Wheelchairs

A few years ago, hurrying to make a connection at Dulles Airport, I was struggling with a heavy carry-on, and I keeled over. I was soon up and on my way, but I felt weak and humiliated. A year or two later, I rebelled at Barbara's suggestion that perhaps I should take advantage of a wheelchair. Who, me? I was only 80. Sure, I can't walk as well as I used to do, but I'm otherwise healthy...

I began by just using a cane, but sometimes it's a long walk, and I began to need an arm, and it was hard to manipulate a "wheelie", and walk the long distances to be found at many airports.

Now, I don't own a wheelchair: not much use in the Berkeley hills. I do have a "walker", which I reluctantly use on level ground. But it wasn't easy to realize that it was as much for Barbara's sake as my own that I should stop relying on her arm and a cane, but should ask for a wheelchair at airports.

I do that now, and I have learned that there are compensations. Mostly we fly on Southwest, and we are both "pre-boarded", so we can choose seats in the second row. I take the aisle, and she takes the window. With luck, there's a vacant seat between us. We have met many interesting immigrants who push my wheelchair, and they are always grateful for the tip we give them. .

I have found flight attendants uniformly friendly, courteous, and helpful. Yes, having learned to accept my disability, I find air travel not that bad--although I do miss the "good old days" when I could check in a few minutes before take-off without having to go through "security".

Poppies

Growing up in England, I always associated poppies with November 11, Armistice Day. When I was about 3, WWI had ended just a dozen years earlier, still much within the memories of all adults. On Armistice Day, one was expected to contribute to the British Legion in exchange for a red poppy. The larger the poppy, the more one gave. I recall we also contributed for a poppy to display on each of our cars. We were told that red poppies were features of the Flanders fields on which so many of our countrymen had fallen, during what we called the Great War.

The British have moved the commemoration to an adjacent Sunday, which is called "Remembrance Sunday". I am told that Armistice Day is still observed, but that the emphasis now falls on the Sunday.

Whereas the Flanders poppies are an attractive shade of red, our State Flower in California is the golden poppy. In many areas, these grow profusely, but an early lesson for me was that there is a state law against picking those beautiful poppies..

We think positively about those red and golden poppies, but there is another poppy which usually elicits a negative reaction: the opium poppy. I had often read about fruitless attempts to eradicate this important cash crop, and so I always had a very negative feeling about opium poppies. Recently, a good friend told me about the time (towards the end of the 19th century) in which the attitude towards opium was far more benign. A lot of paraphernalia is needed for opium smokers, and in its heyday this drug had many admirers, who became collectors of expensive equipment used by opium smokers. I was told that, although opium can be addictive, and those who abuse the drug often become very "lazy", for most smokers the effect is not harmful or lasting. They become very relaxed and carefree. My informant told me that it was commonplace for friends to share a pipe after a dinner party, much as smoking a cigar (after the ladies had left the dining room) was normal, during the years when I was growing up.

I seldom see poppies now: the opium poppy is illegal, I mustn't pick the golden poppy, and there aren't many red poppies around my home.

Pantomime!

It has been many years since I have attended my last pantomime, a form of entertainment primarily enjoyed by the British. My experiences are mainly from London in the years before WWII, but the peculiar art form of the pantomime continued to flourish 50 years ago, and probably still does. Other major cities, such as Birmingham and Manchester, have their own productions.

Pantomimes have names that are familiar to most British children, usually relating to fairy stories or legends. Some examples are: Dick Whitington and His Cat; Puss in Boots; Little Red Riding Hood; Sleeping Beauty; and Beauty and the Beast.

There are certain additions to this entertainment. It is primarily designed to attract families with young children, and performances begin in December, lasting into at least early January, when many school children are on holiday.

The plot is usually very loosely based on the traditional story. Almost always there is a Principal Boy, (played by an attractive young woman in tights), and a Principal Girl, usually wearing a pretty dress. There is usually a Dame, played by an older man. There may be a horse (played by two men as "front legs" and "hind legs").

The Dame is usually played by a famous comedian; in some instances, a pair of comedians appear.

The show is designed to make use of popular songs. Any relationship to the plot is strictly coincidental.

A typical ending will bring the Principal Boy and Principal Girl together, perhaps singing a duet.

The humor (especially as introduced by the Dame) if often broad, but never quite obscene. The young people I knew usually tired of the "treat" of attending a pantomime after puberty. However, I did have one more experience of a pantomime. I was living and working in London after graduating from Oxford. Almost every week my best friend (Perry Calwell), also a graduate of Oxford, and I would visit a "settlement house". These were establishments to be found in the poorer quarters of a city, largely used by young people as a place to gather and entertain themselves. A few staff members, typically young university graduates, lived on the premises, while working at jobs in central London, a short bus ride or tube journey from the settlement house.

Perry and I, with support from the staff, decided to write and perform a pantomime one year. We soon faced the problem that one could never count on the appearance of cast members at our weekly rehearsals. Perry and I spent a lot of time and many evenings working on this project, despite our frustrations. We convinced ourselves that our efforts were worthwhile, as they did serve to keep a good many teenagers "out of trouble".

We did eventually put on a performance, which (despite it's major shortcomings) was very successful. At the end, Perry and I agreed that this was the last time we would try to put on a pantomime. I have not attended one since.

Tickets

I have a special drawer where I keep advance tickets for the four musical groups and one theatrical company to which we subscribe. Recently, I searched feverishly for tickets for an upcoming concert by one of the Bay Area's outstanding early-music group Voices of Music. It was a productive search, because it turned up several out-of-date brochures, etc, which I was glad to recycle. But the tickets? Nah...

Fortunately, when I called the organizers, it was explained to me that I had to go online to download the tickets. Where online? She didn't have time then to explain, but she kindly promised to tell the ticket takers to let us in. That worked! We greatly enjoyed the program, including the work of the tenor, Thomas Cooley, in a program of Purcell's vocal and instrumental compositions.(Voices of Music offers a free High Definition online example of its work: go to www.voicesofmusic.org, and check it out.)

This is the second time that I have had so-called "tickets", that are actually simply printouts. I am accustomed to obtaining boarding passes for airline flights this way, but I don't like that system of obtaining "tickets" for artistic events. I am sure it saves printing costs for the organization, but I unrealistically wish that there were an option to receive real tickets.

This year, another organization has begun to require us to print out tickets, and for that concert series I have already printed out the paper tickets. When we attended a recent performance, I handed those clumsy sheets of paper to the ticket collector. I had hardly walked forward more than six paces before she came running towards me, saying "Here are your tickets!". We have reserved seats, and I really didn't want those printouts again: no one was going to attempt to occupy our seats, but obediently, I stuffed those sheets of paper into a pants pocket, anxious to recycle them as soon as we returned home.

There is a special feel about a pasteboard ticket, which I really like: it's a foretaste of future pleasure. Also, they don't take up much space. I can put them in a small envelope, and find them on the day of the performance. I do not look forward to the day when every artistic organization decides to save a few bucks by having subscribers print out "tickets" on those wretched pieces of computer paper.

Wiki leaks

It's old news now, but do you remember the spirited defense put up by the Wikileaks founder, Julian Asange, when he was criticized for publishing supposedly secret diplomatic cables? I didn't agree with him at the time, although he had a point: that too much was being kept from the public. I was especially distressed when a further batch was released, in which the names of informants were not "redacted" (edited out), thus endangering informants and lessening the likelihood that we would obtain further good intelligence in the future.

I thought of these happenings recently. It seems that a well-known person had written a memoir, presumably for future publication after some possible revision. It seems that someone had obtained the draft material, and was selling it to an eager public. The memoirist is reported to have taken major umbrage at this, complaining bitterly at the leak. Such complaints will probably help the "thief" to sell more copies of the purloined material.

Who was the angry author? Ironically, it was Julian Asange.

Toothpaste, Eggs, and Fruit

I recently needed to use some toothpaste from a tube that belongs to my wife. It had been squeezed from the middle.

Instinctively, I squeezed from the bottom up. It just seemed tidier that way! When I stop to think about it, I know it makes no real difference, but this pathetic example of my rigidity made me think of similar idiosyncrasies.

Any sane person taking an egg or two from a box of a dozen just takes one out without worrying about symmetry. Not Nigel! Half the time, when there is an odd number of eggs, absolute symmetry is impossible. But I always move eggs from one side to as close to the center as possible. With ten eggs, I leave one "top right" and one "bottom left", and so forth. I kid myself that centering the eggs reduces the likelihood of one or more eggs spilling. Come on! When has an egg been broken just because the eggs in the box are arranged haphazardly?

If I'm (say) arranging fruit in a bowl, it has to be evenly set out. That could mean all the apples together and likewise the oranges and the plums. Or maybe apple, orange. plum--then apple, orange plum again. It has to be a regular pattern!

You could say I am obsessively compulsive--or just anally retentive. Maybe. I simply like things arranged in an orderly fashion.

Would I behave this way if every move were monitored? I don't know. Maybe it stems from the time I trained as a Naval Officer, when we formed up for "Divisions" (a parade). the tallest took their place at the ends of the line; the shortest (usually me) in the center. Again, when putting books in a bookshelf, I typically "size" them, with the shortest in the middle--unless there are several books from a set, in which case they belong together.

Sometimes I remind myself of the character "Felix Ungar" (as spelled in the play and the movie: he became "Unger" in the TV series). as acted by Jack Lemmon in The Odd Couple. He is described as neurotic, neat, and uptight. I don't claim to be neat, however.

Standing Ovations, by Richard Reynolds

I normally write every word of my blogs, but this is an exception. I totally agree with the writer's viewpoint, so I am naming him and forwarding his comments. Barbara and I attended the Berkeley Symphony concert which inspired his words.

Richard Reynolds is a French horn player and longtime member of the Berkeley Symphony and other orchestras. His report first appeared in the Berkeley Daily Planet online.

We’ve all been there.

The concert ends, the applause begins. A well-dressed woman up front (the chair of the board?) stands up. The other board members see her standing, and they stand up too.

Other audience members see people in front standing up, and they begin to stand as well. The conductor or soloist bows to the audience and exits stage right. By the time she returns, most of the audience is standing.

This is all wrong.

It misses the point.

A standing-ovation performance is one in which you are so excited at the end that the only possible action is to leap to your feet. If you have to think about it, forget it. The performance doesn’t deserve a standing ovation.

Bay Area audiences are way too ready to rise to their feet at the end of a performance. I have, on occasion, given in to the crowd and joined in when everyone around me has risen to his or her feet, but I do so grudgingly, and if I saw nothing exceptional about the performance, I will remain seated.

Last Thursday, when Johannes Moser performed the Shostakovich Cello Concerto No. 1 with the Berkeley Symphony, I didn’t have to think about it. Like most of the audience, I jumped to my feet before the last hair on his bow had snapped. Moser grabbed that concerto by the throat at the very beginning and never let go until he was finished.

It was a tour de force. I suppose one could take issue with the way he nearly threw his bow into the air when completing a particularly energetic phrase, but it never felt like theatrics. He was immersed in the concerto throughout.