We’re in the hot part of summer, when the glass jar of tea left to brew by sunshine gets so hot you might as well have boiled it up on the stove.
His Foobishness, under sentence.
Our big black dog, recovering from ear-flap surgery, lies cone-headed in the sun and doesn’t seem bothered. But for us humans here in Madison, Wisconsin, the temperatures—mid-90s by day, down to around 75 at night—feel extreme.
In fact, we know so, for the National Weather Service is issuing Excessive Heat Warnings, and if you can’t trust your government, who can you trust?
When I was a boy, we needed no heat warnings. We could tell it was hot, all by ourselves.
You didn’t even have to go outside; it was hot everywhere.
That was in north-central Illinois, in a little town called Streator. Summer temperatures ran about ten degrees hotter than they do here. Every summer, we’d get a pretty good string of hundred-plus days.
A local entrepreneur, to get his picture in the paper, would fry an egg on the sidewalk in front of his gas station—at nine o’clock in the morning!
We kids, being kids, were not bothered by the heat. If we stopped and thought about it, we’d get to feeling kind of droopy and sweaty. But usually we didn’t stop and think about things. We were too busy running around the neighborhood, playing tag, or cowboys, or space cadets. Sometimes we armed ourselves with squirt guns, which provided a welcome spritz of coolish water.
If we got to feeling too hot, we’d find some shade or go inside. We’d stop running and sit still for a while. Let the sweat dry.
Have I mentioned—there was no air-conditioning? There was no place you could go to escape the fervid ambience. Not unless you went to the movies.
Our town had two theaters—the Plumb and the Granada—and both were air-conditioned. A child’s admission at the one cost a quarter, the other fifteen cents. But you didn’t ordinarily take off in the middle of a day without your family and go to the pictures.
Not when you could get cooled off for free by wandering through E. C. Van Loon’s Sporting Goods store on Main Street. That was the only other air-conditioned space in town. They kept the temperature cranked way down, and the lights off. I suppose the juice to run the A/C cost so much they couldn’t afford to turn on the lights, too.
Stepping into Van Loon’s on a blazing August day was like exploring an Egyptian tomb. The only light was what managed to slip past the dark green street awning and seep in the front windows, then bounce in ever-diminishing waves back to the rear of the store. You walked along narrow aisles full of balls and gloves, rifles and shotguns, and bright-colored fishing lures of every description—some of them designed to mimic bright-colored creatures never seen in any Illinois pond or stream.
It was all tantalizing. Intriguing. Great entertainment. But it was freezing. You could catch your death of cold.
Fleeing the store by the front door, you stepped into the vast sauna of a small-town summer and knew you were back where you belonged.
None of us had houses or cars that were air-conditioned. Such a thing was unheard of—like private citizens owning electronic computers.
We must have smelled terrible all summer long, but nobody noticed because we all did.
Izzy Strikes Gold!, my middle-grade coming-of-age adventure set in the wilds of 1957, is already proving popular with readers ages 9-12 and with their parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles. Modesty prohibits my mentioning the fabulous review recently received from Diane Donovan, Senior Reviewer for the Midwest Book Review, but you can read it for yourself here.
Don’t miss out—get your copy now! If you savor the independent bookstore experience, wander into Mystery to Me, 1863 Monroe Street, Madison, Wis., or Literatus & Co., 401 E. Main, Watertown, Wis.—both of which have signed copies available. Or order it online and, if you’d like it signed, email me at larryfsommers@gmail.com, and we’ll get it done one way or another.
We now return to regularly scheduled programming:
Whither, Whence, or Howcome Peco Yeh?
If you’re a longtime reader of this blog, perhaps you will recall that in May 2019 I mentioned a lovely oil painting, a waterscape, that I had the good fortune to acquire more than fifty years ago, at a scandalously low price, directly from its source, Chinese painter Peco Yeh. In February 2023, I reposted the same piece, just as a remembrance.
My Peco Yeh painting.
Peco was a strange man—a sort of nebbish, to use a dated term—and I sometimes feel guilty about paying him so little for what is, in my eyes, a fine work of art. It’s too late to make amends, for Peco would be long since dead, but in a fine bit of poetic justice, this blog site has become—without conscious intention on my part—World Headquarters for the Retrospective Appreciation of Peco Yeh by Owners of His Scattered Canvases.
It came about in this way: In August 2023, six months after my repeat post displaying my Peco Yeh canvas, I got an email from Earline Dirks, who was in possession of a much different painting by Peco. Then Joshua Lowe of West Virginia chimed in with his own Peco canvas. And after several months’ silence, I heard from Jane Upchurch, who has a different work altogether.
Earline’s Peco Yeh painting.
Joshua’s Peco Yeh painting
Jane’s Peco Yeh painting.
Look up Peco Yeh, Dear Reader. I dare you. All you will find is a rather cryptic, 56-word thumbnail bio that bounces endlessly around the Internet, completely unattributed. It paints a rather romantic picture of the soft-spoken little man’s life and background, but who is to say whether it is true?
What is indisputable is that Peco lived—I met him in person and have heard from others who did also—and painted a number of canvases. The more of his paintings I see, the more I am struck by the variety of his works. In style, in manner, in subject matter, and in quality, they seem to be all over the map. One might even suspect the name “Peco Yeh” got attrributed to several different artists, but I don’t think so. I think he was simply interested in different approaches at different times and was, in general, an enigma.
A number of his paintings are available at online art sites. And for better or worse, I seem to be the repository of a fair number of images by, and stories about, Peco Yeh from private persons who own some of his works.
So it seems that duty calls. Far be it from me to shirk.
The Latest Report
A couple of weeks ago I heard from Michael Tomczyk, who said, “I was dating a Taiwanese girl in 1972 who was a friend of Peco Yeh. He had a small gallery where I met him several times and selected and purchased these 3 paintings which are I think are some of his best.”
Here are Michael’s paintings, so you can judge for yourself.
Michael also sent along the following poem, which he composed:
IN MEMORY OF PECO YEH
There once was an artist named Peco Yeh,
Who painted scenes in an extaordinary way;
He lived in Taipei and his art was well known,
He always painted using sepia tone.
The scenes he painted were classic Chinese;
When we view them today they put our spirits at ease.
–by Michael Tomczyk
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All I can say, as a sort of informal custodian of a Chinese artist’s memory, is, “Peco, where will you strike next?”
Thanks, Gentle Reader, for letting me get that off my chest.
Birds swooped over the prairie—black birds with red stripes on their wings, lemon-breasted birds that teetered on tall grass stems burbling out notes of joy.
That’s a sentence from page 52 of my first novel, Price of Passage: A Tale of Immigration and Liberation, describing the scene that greets Anders Gunstensen when he arrives on the Illinois frontier in 1853. Anders, having grown up in Norway, does not know the names of American birds. He only knows how they look and sound—and that’s what I was trying to capture.
When I wrote it, I thought it was a pretty ordinary, workmanlike sentence. But of the thousands of sentences in the book, this is the one that pierced the heart of a reader.
A Loved Sentence
We were at the gala book launch for my new middle-grade book, Izzy Strikes Gold!, and Stephanie Hofer, the mother of our former next-door neighbor, approached me to get my signature on her copy of the former book, Price of Passage.
She made a point of showing me that sentence, which she had starred and underlined on page 52 of her copy.
“I just loved that sentence!” Stephanie said.
She did not say she observed, admired, respected, or judged that sentence extremely well-wrought.
She loved it.
Gentle Reader, there are not too many rewards in this author game. Most of us do not get famous, and heaven knows we make no money at it. We have to take our satisfactions where we can. When a reader truly connects with something I’ve written, it thrills me to my core. This is why we write—to connect with another soul.
Eastern meadowlark singing. Photo by Gary Leavens, licensed under CC-BY-SA-2.0.
Stephanie grew up on the Great Plains, where there are miles and miles of tall-grass meadows filled with red-winged blackbirds and meadowlarks. “I remember seeing meadowlarks,” she said.
I am a city boy myself, even though my cities have always been small or medium-sized ones. But my in-laws used to have a place in the country near Dodgeville, Wisconsin. We would go out there on weekends to relax. About that time of my life I got interested in birds and spent many hours on their wooded hillside and the adjacent grassy meadows, binoculars in hand, early mornings or late afternoons.
Many’s the time I’ve been greeted by a spontaneous burst of enthusiasm from a meadowlark perched on the thinnest of stems, just a foot or two above the prairie. That’s what I was thinking of when I imagined Anders the Norwegian tramping across the Upper Midwestern farmlands for the first time.
I knew exactly what I was describing, and Stephanie knew it, too.
Majestic Sentences
I am a writer, and justly proud of my sentences. In the book Stephanie asked me to sign, I planted a few corkers. For instance:
This time of year, the cold earth fights you for every chunk of granite you try to pull up (page 2).
Or how about:
She seized Anders’ head with both hands, as an eagle grips a big fish (page 10).
Or who could forget:
He studied how to wear his blue uniform, how to tilt the hat, how to tie the neckerchief; how and when to salute an officer, how to stand at attention, how to speak with “aye-aye” and “sir” in every sentence; how to call things by naval words—decks, bulkheads, hatches, fore and aft, starboard and larboard, abaft and abeam; how to give proper respect to every officer and petty officer; how to tell time in bells and speed in knots (page 281).
But the one that endeared the book to Stephanie Hofer was the simple one on page 52 about prairie birds.
So What?
Sometimes a single sentence may endear a story to a reader. The part vouches for the whole. And you never know which sentence it will be.
Therefore it behooves a writer to pay attention to sentences, to try to craft each one as well as it can be written.
Winston S. Churchill, former prime minister of the United Kingdom, famously wrote in a memoir:
The young Winston Churchill. Public Domain.
“[B]y being so long in the lowest form I gained an immense advantage over the cleverer boys. They all went on to learn Latin and Greek and splendid things like that. But I was taught English. We were considered such dunces that we could learn only English. Mr. Somervell—a most delightful man, to whom my debt is great—was charged with the duty of teaching the stupidest boys the most disregarded thing—namely, to write mere English. He knew how to do it. He taught it as no one else has ever taught it. Not only did we learn English parsing thoroughly, but we also practised continually English analysis. . . . Thus I got into my bones the essential structure of the ordinary British sentence—which is a noble thing.”
It’s hard to think that Sir Winston was less than brilliant, even as a boy. But there can be little doubt that learning to write sentences was a key to his great success.
Long ago there lived a boy beleaguered by the world. Everything was a potential threat. Bullies and demons lurked everywhere.
Grownups were no help; they had their own problems. It was better to keep your head down.
If life was good, why were so many people so sad?
The more he learned, the more confused he became. By the time he was a teenager, he was downright bewildered.
This boy came into adulthood a bundle of neuroses and labored through the next decades to unlearn misconceptions about life and gradually to attain the art of contentment.
The Long View
When he grew old and retired from work, when no longer besieged by the trials of midlife, the boy looked back on the whole span of his life. Oddly enough, recent years had become a messy blur; but he saw the childhood era with crystalline precision.
He saw much of pain and sorrow, but even more of joy and zest. He wanted to stand before his Maker and say, “Oh . . . now I see how this caused that, and how one thing led to another. . . .” Above all, he wanted to have it all make sense.
But it didn’t. It was just a life. No matter whan angle he took, no matter which way he looked at it, there was nothing in his growing up that explained how he had arrived at grownup responsibilities with such a skewed, anxiety-ridden outlook that it took all his life to get over it. There was no rational understanding of that.
Well, that wasn’t good enough. Not by a long shot.
Writing Therapy
When the boy decided to try being a serious writer, his dearest project became a reconstruction of that bygone era—one in which the joys and sorrows of a rather ordinary childhood balanced out and cast a benign new understanding across the mind-screen of the past. He would write a story where the forlorn hopes and muddled yearnings that lingered in his soul across all the intervening years could find a comfortable home at last.
And, after a great deal of work, this strange project proved possible!
The catch was (there’s always a catch, ask Yossarian)—the catch was, it wouldn’t be the boy’s actual life. Oh, all the incidents of childhood would be there, accurately portrayed in an exact replica of the original setting; yes, of course, a few names would be changed to protect the innocent, as the announcer on “Dragnet” used to say; but every detail would be true. They would just be juxtaposed in such a way that there was a veiled form of causality. The things that happened in the story would have meanings that related to one another, and those meanings would form themes, and the whole thing would be immensely satisfying.
It would be a fiction. But satisfying.
Isn’t that why we tell stories, Gentle Reader? To resurrect our past, but in a better way?
The story became a book, Izzy Strikes Gold!, about a twelve-year-old boy living in a small town in the 1950s. Izzy has to try to keep his family together, but what he most wants to do is fit in with his schoolmates. And all the adjustments he has to make to reconcile those conflicting goals give him an opportunity to grow a larger perspective.
The Fifties are so long ago now that the book counts as historical fiction. It’s also, as a matter of form, what we call a coming-of-age story (or a bildungsroman when we’re being snooty and pretending we know German). From a bookseller’s perspective, it is a middle-grade novel, because it’s axiomatic that a story about a twelve-year-old boy must be targeted at nine-to-twelve-year-old readers. Yet, as someone who remembers the Fifties quite clearly, I must tell you this book is a Nostalgic’s delight. Grandparents will enjoy it as much as their grandchildren.
It came about simply because a boy grew up confused and was left with unsatisfactory longings.
Whooppee!
I am sworn to secrecy on the identity of the boy, but if you’d like to meet him and hear about his journey as an author, boy and man, and maybe even buy a copy of the book and get it signed,and maybe win a fabulous, Fifties-themed door prize, I commend you to the Izzy Strikes Gold! Launch Party, 6:00 p.m. Wednesday, July 24.
Dear Reader: My second novel—a coming-of-age story set in the 1950s, called Izzy Strikes Gold!—will be released on Wednesday, July 24. Publishing a book requires many preparations on the part of publisher and author, who ideally work together hand in hand. Fortunately, I have an excellent publisher, Kira Henschel of Three Towers Press.
Be that as it may, the demands of publishing and selling a book do not exempt an author from Step 2 of my widely-heralded “Six Simple Steps to Literary Lionhood,” namely: WRITE.
The simplest, most accurate definition of a writer is “one who writes.”
Publicizing is not writing, even though it involves some sales-oriented writing. Selling is not writing, even though trhe product you are selling is what you have written.
Two or three months ago I was purring along like a literary machine, cranking out pages and chapters of first draft on my work-in-progress, a World War II novel. But as Izzy’s publication date drew near, the detailed plans for getting this already-written book into print and onto buyers’ bookshelves began to suck up all my time and attention.
It was a relief to take time out last week for coffee with my friend Mary Behan—the wonderful author of Abbey Girls,A Measured Thread, and Finding Isobel. (Rush right out and buy them, or put them on hold at your favorite lending library. You’ll be glad you did!)
Mary reminded me that we are, first of all, writers. She mentioned a writers’ book called What About the Baby—Some Thoughts on Fiction, by Alice McDermott, a National Book Award Winner. So I rushed right out and got it. So far I’m about two-thirds of the way through.
Alice McDermott says thoughtful, even profound, things about the art of writing fiction. Her main message is that you have to get deeply and passionately into writing down those words of which your story is made. You may do other wonderful things—research, editing, or just thinking—but writing is what gets you where you want to go. It brings to life the wonder and delight of a story well told—a story you didn’t even know you had in you.
That’s really why we write, after all. For that thrill.
I was so inspired I picked up my laptop keyboard and rapped out a new chapter of my WWII novel, which I have duly sent to the members of my two writing critique groups, who will give me feedback this week.
It’s good to be back in the saddle again, pardner.
By the way—if you cannot attend the fabulous Launch Party for the book Izzy Strikes Gold!, may I cordially invite you to follow along on the livestream via Crowdcast, at this link. If you find you can attend, there may still be a ticket or two left.
I travel with grandchildren named Elsie and Tristan. And their mother Katie. And their grandmother Joelle, to whom I have been married more than fifty-four years.
Gentle Reader, if you’re exhausted by the mere mention of such treks, welcome to the club.
“Pantaloon – The Sixth Age Shifts into the Lean and Slippered Pantaloon” engraved by William Bromley. Public Domain.
. . . The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. . . .
—William Shakespeare, “the Seven Ages of Man”
The Native Hue of Resolution
In all innocence, we decided to celebrate our Golden Wedding Anniversary in 2020 by going to Italy. We would take Katie and her kids along to help us celebrate. It would be fun, we thought.
Also, it would be educational—broadening, don’t you know?—for the children. Katie had traveled widely in Europe but had never experienced the grandeur of Italy. Elsie and Tristan, ages ten and seven, had never been abroad at all.
“The Prince’s Cicerone.” Sir Walter Lawrence, 15 June 1905, Vanity Fair illustration by Leslie Matthew Ward (English, 1851-1922).
Young men from Britain or the Americas used to take long European sojourns as way of capping their formal education. This practice, known as “the Grand Tour,” had roots in the burgeoning world of the mid-17th century. It continued through the complacent era just before the outbreak of the First World War—a time now remembered as “La Belle Époque.”
“The primary value of the Grand Tour lay in its exposure to the cultural legacy of classical antiquity and the Renaissance, and to the aristocratic and fashionably polite society of the European continent. It also provided the only opportunity to view specific works of art, and possibly the only chance to hear certain music. A Grand Tour could last anywhere from several months to several years. It was commonly undertaken in the company of a cicerone, a knowledgeable guide or tutor,”
says Wikipedia.
Being the Astute Reader that you are, I’m sure you already know the Grand Tour was experienced only by scions of wealthy families. Who else could afford such a long ramble and the expensive company of a personal tutor? Moreover, it was only the sons, not the daughters.
Democracy in Action
But, this is America! This is the Twenty-first Century! Travel has been democratized. Even if we can’t go in high style, at least we can travel. Ignore the fact that we swelter in giant sardine cans hurtling through bumpy skies while we watch epic films on seven-inch screens, with prefabricated salads in our laps; at least we are going.
We will get there. We will be there. We will come back. Millions of us.
We hoped to expose Elsie and Tristan “to the cultural legacy of classical antiquity and the Renaissance, and to the aristocratic and fashionably polite society of the European continent.” We, ourselves, would be the cicerones.
What happened next, Dear Reader? Can you guess? . . . That’s right:
COVID.
Starting on March 13, 2020, all transglobal sardines’ wings were clipped. No Grand Tour could be scheduled.
For the benefit of readers from afar: Door County is an idyllic peninsula in northern Wisconsin—a sort of stretched-out Martha’s Vineyard—that hosts thousands of visitors every summer. In late spring of 2020, Door County had not yet become alarmed about covid; it had hardly touched their peninsula. Business—that is, tourism—went on, with just minor precautions.
We took the kids to Door County. We swam and dined and shopped and campfired to our hearts’ content. Tristan, now 8, and Elsie, still 10, enjoyed themselves immensely. We came home, illness-free, just as the pandemic was getting worse everywhere.
One year later, we tried again. But we still couldn’t schedule Italy, which by then was melting down with covid. So we went to Alaska instead. Alaska has plenty of fresh air. The grizzlies and moose at Denali National Park posed no threat at all, from a public health perspective. Local precautions were bearable. The good folks of Alaska were touchingly glad to see us. With all cruise ships lying idle in their home ports, we had America’s Last Frontier almost to ourselves. The kids—now 9 and 11-turning-12—really, really had a great time.
Liberation
Early in 2022, Joelle started her third attempt to plan our Italian anniversary vacation. Covid by now was in retreat everywhere—even Italy. At last, two years late, we celebrated our fiftieth anniversary by taking our grandchildren to Italy. We added Croatia and Slovenia to the itinerary. We had to mask up on public transports in Italy, but otherwise it was all clear. Despite Europe’s hottest summer in living memory, Elsie and Tristan—who by now were 10 and 12-turning-13, loved every minute of their democratized 21st-century Grand Tour.
We were greatly satisfied by the whole, long-delayed, itinerary.
Britannic Majesty
However, since we as a family, unlike wealthy young men of old, could not stay in Europe for months on end, some bits were left uncovered. The British Isles, for example.
Tristan and Elsie, continents apart. Larry Sommers photo.
So this year, after a one-year hiatus, we took Katie, Elsie, and Tristan to Ireland, Scotland, and England—with a clever little layover in Reykjavik to see Iceland’s Golden Circle. It was wonderful. We saw Geysir (the original geyser), Gulfoss the rampaging waterfall, Thingvellir where the European and American plates come together.
British military band prepares for the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. Larry Sommers photo.
In Ireland, one or more of us went to Blarney Castle, the Guinness Brewery, the Titanic Museum in Belfast, and the Giant’s Causeway. In Scotland, it was lovely old Edinburgh with its mighty castle, followed by a visit to Oban and the exciting islands of the Inner Hebrides. Then on to jolly old England: Derby in the Midlands, followed by several days in London—Buckingham Palace, the London Eye, Westminster Abbey, the Harry Potter studios, the Tower of London, HMS Belfast, the Churchill War Rooms. On our last day, we went to see Wicked on the stage of the Apollo Theatre.
The London Eye never sleeps. Photo by Diego Delso, delso.photo, License CC-BY-SA.
The kids loved the whole trip—so far as we could tell. We had no way to know, since they were always two hundred yards ahead of us. Did I mention that now they’re 12 and almost 15?
“It’s hard traveling with old people,” they confided to their mother. We were slowing them down, you see. Katie reminded them they would not be traveling at all if not for the old people.
In former times, I would have added, “Put that in your pipe and smoke it!” But I’m reformed. No more promotion of tobacco products.
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Neither Joelle nor I gained any weight while on vacation—a first! We ate copiously, but the travel was just so strenuous. We huffed and puffed along in the wake of individuals who had not even bothered to arrive on Earth until after we retired.
Suddenly, it’s fifteen years later. Our age has begun to dawn on us.
Nevertheless, we’ll probably do the whole thing again. There are still places to go, and tempus does indeed fugit.
Tempus shown in mid-fugit. The Sinnington sundial by Pauline E, licensed under CC-BY-SA-2.0
Henry Van Dyke wrote, “London is a man’s town, there’s power in the air. . . .”
Maybe that’s why 177,000 people troop down to Buckingham Palace every morning to see the Changing of the Guard.
Panoply of power: Buckingham Palace. Photo by Chiugoran, licensed under CC-BY-SA-3.0.
What happens, over a period of forty-five minutes: Some guys in red coats and tall black hats perform various ministry-approved silly walks while a couple of bands play brassy songs, some other guys troop through on horseback, and dark-suited policemen in lime yellow day-glow vests yell at the hoi polloi to get down off the fences.
Changing of the Guard, a worm’s-eye view. Photo by Jo Sommers, used by permission.
That’s power.
All these people would be doing other—more sensible—things, were it not for the heady aroma of power emanating from Buckingham Palace. That’s because the king lives there.
The main part of London is chockablock with gargantuan buildings in marble and other heavy stones. The Houses of Parliament stand for tradition and the vox populi. Westminster Abbey weds sanctimony with magisterial authority. The Tower of London has nine hundred years of experience as the enforcement branch. Endless corridors of bureaucratic power stack up along Whitehall.
And it’s all watched over by the unsleeping London Eye.
The London Eye never sleeps. Photo by Diego Delso, delso.photo, License CC-BY-SA.
Even a strong man might get vertigo.
A Chequered Past
Londinium was established about 47 A.D. by the Romans, who knew a thing or two about power. After a brief destruction by the Iceni under Queen Boudica, the city was rebuilt and grew rapidly in subsequent decades.
Under the Romans, “Londinium was an ethnically diverse city with inhabitants from across the Roman Empire, including natives of Britannia, continental Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa,” according to Wikipedia.
This cosmopolitan city was infiltrated and overrun by the Saxons over several centuries’ time, captured by Vikings for a few years, and eventually incorporated into Alfred the Great’s Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia in 886.
The year 1066 saw the introduction of Norman law, customs, and language. The next nine hundred years or so crystallized the existence of a distinct Englishness that spawned a world-wide empire with leaders like Nelson, Wellington, and Churchill.
In the process, “being English”—or even “being British,” a broader label—was distilled into an essentially white and Anglo-Saxon identity.
Then, the World Changed
By the middle of the twentieth century, the British Empire (“Im-paahh,” in Etonian/Oxonian) was impoverished and exhausted. It was hard enough to hold the British Isles together, let alone India, Kenya, and the bloody Irish. The Empire was reduced to a “Commonwealth” of nations sharing a nostalgic attachment.
Natives of Commonwealth and other nations increasingly migrated to London for economic opportunity, and the same thing that has happened to other major cities happened to London as well. It became jumbled up, ethnographically.
When Joelle and I visited in the early 1970s, the typical Londoner was pretty much the man or woman we had seen on our television tubes—a blend of Stanley Holloway, Robert Donat, and Mrs. Miniver. A few Indian restaurants were the only visible outposts of brownness.
Today, fifty years later, London is alive with Britishers of all races, colors, and national origins. Stand on a street corner near Victoria Station, and in ten minutes you will see everybody in the world walk by. London has again become “an ethnically diverse city with inhabitants from” . . . just about everywhere.
Gentle Reader, here we are again—this time with a new, new update.
As a devotee of this site, you no doubt recall my post of May 7, 2019. It featured the curious curio pictured above—a telegraph key that looks like . . . well, like something else.
It is a Foote, Pierson & Co. Twentieth Century key, put on the market in 1901 and widely known as a “speed handle” or “pump handle key.” It came down to me as a family heirloom from my grandfather, William P. Sommers, who was a railroad telegrapher. The odd-looking device was one inventive response to a work-related stress injury known as telegrapher’s paralysis—which I innocently supposed to be just another name for carpal tunnel syndrome.
Oops!
After an email from David Pennes, a physician in Grand Rapids, Michigan, I stand corrected.
Penne has been tracking this historical affliction of railroad telegraphers for years and is just about to publish his findings in a peer-reviewed journal.
Telegrapher’s paralysis, says Penne, was not carpal tunnel syndrome. It was either (1) task-specific dystonia or (2) compressive neuropathy of the posterior interosseous nerve. Maybe a combination of the two.
This diagnosis took a lot of detective work, because as Penne points out, “[t]he condition was never described in medical journals of the day.”
Lacking such professional data, he says, “I used a database of 60,000 searchable .pdf pages from the union and trade publications, whatever medical literature was out there, and was able to track down a handful of individuals who either had the condition or worked with people who did, which put a human face on it.”
In the course of his research, Penne encountered my 2019 post erroneously equating telegrapher’s paralysis with carpal tunnel syndrome. He also ran across a fleeting reference to my grandfather in a 1901 publication from the Order of Railroad Telegraphers—a sort of fraternal guild Grandpa Sommers once belonged to. I have his membership card somewhere.
Penne’s email correspondence with me straightened out another point as well. I had assumed that Grandpa had the key in his possession because the railroad let him take it with him when he left their employ. In fact, Penne says, “Anyone working for the railroad wishing to use anything other than the employer-supplied straight key had to buy their own.”
So Grandpa must have owned the key outright, having laid out the heavy sum of $8.95.
Why?
But that raises another conundrum. In 1901, when the Twentieth Century Key experienced its brief surge of popularity, Grandpa would have been only seventeen years old—having worked as a railroad telegrapher since age fourteen. Three years’ work would not have included enough tappings of the standard telegraph key to give him telegrapher’s paralysis, whether task-specific dystonia or compressive neuropathy of the posterior interosseous nerve. So why did he buy it?
Well, you had to know Grandpa. He came from a technological family, had the highest regard for his own brains, and was apt to back anything he considered a good idea—or a sound, well-engineered solution to a problem—even if it cost good money. Things he bought over his lifetime included a Pierce-Arrow Touring Car, several Studebakers, lots of fractional partnerships in oil-drilling operations, and a weird ultraviolet light device imagined to cure rheumatism.
He would have been aware of the old operators’ complaints about “telegrapher’s wrist.” Thus, he took a flyer on a new key—one that might spare him the anguish suffered by others.
All this is supposition, of course. And every once in a while, Your New Favorite Writer is reminded that he ought to beware of suppositions.
Not every sore wrist is carpal tunnel syndrome.
Whatever your calling, Dear Reader, take care of your digits. One day you’ll grow old and you’ll need them to keep on buttoning your buttons.
This week, I shelved a long-held plan—a bucket list item—because I did not feel confident I could pull it off.
I planned to travel across Ireland, from Dublin to little Foynes on the southwest coast, to visit the Foynes Flying Boat Museum. Uncle Ed was a rookie airline pilot, employed by Pan American Airways, in the golden age of flying boats—the late 1930s and early 1940s.
In those days, airlines like Pan Am were pioneering the concept of transoceanic passenger service, in competition with the big steamship lines. It could take a couple of weeks to cross the Pacific on the proverbial “slow boat to China,” but in one of Pan Am’s magnificent Clippers you could make the trip in three or four days. You had to be willing and able to pay a couple of thousand dollars—an astronomical sum in those days—but you would travel in unrivalled luxury and comfort on a big seaplane called a “flying boat.”
These planes—large, boat-shaped hulls with wings and engines attached—were invented to fly from one seaport to another, over water all the way. In a flying boat you could take off and land on any fair-sized body of water—ocean, bay, lake, or wide river. Further, the ability to land on water gave an extra margin of safety in case of engine trouble.
The Anzac Clipper, a boat my Uncle Ed flew. Public Domain.
Uncle Ed flew, in quick succession, the Sikorsky S-40 and S-42, the Martin 130, and the mighty Boeing 314—the ultimate flying boat, only twelve copies ever made.
After the Second World War, when civil aviation resumed its march of progress, flying boats had become obsolete. Land aircraft were now more reliable, most cities now had decent airfields, and boat/plane hybrids were no longer required.
Because I am a sucker for the romance of the flying boats, because a flying boat pilot figures in the novel I am writing, and most of all because Uncle Ed used to fly the beasts, I really craved to visit the flying boat museum in Foynes, Ireland.
Because of that local history, people in Foynes built a museum dedicated to the great flying boats of yesteryear. All twelve Boeing 314s had been reduced to scrap metal before the 1950s were out. So they built a full-sized replica of the great plane. The flying boat in Foynes can’t fly—doesn’t even have complete wings—but a full-sized fuselage sits in Foynes harbor, rigged in detail with seats, a deluxe dining lounge, and the plane’s elaborate flight deck.
Stepping into that mockup, I thought, would give a real sense of what it was like to fly in a B-314. But I had to go on my own. My wife and granddaughter would be off exploring Blarney Castle, while my daughter and grandson biked all over Dublin’s Phoenix Park.
All I had to do was catch a train to Limerick, change to another train across Limerick to the bus station, and make a seven-minute connection with a bus that wanders through the countryside and eventually reaches Foynes. And then, after visiting the museum, retrace my steps and get back to Dublin in time for a late dinner.
In planning, this had seemed feasible. My wife, Jo—the travel planner among us—had given me a printed itinerary for my excursion a week or so before our departure. Somehow, I forgot where I had placed the printout for safekeeping and also forgot, while packing, to hunt it up and include it in my luggage. So there I was in Dublin without the paperwork to guide me on my complicated trip.
That was not my only lapse. I had also left behind all the standard European plug adapters we needed for our stopover in Iceland. I had set them aside in my suitcase, but when adding the British Isles plug adapters, I removed the ones for Iceland. “What do we need these for?” I asked myself. So we struggled through Iceland with minimal recharging capability.
Do you see a pattern here, Dear Reader?
In the first days of our big trip, I discovered several embarrassing memory lapses or confused thought-sequences. Discovering this pile-up of mental aberrations smacked me right in the face.
The night before my trip to Foynes, I chickened out. I would skip the trip to Foynes and stay back in Dublin while everybody else had their own kinds of fun. By the light of day, things didn’t look so bad, and I went with Katie and Tristan to Phoenix Park, which is very nice.
But the Foynes decision took the wind out of my sails. I was unnerved.
“What a revoltin’ development!” William Bendix as Chester A. Riley. NBC Radio. Public Domain
What a revoltin’ development!
I don’t have Alzheimer’s disease, Fair Reader. I probably don’t have any form of specific, diagnosable dementia. But there are times my brain seems to crumble before my eyes.
This concerns me. Life has been treating me so well that I look forward to reaching age 100, active and creative all the way. Going vegetative could interfere with that.
So this post is written in a haze of postmature anxiety.
I can’t resist thinking my discomfiture is a passing thing. I have been so narrowly focused on marketing plans for my forthcoming book—Izzy Strikes Gold!—that other regions of my brain have become temporarily disconnected. That’s all.
So I’m not panicking. I may still go on to a glorious future as Madison’s Old Man of Letters.
But do not fear, Gentle Reader. If I become seriously incoherent, you’ll be the first to know.
