Toledo there was a swimming pool, at Toledo a nice store and restaurant, and at Madrid a nice large tree shaded area with ample facilities.

Madrid was a beautiful modern city and the boys almost forgot their fright of the Falangist Police. They paid homage to the statue of Don Quixote and Pancho, we visited the large forested, downtown park and we drove ZW all over the not too busy streets. However we had a little difficulty buying gas.

As previously stated finding gas stations even in large cities is not like falling off a log. We figured there must be a gas station somewhere downtown and we started looking. We drove for miles and finally saw a huge block-long dark building with many gas pumps under an overhang. That is on the ground level the wall was not filled in between supporting pillars and in this arcade were gas pumps and attendants who looked surprisingly like Falangist policemen. This surprised us somewhat, but who knows who sells gas on Sunday mornings? The station was on the far side of the street and I had to cross a double white line and essentially make a U turn to get into it. As we pulled in all sorts of commotion took place. With far from a smile, one such Falangist gestured,

sputtered, and in general led me to believe that you don’t make U turns in Madrid. He pointed and gestured some more and Mary interpreted him to mean, “Drive around the block and pull in here properly or I’ll give you a ticket”. This seemed rather odd but I remembered the gendarme in Paris and the lady who turned from the wrong lane. I figured you never can tell about these southern tempers, so I did just what Mary interpreted. Around the block I went making four right turns and there I was back again. Now all sorts of commotion; longer and louder Spanish, more violent gestures, and more Falangists. I concluded that perhaps this station wasn’t, open on Sunday. Mary concluded that this was a military gas station only. Johnny concluded, let’s get out of here. And Tom concluded, fast. Two blocks further along we found a civilian gas station.

John was now anxious to depart the land of machine gun police and it was time to leave for Toledo anyway. Toledo the ancient capitol is a desert island in a desert. Most of Spain is arid like New Mexico and Arizona. Toledo is a city built on a plateau surrounded almost wholly by the River Tajo (which enters the Atlantic at Lisbon). The steep valley cut by the Tajo makes an easily defended fortification. God made the moat, let’s build a city inside it. And what a moat. Toledo is old, and hot, and non-modern. There are no wide avenues, in fact you hardly dare meet a car on their main street, and you hardly dare meet a donkey on the others. Except for the heat this was a tourists’ paradise. Spain in general has not progressed much since Isabella sent Columbus off to pilot our course home. If you want to live cheaply and relive the tales of Don Quixote Spain is the place to do it.

There are times and places that fairly reek of history. At our campsite that night, about 4 miles outside of Toledo and situated on higher ground, I could sit back under the olive tree and gaze off at Toledo in the distance. I could put myself in the shoes of Columbus and say, “Tomorrow’s the day”. “Will she allow my request and equip my expedition?” “Will I be able to pursue my goal?” “Will she give me the go ahead to discover a direct route to India?” What a site; what a beautiful night; what a historic spot; what a shame that our Odyssey was all but over. We too were headed west to board a ship to carry us to the land Columbus discovered. Let us hope we will gain more from our landfall than Columbus did.

Monday we left for Portugal, by the dictates of our camping map. There were no more camps in Spain. Except for the aridness, and the fact that it was hot, the trip from Toledo to Portugal is indeed pleasant; picturesque, medieval, historic. Along the way we came to some road construction. There was a long one way stretch ahead and a flagman stopped us right behind a petrol lorry. Soon other cars piled up behind us and we waited. And we waited. I presumed we were waiting for another bunch of cars to come through from the other direction. We waited some more. Soon an ambulance (a VW bus) and an escort (a jeep) came along from behind, us and the flagman waved them on through. This I felt to be a little brash. However it occurred to me that perhaps we weren’t waiting for an oncoming rush of traffic but only for some temporary grading to be done. In any case as soon as the ambulance went through the car behind me started honking and the car behind him pulled out and followed the ambulance. I thought perhaps that Spaniards were smarter than Americans and let the faster moving cars precede the slower (that’s a laugh) moving lorries. In any case since the precedent had been set and my neighbor was obviously impatient to start I too started through more or less pushed by the patient soul behind me.

About this time the flagman came to life and I could see out of my rear vision mirror that he was quite unhappy. Also about this time I could see the approach of a long line of cars and luckily I could also see a spot wide enough so that the ambulance, the jeep, myself and my two impatient neighbors could pull off. While the approaching cars filed by us the flagman had time to walk up to our location. He didn’t bother the ambulance and his escort, but to the fellow ahead of me he had words that I’m glad I couldn’t translate. I’m sure the words exchanged were not meant for female nor children’s ears. The word barrage was soon followed by a copying of license numbers. I could already envision the IBERIA pulling out of Lisbon while I languished in a Spanish jail. My turn came next. He started in and neither I nor any of my unhappy passengers could understand a word he said. We had a gentle inkling however that he was 1) unhappy, 2) violently unhappy, 3) vocally unhappy, 4) mad, 5) offended, 6) irritated, 7) furious, and 8) fuming. He did calm down some when he could see we were not overly impressed, not properly shocked, not squirming with each new violent insult. In fact he could soon see he was wasting a lot of good vocal effort that he could better use on the patient soul behind me. After all any explosion comes to an end sometime and there’s no use exploding if you can’t blow someone apart. He did however take our license number before he stormed away.

I really wasn’t especially disturbed. John was, and Tom was. But I figured he was a big duck in a little pond, and that he would have trouble getting his information out ahead of us. There were no telephone lines along the road. He had no radio.

Even the strolling Falangists had no obvious means of communication. His message transmission path, if any, lay in another car and I’d be ahead of any car. My real confidence lay in the fact that if he had any real source of punishment or retribution, he wouldn’t have exploded so violently. I figured the torrent of words were his only source of satisfaction. For residents in the near vicinity there might be trouble but I was not overly disturbed. I did however waste no time getting whence.

As the miles flew past, the scenery got more interesting and the border closer, I became more confident that all was well. We crossed the border with no strain. They didn’t even notice that I had left Spain once before without ever having entered (my ARK ROYAL trip).

Portugal was as medieval as Spain in places and more modern in others. Lisbon, as Madrid and Barcelona, was as different from rural Portugal as cars are to ox carts.

Our final European camp in Setubal was a fine one to remember. It was located on the channel from a fishing village to the Atlantic. Crowning a hill above was an old castle. The facilities were brand new and spotlessly clean. The air was southern California cool. It was a superb camp. Portugal is to Europe what San Diego is to the U. S., the Southwestern corner. We felt as if we were practically home. We had four days to rest up and get ready to board the IBERIA. Our fairy tale adventure was about to end. I wished it could have gone on forever, but every Odyssey, every holiday, every great adventure in life must come to an end. Daniel Webster’s year abroad was all but over.

Tropical Cruise

By the time we got our car and luggage onloaded onto IBERIA and I got grandma and her luggage offloaded from our car and through customs it was time to hot-foot it to the airport. We decided to taxi out and believe me we had a taxiful. All the cab drivers were taking wagers to see if “lucky Pedro” could get us in. Pedro was not the first in line and we couldn’t quite figure why fortune favored (or frowned) on him. He explained in his 100-word English vocabulary that he lived out close to the airport and it was nearing lunch time. And of course lunch precedes siesta. Since the “man eat dog”, “first come, first serve” attitude is not uppermost in Portugal, Pedro got our patronage, with the blessings of his competitors. Grandma, Mary and 3 boys got in the back, while Bill sat middle front and I held Dan.

We arrived at Lisbon’s Portela Airport mighty ready for lunch. There was no snack bar so we got ritzy and ate in style on the upper deck overlooking the field. The meal was first rate. Charlie particularly liked the lemonade they served in large flat bowls after the sweets. He couldn’t quite figure why they hadn’t already squeezed the small slice of lemon nor why everyone else dipped their fingers in the bowl and then didn’t even drink it.

After a few false starts Grandma got aboard for her trip to New York and we caught a double decker bus back into Lisbon. We knew which quay we wanted although we couldn’t pronounce it. We just showed the conductor the map and pointed where it was. He gave us a transfer, that is seven transfers and told us which bus to get. About an hour before boarding time we arrived dockside again. I converted most of our escudos back into pounds and before we were even close to nervous exhaustion we were in cabin 1069 (really 1069-1074).

In port regular dining hours and table assignments are not observed. We all flocked in the dining room and since the number of’ tables with 8 or more places is quite limited, we had no choice but to liven up the meal of a middle-aged English couple. They saw John’s school blazer and heard his thick English brogue and couldn’t quite figure why I and all the boys had short crew haircuts. As soon as Mary and I started talking they saw that all things aren’t what they appear to be on first sight (or sound). The main course was sausage, just the thing for the stomach before sailing. The sweets course was coupe of one variety or another. Coupe is ice (cream) with fruit. Over the next 16 days we had Coupe Singapore, Coupe Carmen, Coupe Othello, Coupe Tutti-Fruitti, Coupe Mexicaine, Coupe San Reno, Coupe Savoy, and Coupe Valenciennes and as far as the boys and I were concerned, they couldn’t have picked a better sweets course (dessert), unless it was Glace Nesselrode.

It took a little while to get the six bunks parceled out equitably, in fact we never really did. Mary and I took two of the lowers and the remaining lower and the 3 uppers went on a day by day rotation. Daniel had his own special cot (crib) permanently located adjacent to Mom’s bunk. We met our steward who was both nice and accommodating. The only trouble was, we could scarcely understand a word he said. The whole crew was recruited in Bombay and it was quite obvious we had come in contact with a third variant of English. This one harder to understand than the true mother tongue itself, at least the mother tongue after a year’s exposure to it. Somehow the boys weren’t too impressed when told they were in the hands of Indians.

Everyone was tired and no one was awake when S.S. IBERIA departed Lisbon. After all no one had slept in an honest to goodness bed with springs and mattress for five weeks. I became aware we were at sea at my usual “potty run” with Dan and/or Charlie somewhere between 3 and 5 A.M. In fact I decided a Dramamine would not only be in good taste but would likewise facilitate getting an extra hour of sleep.

I had really hated our 5 twenty-three hour days crossing a year earlier from Montreal to Liverpool and was really looking forward to three consecutive 25 hour days and four consecutive 24 and a half hour days from Lisbon to Trinidad. However just as on the trip over, the boys couldn’t read and translate into action the 23 hour day, so now they couldn’t translate into inaction the 25 hour day. Dan almost replaced Tom as our “cock-o-the-morn” and between them I was up at 6 on Sunday, 5:30 on Monday, 5 on Tuesday, 4:30 on Wednesday, 4:15 on Thursday, and 4 on Friday. They were catching on but discounting each day’s full worth just enough to be annoying.

Pumphrey Hogart our Indian steward always brought biscuits (cookies) and tea for Mary and me, and orange juice for the boys (and me). This good morning cocktail always came at 6 and from the second morning on Pumphrey had impatient assistance from Dan and many anxious looks up the passageway by Tom and/or Charlie or whoever else happened to be up on any particular morning. Needless to say, regardless of Pumphrey’s usual routine cabin 1069-74 soon became number one on his serving order. Toward the end of the week that 1 to 2 hour wait for pre-breakfast became noisier, longer, and more nerve wracking. Luckily the elderly couple in the next cabin were farmer types who also habitually awoke early, thank goodness.

The children’s breakfast came at 7 and our breakfast came closer to noon, namely 9. Those with children, and this included us four times over at the second sitting. We only got credit for four children because John who had his third birthday on 29 February was now an adult and ate with us. This children’s eating arrangement is in the typical English evening tradition of children’s tea, children to bed, then high tea (parents only). This tradition had been known to our boys for years from the bedtime poem “Animal Crackers” by Christopher Morley, which says, in part,

“Daddy and Mother dine later in state,

With Mary to cook for them, Susan to wait.

But they don’t have nearly as much fun as I,

Who eat in the kitchen with Nurse standing by.

Daddy once said he’d like to be me

And have cocoa and animals once more for tea.”

For two obvious reasons I took Daniel Webster (the name didn’t mean much to our English and Australian compatriots), Charlie, Bill, and Tom to the 7 o’clock breakfast. Reason one: Mary was enjoying the second real vacation she had had in 15 years (the boat trip over was the other) and was sleeping in (or at least playing possum). Reason two: Having risen anywhere from 4 to 5:30 and having no scheduled breakfast until 9, I made sure at least one of the boys had too much to eat (which I couldn’t see wasted). The youngest and least experienced waiters drew the children’s detail and all was not prim and precise. I found that Dan was not very patient about waiting a few minutes after he had smelled and seen food (on other tables). So from day two on, we had a set order for breakfast (which I gave in writing to Ian Carmichael, our waiter). The standard IBERIA-WEBSTER breakfast consisted of 4 orange juices, 4 cereals, 4 eggs (over easy), 3 milks and 1 cocoa. From the statistics of children, eggs, and morning I always ended up with the greater portion of at least one egg and usually some milk; just enough to last me until 9.

The trick was that between 8 and 9 the four young ‘uns were to be deposited, preferably happily, in the Nursery. The IBERIA habitually runs between Australia and England (although not often via Panama and California) and is usually heavily laden with children. Consequently they have commodious space, beaucoup equipment, two full time nurses to tend Tourists’ children. Tom and Bill were delighted and coloured, drew, threw, and in general never had it so good. Charlie was nearly as happy, but Dan didn’t like anything that didn’t include Mom and/or Dad, except maybe food. And this was our clue, they always served milk and/or ice (cream) between 9:30 and 10 and Tom who was now senior, since John was an adult, knew Dan’s weakness. I might say Tom and Dan were birds of a feather. Of our five boys they are the only ones who check out on the high side of normal at the annual physical weight and height vs. age check up at Dr. Black’s. Tom’s propensity for food has turned to muscle, Dan we have some doubts about. Anyway diplomat Tom usually kept Dan’s quite vocal and quite audible (likewise intelligible, meaningful, and purposeful) behavior within normal bounds and we were not summoned from breakfast (or lunch) to restore acoustic calmness to the playroom.

Breakfast at nine after pre-breakfast at six and breakfast samples at seven and four hours after the awakening of dawn was physically and menu-wise really lunch or at least brunch. John and I usually had fish although Mary stuck to coffee, always coffee (except at 6 A.M. on IBERIA) and then bacon and potatoes, no eggs (she was on vacation).

By the time breakfast was finished, library books checked in or out and a trip made to either the Purser’s, the barber, the ship’s store, the baggage room, or the ship’s photographer it was time to reclaim Dan and his 3 keepers from the Nursery and get them pottied and washed for lunch. Mary was well awake and ticking by now while I was generally unawake and running down. She was privileged to mother the boys through lunch while I got my first relaxation of the day. My free period usually started out with book in hand on bunk; and usually ended book on deck, man only in bunk. This period would terminate with, “Get up for lunch, Daddy,” or “Time to stroll around the deck,” or “Let’s watch them swim in the pool.”

Our Indian waiter, Leter Porre, was no more intelligible than our steward, Pumphrey Hogart. Because of this communication problem we soon got fairly standardized on our lunch menu also. Namely we ate whatever be decided to bring us after we had carefully scanned the menu and picked only the most exotic and ulcer-producing foods, such as Bitok of Veal Smetaine, Dry Curry, Crepes-Mogador, Chicken Winglets Curry, Schazlik a la Grecque, or Lord Clive Curry.

After lunch, immediately after lunch, in fact Tom was usually waiting outside the Dining Room door, it was children’s swim time. They lowered the water in the pool to 2 or 3 feet and one lucky nurse, the young good-looking one, herded her charges into the 78 to 84 degree salt water pool. Of course she preferred one parent be around too and with children under 5 one parent had to be prepared to get wet. Swimming always sounds like fun and looks like fun from the deck and running around in bathing suits was just the ticket for our southern cruise. But getting wet and relishing it comes hard and slowly, especially, in sea water. It would be all right, said Charlie, “If they wouldn’t keep splashing water in my eyes.” They in this case being God, in the form of ship’s roll and pitch causing waves, sometimes a foot high, in the resonant pool. Nothing daunts Bill and he was happily ensconced in three life savers and paddled furiously back and forth and across the pool. He sometimes had difficulty reaching the water from his three life savers but usually a finger tip or a toe would make contact. Tom, being more cautious, took about a day to adjust and then being more persistent didn’t want to come out. Charlie didn’t quite trust “that stingy water” but as long as I was standing or sitting in his 2 feet of water he was OK. Dan would have nothing to do with the water. It was as big as he was and neither daddy nor life savers could keep him in over a minute or two. This just about made swimming a two-parent operation, Charlie wanted himself and daddy in the pool, Dan wanted himself and daddy out.

This of course had certain advantages. Even at 84 degrees (they just pumped some ocean into the pool and the temperature was whatever the ocean happened to be, glad we got off the ship before it reached Vancouver). I didn’t consider the pool to be a hot bath and so I had to move occasionally to keep warm. I found it much more convenient to turn Charlie over to Tom and move up the ladder ostensibly to watch Dan but really to watch other objects on deck. You see the IBERIA was returning at summer’s end to both Los Angeles, which boasts UCLA and USC (both coeducational institutions), and to San Francisco, the gateway to Palo Alto (Stanford) and Berkeley, (U. of Calif.). While the pool was lowered to 2 feet the coeds were sun bathing. I could never quite figure out whether Tourist class coeds couldn’t afford more bathing suit or whether it was just faster to dry those colored contoured handkerchiefs that barely covered the circumstances. Anyway since Dan was quite a tourist attraction in himself we either drew these scantily covered students into our realm of influence, or if they were all drugged out and not moving I could always turn Dan loose to wander and then play dutiful father and follow him, gingerly stepping over first this and then that. Under these circumstances I didn’t even want help in my baby-pool sitting and subtly suggested to Mary maybe she could nap or catch up on her reading. Since this was so out of character (she wouldn’t have gotten suspicious had I suggested washing the boys T shirts or ironing one of my shirts), she decided to see why, all of a sudden I needed no help tending all the children and why I didn’t complain.

However even Mary’s visit didn’t upset the apple cart too much. One of the girls, with by all odds the least bathing suit of all (all here can include all girls or all bathing suits, it just plain was the least) was from Australia, was a great friend of Dan’s and was a good conversationalist. She and Mary got into quite a talkathon on why maybe our next trip should be to Australia. Her bathing suit convinced me and her tales convinced Mary.

After these prolonged lapses of attention I would sometimes remember to go look to see if Charlie was still happy, he usually was. One day the ship and the ocean waves were in phase with the resonance of the pool and the waves were such that at any one place the pool depth varied from 6 inches to 3 1/2 feet with quite a surf running. In fact you could really get jolted into the end wall of the pool if you were unwise enough to stand toward either end. This day I couldn’t get out of the pool. Charlie loved the waves, but it was truly unsafe for anyone his size. My star gazing had to wait for the appearance of celestial glimmers after the demise of Sol.

John really acquired his sea fins on this trip. After reading all the suitable books in the children’s library the first week, he finally discovered the pool and his last week on board consisted of awakening (with Tom’s and Dan’s help), swimming, breakfast, swimming, lunch, swimming (even in two feet of water) and finally dinner. If any time remained after 6 hours of swimming he was reading.

Dan finally got into the swimming act when they placed a wading pool on the deck outside the nursery, but still in the iron barred nursery compound. This worked fine and gave me an excuse for reading in a deck chair and still made it appear I was being of some use. All in all in our 16 day crossing I read Bryant’s “Story of England” a very readable history, Huxley’s “Brave New World, Revisited”, Parkinson’s “Law and the Profits”, Hutton’s “Frogman Extraordinary”, Amrine’s “Great Decision”; and Winthrop’s “Puritan Fathers.” Except for the fact that the IBERIA library was running out of titles that suited my fancy I could have gone on like this ad infinitum, nor was anyone else in my family complaining. Mary was enjoying her second carefree vacation, John was reading and swimming to his heart’s content, and the smaller boys were having a gay time swimming, drawing, running, eating, watching a few cartoon shows, and playing “rings”. For our family you can’t beat a long sea voyage.

The big event, the children’s party, is a tale by itself and will be treated as such in the next chapter.

Are Vaccinations Necessary

The IBERIA made two scheduled stops between Lisbon and Long Beach, namely at Trinidad and in Panama City. We also tarried in Colon and some inveterate travelers got off to ride the train across the Isthmus of Panama. We also halted on the high seas after leaving Panama to repair an engine or some such, lost about five hours in the process. Some people really complained about this 5 hour loss, I wished it could have been 5 days. In any ease when they came to cry on my shoulder I reminded them how lucky they were to be on a ship with engine failure and not on an airplane. Some of them felt better.

You never quite know about POOH bears or wives. Did Mary really want to stay on board with Dan and Charlie while us old boys went ashore at Trinidad? Was it more relaxing to have them underfoot on board than in a sightseeing taxi? Did she just want to get her greatest tormentors out of her hair for a few hours? For whatever reason after breakfast in the harbor at Port of Spain my opera-going companions, John, Tom, and Bill, and I were on deck awaiting the chance to go down the sea ladder and take a boat into the city itself.

We saw many of “our” coed friends, but without Dan we weren’t so popular. We met a charming lady from San Diego, actually she was from La Jolla which does not consider itself part of San Diego. And in fact maybe it isn’t. Whereas Mission Beach is known by the post office as San Diego 8, Ocean Beach is San Diego 7, East San Diego is San Diego 5, and Linda Vista is San Diego 11, La Jolla is La Jolla. When a new apartment development went up on the boundary between San Diego 9 (called by its residents, Pacific Beach) and La Jolla the developers wrote to Washington and got a variance of some sort to let this section of San Diego 9 be recognized by the mailman (and everyone writing letters) as La Jolla. The developers however met their match in the Bell Telephone people. Letters would reach these people in La Jolla but their phone numbers were Hudson 8 and not Lencourt 4. In an election, needless to say, neither party wastes time campaigning in La Jolla.

Anyway she was a very nice lady and commented on how well behaved she thought my boys were, which tended to make her extra nice. We had a long chat about European vs. American schools, since my boys had on their English school blazers (the only dress up clothes they had) and about communists. Her children were also on board, found out, and in fact one of them was an old, unbeknownst to her, friend of mine (and I know they could afford more bathing suit.)

I suppose one reason Mary stayed on board was, that the tour instructions said specifically that no more than four persons (adult or children) could ride in any one of the fleet of taxis engaged by IBERIA for the Trinidad tour. Our driver, of course, commented on the number of, and similar sex of, my three boys and I immediately informed him of the missing 2 and momma. He said, “Why didn’t you bring them along, I’ve got lots of room. This divergence of opinion between taxi managers and pursers on one hand, and taxi drivers and riders on the other was quite annoying since even for a day our family is happier together than apart. But, on with the tour.

Port of Spain isn’t exactly a beautiful city, although some parts of it are. The sights that impressed me the most were that most all shack type houses were on stilts and that in the nicer sections of town even the best houses had corrugated iron roofs. We were soon in the midst of banana, cocoa, coconut, and grapefruit trees and in general in a tropical rain forest. We drove on to a beach where we were to surf bathe and eat our boxed lunch. Before we got there it started to rain and in the resulting confusion my boys and I ended up in the party of some local church outing. The people didn’t look exactly familiar but we could have been fooled until the hymn singing started. At this point we ran to an adjacent pavilion, changed into bathing suits and floated out to the surf beach, trying to find the vertical boundary between fresh and salt water. I think the density of the fresh water was as great as the salt and in any case a shower bath is cool even in Trinidad, we soon gave up swimming in the Caribbean and navigated back to the pavilion for our cold chicken and hard boiled egg. At this point I envied Mary, Charlie and Dan on the nice warm and dry ship, eating a warm lunch with coupe.

Our day on Trinidad was I imagine quite typical. We enjoyed our last left side of the road driving: Were interested in seeing remnants of the British Empire: And I wasn’t even too put out when the calypso singers spotted me “with the Don Ameche nose”‘ and extracted a half crown from my dwindling money hoard for their musical and poetic outpouring. It was downpouring however that dampened the day, not the outpouring.

Between Trinidad and Panama the ship’s doctor had a vaccination check to be sure everyone who wanted to could get into or back into the United States. We were all prepared for this. I had had a thousand and one shots, being a civilian employee of the Navy, and had a yellow International Card to prove it. The family all had their Yellow Cards too, although I remember we had an awful time getting them. They had all had polio boosters and the required scarlet fever shots on our pre-trip visit to that mean old Dr. Black. He had signed the Yellow Card and sent it through the Civic Center for an official seal and we had never received said Card. In England we remembered this and wrote Dr. Black for duplicates which in due course arrived.

And so I took all 7 Yellow Cards to the ship’s doctor. He looked at mine and said OK. On the other six he asked where is the official seal? Sure enough no civic center authentication. So one dreary, bright and sunshiny afternoon, we paraded the boys and momma up for an ‘official’ round of shots. In addition to the usual unpleasant experience of shots this kept the boys out of the pool for 4 hours and in general everyone except me resented being doubly protected against scarlet fever.

Going through the canal was an exciting experience. We were up from the very beginning, at daybreak. The trip southwest through the canal from the Atlantic to the Pacific was both interesting and picturesque. The electric mules that pulled us in and out of locks were quaint indeed. It is somewhat surprising to see such big ocean-going ships pass each other in a land-locked lake and this had Charlie quite concerned. Why did we see so few ships out on the big Ocean where there is lots of room for them, and so many here where there is hardly any room at all.

By day’s end we were at Panama City and saw the sun set back over the canal instead of in the Pacific where it should have been. Even the sun gets confused sometimes. Since no formal tours were arranged I placed all passports in my pants pocket, rounded up the whole crew and we went ashore. We all 7 got in a taxi and told him we wanted to just see the sights for 2 hours. We saw the old, the very old and the new (Hilton was here). We were quite fascinated but somehow kept thinking of Tijuana, our Mexican neighbor near San Diego. Dan was soon asleep and we persuaded the taxi driver, much against his better judgment, that it was time to return. He wanted $8 for his efforts and I had but $5, together with 2 pounds. Now 2 pounds equals $5.60 but he didn’t necessarily know this and wasn’t too happy to make dollar change for sterling money. I would like to have given him $8 and $1 for a tip but $5 and 1 pound equals $7.80 and $5 and 2 pounds equals $10.60 so we gave him a generous tip. On returning to the ship my brood so impressed the immigration people (namely they remembered our parting) that they didn’t ask to see our passports again.

The sequel came two days later when the announcement came around “All passengers report in person to U.S. immigration officials for passport and inoculation checks.” An innocuous enough request and quite expected. The unexpected was, we couldn’t find the passports, in which we carried the Yellow Vaccination Certificates. We searched high and low and finally concluded, “must have lost them in Panama.” At least we were on the ship. Had the officer checked in Panama we might have had an extended vacation.

Nothing to do but face it out. At the appointed time we were in line, seven strong. With seven in a crowd that is not always considerate we stayed close to the end of the line a long time as Charlie and Dan got more and more unhappy. But finally it was our turn and the officer blinked and gulped a little at the advancing army but soon asked the embarrassing question, “Let me see your passports.” “We don’t have any.” “Don’t have any?” “You see, we lost them, at least we think we lost them.” “Lost them?” “Yes, in Panama.” “Well.” “Actually they should be easy to locate, we walked from ship to taxi to ship and nowhere else.” This was strictly true, we hadn’t set foot outside the taxi during our sightseeing. “Are you U.S. citizens?” “Yes.” “And you are returning to reenter?” “Yes.” “Your cabin number?” “1069 to 1074.” “Oh, yes, you boarded at Lisbon. If I were trying to enter the U.S. illegally I don’t think I’d try it with 5 children. Here take these 7 passes which will get you through immigrations at Long Beach.” “If our passports are found and sent to us in Long Beach should we check with anyone?” “You might show them to the officers there although actually all you need are these passes.” “Thank you, sorry for being such a nuisance.” “By the way, what about your vaccination certificates?” “They were with the passports, but none but mine were any good, the ship’s doctor has revaccinated everyone but me.” “Well, get him to vaccinate you and everything will be OK.” Now the shoe was on the other foot and the boys all accompanied me to the doctor’s office just to see the fun.

Now that we really didn’t need the passports they began to look very desirable from a souvenir standpoint. So I trotted off to the Purser’s office with my tale of woe. Actually I probably should have forgotten about the whole thing. It’s a little difficult not to appear stupid when you tell someone you lost your passport. This is something like losing your right arm, or as I often tell my boys, feel up above your neck and tell me if anything is there.” I then hasten to add that God was one pretty smart fellow when he invented necks. Necks tend to keep located something that boys often tend to mislay. And of course John asked me during this series of events if I’d checked recently to see if my “think box” was still in place.

Anyway the Purser and I agreed that although a wire could be sent to Panama, really my passport was in the hands of one taxi driver. If he were honest and well tipped I could probably expect a letter containing my ex-valuable and now souvenir, passports, c/o IBERIA, Long Beach. And so we left it.

With this series of crises out of the way we could worry about the biggest problem of all, the children’s masquerade party.

On the lunch menu each day was a story complete with picture of Pete the Pirate. A retired pirate who just had to get back to sea. He took along his landlubber cat and said cat was always in semantic trouble. He needed a balance to weigh the anchor, a gun to shoot the sun and stars, and boxing gloves to box the compass. He could find only 7 bells when told to ring 8, could find no eggs in the crow’s nest, and got his own tail tied up when practicing his nautical knots. Anyway the boys wanted to be pirates. It so happened Pete always wore a striped shirt just like the ones worn all over Europe by John, Tom, and Bill. These shirts when worn by Tom, Bill, and Charlie had the desired sloppy effect. The Wellington boots, packed away in the baggage room, down about a hundred feet below the bilge, made swashbucklers out of boys. All Mom had to do was to make hats, whiskers, pipes, belts, daggers, broadswords, jackets, and in her spare time to costume Dan. Poor John, he didn’t like being an adult, except that he could swim any time (except after his vaccination, and now of course he couldn’t be a pirate. But Dan could. Although we had no more green and white striped shirts, Mom had a black and white cotton pullover sweater that just about covered Dan from head to toe. With a belt however it had the desired effect. He looked like a bedraggled prisoner. A pipe cleaner chain was forged, placed around his neck and he went as the gang’s prisoner. All you could see of him was his head (at end of chain), prisoner’s garb, and a toe sticking out from the toga whenever he walked.

Although there were many clever costumes including the “American Tourist” (all camera cases and travel folders and wearing dark glasses), an “Absent-Minded Professor” (no pants, just swimming trunks), and a “Pillar Box” (a walking English mail box), the pirate gang took the group prize, primarily because of the unhappy prisoner. The boys played games, ran races, and generally cavorted all over until the party finally terminated with tea in the First Class Dining Room. No treats were neglected and even Dan, though not Tom, was so busy tooting whistles, blowing out snakes, and throwing balloons that he could hardly eat the most sumptuous meal yet laid out for the children. They came back wearing Bobby hats, jockey caps, fireman hats and sailor hats, loaded down with prizes, sweets, and trinkets, and in general were ready to play until midnight. We had one awful time that evening getting four boys in bed and asleep before our 8 o’clock “dinner in state”.

With the possible exception of Momma no one was looking forward to the end of our trip at Long Beach. We were to dock on Sunday and the boys school started on Monday. Back to work for Dad. And in general changing state from world traveler on fellowship to Cambridge to Code 2124 U.S.Navy Electronics Lab just didn’t seem an experience to look forward to.

But time and tides you know. We arrived at Long Beach and as usual when there was anything exciting to see, like coming into the harbor, it was time to eat. We finished our meal and were within 20 feet and 2 hours of docking. By careful scrutiny we discovered my uncle and cousins among the greeters, although it would be an hour yet before we could get off. Not long after this I heard my name being called and proceeded to the Purser’s office. My $2.60 tip paid off and there were our passports. Being basically honest at heart, I inquired where I might find the immigration officer. I was shown into the First Class Lounge. After a few minutes’ wait, while he was clearing foreign exchange students into the states, I told him my story and showed him my passports, he couldn’t have cared less.

But while I had been waiting I overheard the ship’s doctor talking to the health officers about how strictly they enforced the rules and regulations on Yellow International Vaccination Certificates. The doctor said, “There were several people on board who had the certificates signed by a doctor but not authenticated by the city health departments.” “Oh, that’s all right,” said the federal examiner, “we accept a doctor’s signature.”

I didn’t tell Mary or the boys about what I’d overheard.

Mary’s Birthday Present

We got off the ship at 2 o’clock. Joe Psfstch came right along with us. Nothing went well from the time we set foot on American soil. We had 28 suitcases and/or tea chests and/or crates and/or parcels to check through customs. And one ZW. Some of these were in our cabin, some in the baggage room, and some in the hold. The ZW needed some sort of a paper signed by someone in a shipping office in Long Beach. However no one was allowed out of the customs compound until cleared through customs, and I couldn’t even start clearing customs until I got this something or another from the shippers representative. The guard at the gate had his orders, I’d have to see the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant held his high position because he had noticed in the past that something about those two rules were contradictory. He told the guard to allow me through. They kept the rest of the family as hostages.

Finding the shipping office turned out to be quite a chore. When I asked the Travelers Aid people where it was they gave me a phone number of the firm, which was located away off somewhere in downtown Long Beach. I didn’t have any American money but my uncle who came to meet us supplied me with a dime. I was well aware however that the day was Sunday and I presumed the Travelers Aid people were equally aware. But I put in my dime and called. No answer. Back to Travelers Aid. Guess you’ll have to come back tomorrow. Sure, 5 kids and wife; no ZW therefore no traveling home and no way of getting to real home 100 miles away.

I let that problem rest for a minute since I wasn’t getting anywhere and anyway I had another problem. I needed a man and truck to get many of the 28 parcels, crates, tea chests, etc. from Long Beach to San Diego. Any suggestions. Yes a man named Frank in brown coveralls back inside the customs compound. I went back in and in due course found Frank. Frank turned out to be the one antidote to Joe Psfstch. First he agreed to bring my stuff down first thing in the morning. Then when I told him my tale of woe about ZW, and shippers representative, and Sunday, and phoning downtown, and 5 kids, and Joe Psftsch he merely pointed to a balcony in the big customs shed about 100 feet away and said there is where you want to go. It seems the shippers representatives had an office in the dockside shed (unbeknownst to Travelers Aid).

I got the Lieutenant to vouch for me again and within five minutes I was back with the correct paper signed.

Now it was my turn to be hostage. I told the Lieutenant about 5 boys and wife and 28 parcels on one side of fence and uncle and cousins on the other. Then about a year and a half in Europe and 100 miles to come meet the ship and ship docked at noon, it was now three, etc., etc. So Mary and the boys got out of compound and I stayed in. Of course all these times we were carrying all those diamonds and dope out and giving them to my uncle. Anyway now Mary and the boys got started on the gab fest.

About five o’clock my cousin and her husband left. They had come along with my uncle, but decided enough was enough, especially since they had an impatient youngster along with them. By this time ZW had long since been offloaded and about 25 crates. But all 28 need be assembled under the big “W” before we could get us a customs man and start in. At 6 o’clock my uncle decided they too had better run along. At 6:30 all 28 items had been assembled. A Mr. Johnson was assigned to us and we first visited ZW. He got close enough to read the license and that was that. The tents, foot locker, camping gear, etc. were all stacked away inside but he didn’t get close enough to see it. Actually it made no difference whatsoever. We had a $3500 free exemption and about $2000 worth of stuff. The 28 items were cleared in short order. Mr. Johnson started to really look at some of it but when he noted the number 28 and noted that what he looked at was probably picked up at a rummage sale he just meekly tore off 28 stamps and duly affixed them. There was only one item, a 29^th, that caused any trouble and that very little.

A year earlier while eating lunch in the cobblestone parking lot across from the entrance to the Versailles Palace, Mary quite casually remarked that she thought ZW was quite nice, dependable, handy, relatively cheap, and very useful. About nine months before that when I decided the VW (became ZW) was our only possible way of travel she about hit the ceiling. “One of those things, they look like a bus.” This was the first time she really expressed much affection for our ZW. She even suggested maybe we should see about getting the little VW, the bug, for a second car. Since our finances weren’t exactly first rate neither of us thought much more about it.

About a month before leaving England I decided that even if we had to borrow the money we couldn’t really lose on taking a VW bug back also. It would easily fall within our $3500 free duty allowance. Arrangements were therefore made by mail with the London dealer and after many letters back and forth between London and Montepelier, France, London and Lisbon, London and San Diego, everything got fixed up (though not easily) and we had a bug on order. So item 29 was that sometime within the next year we would have a VW bug arriving. This was duly noted and we were still way under $3500. We did of course have to pay duty on the VW portion of ZW. This is because it had been ordered and paid for before we left the U.S.A., 18 months ago. As usual we were out of money, and customs people don’t like checks so my uncle Harold loaned us $30 to make up the difference between what we had and what we needed. So we left Mr. Johnson. Frank took Charlie’s tricycle, Bill’s and Mom’s crated bicycles, 3 full sized (and one cut down) tea chests, the bigger suitcases and everything else we though we wouldn’t be able to reload back onto our roof rack once we put the camping stuff back up.

At 7 o’clock we left the dock for home. We know the pint of gas they gave us wouldn’t last all of the 100 miles so we stopped and refilled and used more of Harold’s money. I was fit to be tied: Seven hours to get off the ship and moving; Driving after dark on US 101 after my most recent driving in Spain and Portugal where meeting a car every mile was a rarity; Getting home about 5 hours after our estimate to friends who might meet us; And worst of all I wanted to see if Charlie could remember our house once we got anywhere close. After dark, even if he were still awake he couldn’t possibly recognize any landmarks.

The 100 mile drive was a nightmare. Big monstrous cars by the thousands. Garish, outlandish, and unnecessary neon lights advertising every closed business establishment. I didn’t drive too much at night in Europe but I’d swear their use of electricity at night was only a fraction of this free light we were getting used to again. In Europe they didn’t seem to think it was necessary to attract attention to closed real estate offices, stores, and bakeries. There were so many of these signs that they actually confused me at a couple of traffic lights.

We had both long since lost or displaced our house keys and at 10 P.M. we couldn’t expect to, and didn’t, find anyone at home waiting up for us. Luckily they had left a side door open and we got in.

It didn’t take much of an inspection to see that our bar tender tenant and his family had made a complete shambles of the house. We already know that he was 2 months behind in his rent and had some inkling that he was no better tenant than the bank president we had had the last year I went back to school. Being eternal optimists however we weren’t prepared for what we saw. Telephone numbers written in ink on the wall paper beside the phone; holes in the plaster from nails and hooks and door knobs, upholstery in shreds on the furniture, portable radio gone, bunk beds gone, boys’ train-board gone, large stains on the linoleum, screw holes and torn veneer on doors where chain night locks had been put on and torn off. We were sick. We had to bring the bunk camping cots in for Tom and Bill to have somewhere to sleep.

Next morning we saw the rest of the carnage, back yard full of junk, roofing ripped off the outside shed, swings completely torn up, grass completely dead. All of the boys’ bicycles and tricycles, the Irish Mail, pedal cars, and wagons either gone or ruined. Within the first day the laundry and milkmen were around for unpaid bills. Within the first month every type of creditor was around including the marshal. We were almost ashamed to live in the house.

It soon became apparent that we would never collect the back rent nor damages for broken or missing items and in general we were out roughly $1000. There went our VW bug. With such a mess to come home to, we couldn’t afford the luxury of replacing our 1940 Dodge with a new VW bug.

Our 10 P.M. arrival home preceded by 11 hours the opening of school for John, Tom, and Bill. They had been British up to the eleventh hour, short pants, school badges on school jackets, cockney accent, and long knee socks. Now things were different. Tom would not, absolutely not, go to school in short pants. Bill couldn’t care less. John was of the age that long pants could be found in England and we purchased a pair before leaving for this occasion. Tom was adamant.

John’s pals stopped on the way to school to marvel at the burdened ZW (it was packed a foot high along its whole length of roof rack and the canvas cover was bulging at the seams). They took him in tow and started chattering about who won the Little League Championship, who had moved away, and “Where did you get that accent?” John was soon off for school.

We loaded everyone else in ZW and took Bill up to School. We took him in and found a new principal. She was expecting us and got Bill hustled off to his new (yet old) class. We told her we’d be back with Tom as soon as the long pants store opened. She understood.

We then took Tom to the store and Americanized him. He’d lost his accent overnight. (John kept his for about 6 weeks, then try as he could it slipped away). We took Tom back to school and came home to relax a spot.

On Thursday I was back in the choir and by Sunday Mary was teaching Sunday School again. I did more or less steer clear of other church jobs until the new church year and then a promotion. I was nominated (drafted) to be the new Lay Leader. Things were normalizing.

In the meantime letters flew hot and heavy between London and San Diego re the VW bug. As usual I had misplaced my initial correspondence and didn’t know how much I’d paid and how much I owed. They soon straightened me out although many months were consumed because Lloyds of Cambridge came into the picture also. Sometime in October I was informed the bug would be on SS POTARO leaving Tilbury on 15 November and expected in Long Beach about 23 December. I was instructed to contact the shipping representatives to get that same famous piece of paper to get me through customs.

It became more and more evident as time progressed that my heritage from my infamous tenant and the new higher American prices for things, especially service, precluded my keeping my approaching VW bug. Many people wanted it but Dave Washburn at the lab came through with the money first. Since it wasn’t easy for me to depart with my unseen bug, for sentimental as well as practical reasons (the ‘40 Dodge had about had it), my deal was you buy the bug on paper and go get I don’t want to see it, ever. Mary echoed my views, only more so. Actually it was for her.

However as the time of arrival grew nearer Dave got worried about the reams of paper and thought it would be better if I went along to help expedite it through customs. And so on the last day of the year 31 December 1960 all the boys, Mary and Dave and I drove up to Long Beach. We left early enough to get started back by noon. However we had difficulty finding pier 80 and arrived at 11:45. Again the shippers representative was upstairs and we got the proper paper in record time again but when we arrived back at 11:55 we found all the clock punchers had left for lunch. Come back at l:30, party you know this being a special day.

As we went out to find a drive in we reviewed all the technicalities once more. Dave had paid me the purchase price, the shipping cost and a small profit. He had yet to pay customs, state tax, and buy the license. Customs was due because I was selling it not using it as stipulated. I asked him what he’d done about the license. Actually he’d done nothing. He had a dealer’s (paper) license from another car and was going to use this until he got back to San Diego. This somehow sounded a little risky to me but as I saw it this was his car and his business.

After lunch we got through the paper work in about five minutes and were ready to start home. I guess he thought better about the used paper license too and so he used no license at all.

The bug matched my ZW exactly in color as it was supposed to and was a thing of beauty even if slightly travel dirty. Neither Mary nor I were happy to see our one big prize and remembrance of our trip being driven away before our very eyes. We sat in stony silence reflecting on the fates that had marred our homecoming from VA (American Landing) Day onward to this climax. We were also well aware that legally we weren’t sure who was responsible for that licenseless bug up ahead.

I had noted on the trip up that in the whole 100 miles up we hadn’t seen a single highway patrolman. But as you might guess our luck ran out going home. A motorcycle policeman noted the licenseless bug and flagged it down. He was quite unhappy about our lack of knowledge about the California Vehicle Code but luckily he too was a little vague on where to find the law we were breaking. It was quite obvious this law wasn’t broken very often, never in his experience, and he couldn’t find the page in his book to give him the law to cite us. So since he figured we weren’t habitual criminals he advised us to stop in Oceanside about ten miles down the road and obtain the necessary license. This we did, we bought a 1960 license to use, for 30 miles and nine hours and while about it we got a 1961 license too. I say we, because although I was so broke I had to sell the VW bug, in buying it he didn’t have enough money to buy the license.

This straw broke the camel’s back. When I returned to ZW for our last 30 miles home the stony silence was broken, Mary stated, “What a happy way to spend my birthday”.

Then I remembered, “Yes, that’s right New Years Eve is Mary’s birthday.” And I also remembered the original idea of the VW bug was Mary’s, and it would essentially have been hers. The timing was perfect but the present got lost somewhere in the financial catastrophes that attach to those who have for tenants people who do not pay their rightful debts in either money or respect for property. It was indeed Mary’s saddest birthday. But our errant bartender ex tenant was not aware of the consequences of his complete disregard of laws and human values. His work on this New Year’s Eve night would further degrade humanity.

However, the ending was the only bad part of our trip. Like the six blind men from Indostan who went to see the elephant and each “saw” something different, so we as a family saw Europe through seven sets of eyes. This is what we saw:

Ode to Seven Wayfarers

There were sept folk from U.S.A.

To traveling much inclined

Who went to see the Continent

So all of them could find

What each desired most to see

And satisfy his mind.

The youngest boy was Dan by name

He was just past one year

And he was much attached to Mom

And had but just one fear

He thought his source of food might stop

So he explored the gear.

The second boy was called Charlie

And his desire indeed

Was yet to find all birds and beasts

For from his hand to feed

And his continual hue and cry

Give me more food and seed.

The middle boy his name was Bill

And he desired you see

Both young and old remember well

His anniversary

And so indeed in France one day

We had his sixth party.

Now Tom you see great heights desired

And so at every town

He looked for some great tower to mount

So he could look around

And every time his Dad he took

Though Dad preferred the ground.

The oldest boy we called him John

And he much interest had

In castles, knights and railroad trains

Which sometimes made us sad

Because when we a mountain saw

He saw a train, Egad.

Now Mom a million things would see

And read which one was best

But really what she saw instead of spires and gilded crest

Was Dan, and Bill, and Tom, and John

Were they cleaned up and dressed?

And Dad who hated most to drive

But rather see the sights

He drove and shopped and pitched the tent

And dreamed of sights at nights

He saw his castle on the mount

Against the morning lights.

And so when each returned to home

Resuming family noise

All said to friends both near and far

This traveling has its joys

The Continent has everything

Birds, cakes, towers, trains, and BOYS.

[1]Dad was committed to this title, and apparently intended to switch Dan’s and Charlie’s identities in the story since he must have felt Charlie’s antics made him the better choice for the title character. This switch was actually implemented in only a few of the chapters.

[2] This is the real one-year-old Dan, not his three-year-old brother Charlie (their identities were exchanged in other sections of this memoir). This calculation (actually 29%) is simplified by the fact that the departure from San Diego occurred on Dan’s first birthday.

[3] Dad does not mention another anachronistic feature of The Manse. Each room had a push-button, like a door-bell, and over the door in the kitchen was a panel with two rows of numbered disks. When the button in a room was pressed, a bell rang in the panel in the kitchen and the numbered disk corresponding to the room vibrated, presumably summoning a servant in earlier times.

[4] This was the tiny rural village of Rotenberg, about 10 miles south of Heidelberg. The famous medieval town of Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber is about 75 miles east of Heidelberg. The confusion was caused by the fact that the names would be pronounced similarly in German.

[5]Actually, Charlie was 3 and Dan was 1. This is one of the chapters in which their identities were switched, apparently because Dad was committed to the title ‘Daniel Webster’s Year Abroad’ but judged that Charlie had the more memorable experiences and would make the better title character.

[6] Incorrect. These boys were all born in a leap year and thus had the same chance of a birthday on February 29 as any other day. The actual probability of finding one leap year boy in a class of 30 11-year-olds in 1959 would be about one in 12; finding two about one in 165 (still a long shot). The chance of finding a leap year boy, let alone two, in any of the preceding or succeeding three classes would be 0.

[7] Within each school there were mandatory groupings, called houses, that cut across all age groupings. These societies had their special colors and were usually named. For example, in John's (Cambridgeshire High School for Boys) school they were Cam, Red; Isis, Green; Granta, Blue; and Cherwell, Yellow (all of these are names of rivers that flow through Cambridge or Oxford. The Isis incidentally is called by a different name above and below Oxford, namely the Thames.) In the village school only colors were used Tom was Yellow and Bill was Green. This caused no end of rankling because colors now became symbols and our boys were in continual arguments about the "best" color.

[8] Actually Charlie was 4 and Dan was 2. Their identities were switched in this chapter apparently because Dad felt the 4-year-old would make the more entertaining subject for ‘Daniel Webster’s Year Abroad’.

‘This is all news to me.’

Lloyds of Cambridge

Camping in London

Viva la France

PTA Beetle Drive

Noah (Webster) and the ARK

First Day on the ARK

An American in Paris

Perils of Pisa

Isabella’s Spain