My Assault on the British Empire

In the 1980's, I was stationed in Karlsruhe, West Germany. It was an easy drive into France, and my wife of the time and I often dragged the kids over there, usually to see a small town whose main attraction was its pottery.

One day, we realized that it was not that far to drive through France to Calais, and from there to London. I have loved English literature with a passion since high school, and was also a dyed-in-the-wool Sherlock Holmes fan as well.

Having once had the opportunity to attend a presentation by Basil Rathbone had helped cement that link. Someday, I'll comment on that day. It's worth it.

However, back to 1981+/-.

In order to get a longer visit in, we decided to leave on a Friday after I got off work. After all, it was not that far from Karlsruhe to Calais...at least in our minds. Therefore, on Friday evening, we loaded the kids in the little white Opal Kadett and headed out.

The plan was to drive through the night, northwest through the city of Saarbrucken in France and on to Calais. The problem was that I got confused and headed southwest towards Strasbourg instead. The fact that Strasbourg was also in France didn't help much when we finally figured we (I) had been driving the wrong way for several hours.

We picked the fastest route we could find and headed northwest. At first, we made good time on the French version of the Autobahn or our Interstate system. After a while, however, we came to realize that every now and then, the French expected you to pay a toll for using their highways!

We only had a few Francs with us, and these began to rapidly diminish. To make them disappear faster, I had to buy gas at a Shell filling station in the middle of the night. The station was closed, but the owner lived in the building and I was able to awaken him and somehow informed him of my plight, and he sold me some petrol.

I figured out that you could get off the toll road from time to time and drive through small French villages and get back on for long stretches to save money. Going through these villages at night was like going back in time.

We arrived in Calais just barely in time to catch our ferry to Dover.

I had read Caesar's Gallic Commentaries in Latin class in high school, and was historically impressed at the fact that the ferry stopped to turn around in sight of Dover's cliffs. I could believe that I was seeing almost the same sight that Julius Caesar had seen so many centuries before, and from almost the same spot in the English Channel.

The drive on the motorway from Dover to London was relatively uneventful, and I even got used to driving on the left...until we exited into London itself!!!

Every brain cell involved in the left lane vs. right lane problem quit and was not seen again until we were back on the Continent.

We did not know where we were going to stay in London (with three kids), and finances were very limited. After driving around long enough to nearly cause a dozen accidents (sorry...American), I finally parked the car in a garage under Westminster Abbey.

We walked around for a while and saw Big Ben and Trafalgar Square, but we were hungry (I was also exhausted as I had driven all night), and we went into a sandwich shop, possibly on Tothill Street. The proprieter let us know that there was a small tourist hotel run by the Salvation Army a few blocks away which was clean and neat and very reasonable.

The hotel was exactly what we were looking for, and I walked back to Westminster Abbey to claim the car and drive around to the hotel.

Ever driven in London? Forget the left-hand thing. All streets had once been cart tracks or cattle trails, and apparently none of the cows or their drovers had ever been to my hotel. Eventually, I gave up, parked the car back under Westminster Abbey again and carried the 200 lbs of luggage the three-quarters of a mile to the hotel...where I collapsed.

The next morning, after a pretty good English breakfast, included in the price of the room, of course, we gathered our courage about us, walked the mile-and-a-half back to Westminster Abbey, reclaimed the car, and set out to see the city.

After about an hour of driving and with absolutely NO IDEA of where we were on the map...or even how to get back to Westminster Abbey, we asked a London Bobby for assistance.

Really, they out to require that cops speak English in that country!!

We drove on as lost as ever, but eventually ran into a road (and nearly several other drivers) which we recognized. We drove in front of Buckingham Palace and I made a left turn into oncoming traffic...for the fourteenth time.

Once all the shouting and cursing subsided, I carried the car on my back to the parking garage at Westminster Abbey where it stayed until our departure.

We walked along Whitehall to Trafalgar Square and walked over to Buckingham Palace where we were ripped off by a con man, and a lovely gentleman he was. We wandered up Baker Street, past 221B, the fictional home of Sherlock Holmes. We visited Madame Tussauds Wax Museum and a department store near Piccadilly Circus.

Finally, the morning of departure came.

Bravely, I walked the two miles back to Westminster Abbey to fetch the car and pick up the luggage and the family at the hotel. You know, I think I actually saw it, the hotel, down a street as I wandered cursing and muttering to myself up and down streets which never reached MY destination.

Finally, in defeat, I parked the brave little Opal Kadett under Westmister Abbey and walked the three miles to the hotel and carried the 400 lbs of luggage back to the car.

We only got lost two or three times and only had one or two near fatal crashes on the way back to Dover. Being once again in France, where I did not speak the language, I felt at home because I could at least drive on the "right" side of the road without endangering life and limb of all concerned.

The trip back to Karlsruhe was uneventful and I am glad that I went. My first trip to London is still one of the high points of my life and my experiences there inspired me to write a poem.

In London a driver,
Must have endurance,
Insanity in his family,
And lots of insurance.

Donovan Baldwin

A Hick in 'Frisco

It was 1966 and, after two months of army basic training at Fort Jackson, SC, I was sent to heaven. Actually, Monterey, California, which remains one of my favorite places on earth to this day.

There I was, a kid from the sticks turned loose in Babylon!

Having read ever issue of the teenage boy's version of Boys Life, i.e. Playboy, I was aware of the existence of a hedonistic, modern version of Sodom and Gommorah a few miles north of where I found myself. Even the words which formed its name conjured up dreams of freedom...which, of course, included free sex!!!

After all, the topless craze, and the hippie craze, was in full bloom right there in San Francisco.

"Are You Goin' to San Francisco", was a popular song. All the big names seemed either to be from there or appeared to consider the city by "the bay" some sort of Mecca for fun, expansion of one's self, and free love.

Sure, there were all kinds of things to see in San Francisco, Golden Gate Bridge, Golden Gate Park, Chinatown...the list seemed endless. However, for a hormone ridden kid from nowhere, Pensacola, Florida, there was only one place to go...

NORTH BEACH!!!

That's where the topless bars were. That's where the women performed, the women I had already seen bare breasted in the pages of Playboy.

I already knew the names of the clubs; Big Al's, The Condor Club, and Off Broadway. I also knew the names of some of the women who performed there...women who not only had their naked pictures shown in Playboy, but who had been written about in Time, Newsweek, and other, more respectable publications.

Hey! I was a kid whose biggest moments had been shaking hands with Doc and Kitty from Gunsmoke (Milburn Stone and Amanda Blake), and watching live performances by Ace Cannon and the New Christy Mintrels. My sexual experience was a little slap-and-tickle with a couple of girl friends. I had seen New York City, thanks to my sister and brother-in-law, who lived on Long Island, and driven past the hotel in Manhattan where the Beatles were staying.

I was ready for some real life adventure!!!

My mom had sent me some of my clothes, including the ghastly, brown, hick-from-the-sticks, three-piece suit off the rack at Sears on Palafox in Pensacola. Now, thinking back on that suit, I am reminded of Red Skelton's character, Clem Kadiddlehopper.

However, in those days, I thought that suit portrayed a worldly, sophisticated, individual...somewhat like the Simon Templar (The Saint) character I had been reading about for years.

Let's not even mentio the basic training buzz cut which was still growing out when I finally took the Greyhound (got that...sophisticated guy, three piece hick suit, buzz cut, greyhound bus), and headed for San Francisco.

I did get to see the Golden Gate Bridge, and I found a hotel room near Chinatown and took a walk through that famous area, but I was waiting for the night.

That night, wearing my heavy brown wool suit of armor, and carrying a few bucks, which rapidly disappeared as "covers" and "minimums" were met, I made my way through Sodom, excuse me, San Francisco, and turned dreams into reality...which, as usual, did not match the dreams.

Oh, I got to watch Yvonne D'Angers' act (term used loosely) at Off Broadway, and almost tripped over Carol Doda as she came out of The Condor Club pursued by reporters asking questions. I apologized for almost stepping on her, she smiled, but did not reply. I saw various young (again used loosely) ladies (ditto) in various states of undress undulate entertainingly, or not, and even had a topless shoeshine, which I had seen written up in some magazine or another.

I had no real adventures, other than satisfying a young man's lust for the view of acres of female flesh, and, on the bus ride back to Monterey the next day, I decided that I was glad I had gone, but wouldn't do it again.
================
Thinking of traveling to San Francisco? I have started a small travel website. Click here to check it out.

Ich bin nicht faul, Herr Porzig!!

In grade school and in high school, my teachers regularly complained to my parents that I "did not participate", did not do my work, came to class unprepared, and did not perform to potential.

Sometimes when I did "participate" or try to perform to "my potential", I was told that I should sit down and shut up because I wanted to talk about something that was not under discussion at the moment. On one occasion, a nun told me that I was wrong about something, and, when I looked it up in a dictionary and tried to show her that I was right, she refused to admit that I had been right and she had been wrong.

I learned that I was smart but not very good at learning, at least not in a classroom setting. I learned that most people did not want to hear what I had to say, especially if I was right.

I also figured out that I wasn't the usual student.

Eventually, I wound up in the army and they decided that I was smart enough to go to the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California to learn German (1966-67). It was great being in Monterey, but the learning part was hell. I managed to get through, but was lousy at German. Just barely passed.

One German instructor, Herr Porzig, a one-armed Prussian, often said to me, "Du bist faul, Herr Baldwin. Du bist faul." when I did not have my assignments memorized to his level of expectations.

I don't know what I could have done if things had turned out differently, but I do know that a few days ago, a doctor diagnosed me, at age 65, as having ADHD, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, a condition which can cause great difficulties in learning. It can be traced back to my childhood, and I have wondered for years but never discussed it with a professional.

I just assumed that everybody was right...I was a dreamer and somehow just lazy, even tho' I have received several awards for my actions over the years.

The doctor put me on a low dose of medication (Adderall) for ADHD, and I have noticed almost immediately that my mind is clearer and my reaction to life is more definite and certain.

Herr Porzig died a few years ago, I hear. I wish I could tell him, and several nuns, that maybe I wasn't just lazy.

Recent Diagnosis Explains a Lot

I have been meaning to ask a doctor about a particular condition for years, but always forgot. That was part of the problem. I forgot a lot of things...all my life. I hated being in classrooms even tho' I loved learning. I would zone out of important meetings, even interviews, in just a few minutes. I started project after project and the next day couldn't even remember what I had intended to do.

I once had to explain to my first wife why the garbage can was in the bedroom. I was taking out the garbage and something else captured my attention. I forgot about the garbage can until she brought it to my attention!

Long talk with the Doctor, tentative diagnosis...ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder). She started me on Adderall. I began with the first dose yesterday. It took a few hours, but, for most of the day, I felt more awake, aware, alert....and focused, than I could remember ever being, at least consistenly, since first grade.

Wish I could have gone through grade school, high school, and college feeling like this (took my second dose about an hour ago). I probably would have graduated from FSU rather than flunking out due to lack of interest. Well, if that had happened, I would not have met the woman I love. Just wish I could have had both worlds.

My Sister's Grave

I often think of my sister, Katherine Elizabeth Baldwin. I guess that's a little strange because I never met her. She was born prematurely around 1950, and the methods for saving preemies that saved my grandson, Niko, were not available back then.

She was buried in St. John's cemetary in Warrington, Florida, in an unmarked grave, because my parents could not afford a headstone at that time.

I remember visiting the grave a few times with my parents. At first it was easy to find the small, child-sized mound of dirt which marked the spot where she was buried. With time, we had to search the area where we knew the grave to be to find vestiges of her resting place.

Eventually, nature took care of that and her grave could no longer be found.

I have often wondered what it would have meant to have a younger sister.

Being the only boy between two girls might have been a bother, but having someone else to take the heat of being the youngest kid in the family might have had some positive effect. On the other hand, middle kids often feel neglected.

Who's to say.

Anyway, at the age of 65, I miss this sister I never knew who would be about 60 years old herself. It would have been fun to watch her grow up and, at least for a while, be the older brother.

Oh well. Life does not always answer our desires.

However, if she could not live her own life and make her own friends, at least perhaps a few people might read this and know she passed this way. I'm sure she would have been a good sister.

Lessons from the Army - The Motor Pool Walk

I was thinking about something this morning as I was writing a comment for my blog, Fitness After 40, and it triggered a new line of thought.

I was writing about safe driving for seniors, and that reminded me about when I was a truck driving instructor, then when I was a truck driver, and then when I was in the Army. That led me to the motor pool walk.

My wife and I call this a "rabbit trail". It's more representative of my thought process than hers as she's much more focused than I am, but we both realize that the subject is about to change when one of us looks at the other and says, "rabbit trail".

Anyway, in the Army, I spent a lot of time in motor pools, checking on equipment, training or supervising soldiers, or as an equipment operator myself. They can be dangerous places if you are not paying attention. That is why a company commander I served under, or perhaps it was a first sergeant, stressed what he called "the motor pool walk".

Basically, for safety's sake, you keep your head up, your eyes moving, and pay attention to all that is going on around you.

This was a good lesson for me in many aspects of army life, not just the motor pool. We did a lot of dangerous things, and simply paying attention was worth the effort when you consider the alternative!

Later, in the civilian world, I became a truck driver for a while and eventually a truck driving instructor. Once again, as I moved through equipment yards, strange facilities, truck stops, and even over the road, "heads up and eyes moving" was a good mantra.

When you read or listen to motivational speakers, they too often describe in their own way what I would define as "the motor pool walk". When we as soldiers had to move across an open area, some target or goal would be selected to walk towards, but it would still be necessary to look around to see what was going on and identify any potential threat or danger. The person looking at his or her feet was almost certain to veer off course and more likely to wander into a dangerous situation.

As I aged, I became aware that it was a little more difficult to walk, drive, even concentrate (although that has been an ongoing problem of mine since grade school). However, I reverted to consciously imposing "the motor pool walk" as a condition of any activity, and it helped immensely. I also learned that many seniors who are experiencing loss of balance often have a habit of looking down at the ground in front of them.

Not only does this hamper their ability to move safely and surely at the moment, but studies have also shown that it actually contributes to poor balance and more frequent falls. As the studies of mental exercise progress, it has become obvious to many researchers that keeping your head up, eyes moving, and thinking about what is going on around you actually helps the brain retain its ability to make decisions, problem solve, improve balance and keep you out of trouble.

It's amazing that one little lesson can last so long and have such a profound affect on one's life.

Lou and the Shelf Stretcher

In the early 60's, before I went in the Army, and in the late 60's, after I got out, I worked for Delchamps grocery in Pensacola.

After I got back from the Army, the Delchamps folks took me back and put me on the night stock crew at their Mobile Highway store, out near the Circle. Shortly after I started, the stock crew chief, Larry Poole, took a transfer to another store, and I became night stock crew chief. It was while working there that I took part in one of the few practical jokes I ever helped pull.

Since night stock crew only took a few hours a week, most of the night crew, including myself, worked stock during the days to make our 40 hours. I often worked with a guy named Doug. Doug was, well, to put it mildly, a little nuts.

One day a new bagboy was hired. His name was Lou, and you couldn't hope to meet a nicer guy, but he was naive. To the bagboys, stockers were a step up the food chain anyway and a couple of steps short of management.

One day, the manager, Kenneth McLemore, also a nice guy, but not the least bit naive, was out of the store for a few minutes. As Doug and I walked up to the front, we noticed Lou bagging groceries for a lady. We were in the elevated office with a clear view of the checkout. Doug picked up the microphone and paged, "Lou. Come to the office when you're finished."

Lou came up right away, and Doug said, "Lou, I noticed you put the eggs and tomatoes on the top of the bags. They might fall out and get broken. You need to put them in the bottom of the bag and put a couple of things on top to make sure they stay in."

Lou listened intently, but with a confused look on his face. "I thought we weren't supposed to do it the way I did it!"

Doug asked angrily, "Are you questioning me?"

Lou immediately said, "No, Doug. I guess I was confused."

He went back down to help another customer. I watched him while Doug looked for some supplies. Finally I picked up the microphone and paged, "Lou. Please report to the office, now."

Doug looked up. "Now what?"

I replied, "He put tomatos in the bottom of the bag and was putting cans on top...just like YOU told him. If Kenneth finds out...."

Just then, Lou came back into the office. Doug explained that he had just been joking, and told Lou to go back and fix the lady's bag. Lou came back over and he started explaining how we knew so much and he was still trying to learn everything. He went on to say that he wished that he could get off the front and help us work stock.

Doug looked at him and then winked at me.

"Lou, do you want to help us out?"

Lou nodded.

"Well, Don and I need to set up a display up front here, but we need a shelf stretcher. Would you go in the back and get us one?"

Lou was off like a shot. He was back in a few minutes, with a worried look on his face.

"I looked all over the stockroom," he said, "but I couldn't find anything that looked like one."

Here came my contribution,

"Hey, I think I saw it back in the incinerator room."

Back in those days, we burned the excess boxes and other garbage.

Lou headed towards the back again.

Now, it was Summer in Florida, and we had used the incinerator that morning, so the incinerator room was sweltering AND FILTHY! You could not move in there without getting soot all over yourself, and we wore white shirts!

While Lou was in the back, the store manager, Kenneth McLemore, came in the front door. Kenneth always wore a gold blazer and looked starched and neat. He had worked his way up from bagboy to store manager, and he was a great guy, but he ran a tight ship...no nonsense.

We were ready to split to the back and pull Lou off the hunt for a shelf stretcher, but Kenneth caught us by surprise.

"What are you guys doing hanging around up front?"

Before we could answer, Lou came up, red-faced, dripping sweat, and with soot all over his clothes, face, and hands.

"What's going on?" asked Kenneth with a little edge in his voice and a slightly brittle smile on his face.

Before we could answer, eager Lou piped up, "I was helping Doug and Don set up a display. They asked me to find a shelf stretcher for them." All this with a happy smile on his face.

Kenneth looked at Doug, looked at me, back at Doug, and said, "Come up to my office, now!"

The jig was up. Kenneth was going to fry us. Doug, Lou, and I began to follow him. Suddenly he stopped, turned to Lou and said, "Lou, the reason you couldn't find a shelf stretcher in the back was because I lent it to the manager of the Red and White Grocery by the McDonald's on Navy Boulevard. Do you have your car here?"

Lou nodded.

"Okay," said Kenneth, "I want you to drive down to the Red and White and tell the manager we want our shelf stretcher back. He was supposed to return it last month. Make sure you let him know how mad I am that he didn't return it."

Lou nodded again and bolted out the door, a man (boy) with a mission.

Kenneth headed for the office with us in tow.

"I'm going to get you guys for this!" but he was smiling.

He pulled out the phone book, found the number to Red and White, and called. He asked for the manager, and once he got him on the phone, briefed him on what was going on.

After hanging up, he turned to us and said, "He's going to give Lou a hard time and will call us back."

A few minutes later the phone rang, and Kenneth talked to the caller for a while. It was obvious that it was the other store manager with his report.

After he hung up, he said, "Lou got there and gave him my message and he told Lou to tell me that I was crazy and that he had returned the shelf stretcher weeks ago. He added a few obscene remarks about me and Delchamps and told Lou to get the hell out of his store.

A few minutes later, Lou pulled back into the parking lot and rushed into the store with a woeful but angry look on his face. Lou was a good guy, and somebody like that talking that way about Kenneth and Delchamps really upset him.

Kenneth played with him for a couple more minutes and then let him in on what had happened. At first, Lou was upset, but after a while, he began to talk about how the joke had been on him.

Several years later, I stopped at a Delchamps store in Gulf Breeze (now known as Bruno's), and the manager was, you guessed it, Lou. Delchamps went out of business several years ago, and I don't know where anybody is that I used to work with, but I can still see everybody's face as Lou walked up covered with soot, eager as a puppy, as Kenneth realized what was going on.