Mostly Anecdotal

“We’ve got all kinds of good music, bands you’ve never even heard of,” she said. “Well there’s your problem.” I said, “bands—I’m more of an orchestra guy.”

Tim, Chris, Cinnamon and I were getting ready to leave for Las Vegas to play chess. Chris had purchased an FM transmitter for his iPod we’d be able to play his 30 gigabytes of tunes through the radio. Well not entire thirty gig the trip is only 400 miles, about six hours, more like 300 megabytes.

There was a time when I made the trip in five hours not six, but caution comes with age, and one too many tickets. “How fast do you think you were going,” he’d say. Today I’d say about 60 megabytes an hour officer, and smile knowing that I was not being stopped for speeding.

It was true what she said there were many bands I’d never heard of. My education started with Mercury Program, and their funky vibraphone sounds, then a reprieve was issued and we listened to some Britpop, all very melodic, and all quite enjoyable. Then came Bloc Party, a Post Punk Indie band, Nine Inch Nails, I’d heard of, a guaranteed headache. They are the poster child for all the angst and anger in the current generation. Ghostland Observatory and Ratatat followed, they both play electronica, but unlike Mercury Program they add lyrics. Then there was a German band Rummstein singing Du Hast. Won Beta Band, American Analog Set, Interpoll, oh my do they have a dark sound. A little bit of Thom Yorke and we were there.To be fair there was a Mozart Concerto and some Beattles in there somewhere, but mostly it was stuff I’d never heard.

All told we listened to 8 hours of music on a six-hour trip, thanks’ to Chris’ temporally transcendental iPod. I’m still a classical guy, but now I’m up-to-date and musically savvy.

An elevator is normally a quiet place, all the occupants on a mission to discover something interesting on the ceiling while keeping an eye on the blinking red light registering the floor number as they ascend or descend. Las Vegas is different, a conjunction of happy vacationers bent on having a good time—cheery, hopeful, and friendly. It was just such a car we occupied with five others, eight total, well under the 3000 pound capacity, on our final night in Las Vegas. Let me see, were we going up or going down, returning from the latest round of the chess tournament, or on our way there. I don’t recall. I do remember I was standing near the wall on one side, my sons Tim and Chris on the other. The woman was standing in the middle.

I recognized her immediately. She had mid-western written all over her and child of the twenties tattooed on her glasses with rhinestones. She was probably one of those moms, like mine, who did the ironing while I listened to the Lone Ranger on the radio–hi ho Silver, away. Today she was in Las Vegas, and sharing the elevator with us. She was a look-a-like for Pauline, my father-in-laws second wife. Her hair was white and the whiff of grey was the frosting on the look-a-like cake.

I caught Tim’s eye pointing her out with a nod of my head while mouthing her name. He immediately nudged his brother, glanced at her, and repeated my message. They were both smiling now. The woman was talking to her husband. It was Pauline’s voice reincarnated in this stranger in Vegas having a good time.

Memories of the times in Yuma visiting Pauline and Earl flooded back, and Pauline’s catch phrase, an exclamation, one she often repeated on the Golf course flooded back. Sink a long putt and Pauline would say, “well, goodnight Agnes” or during an evening game of Shanghai rummy, Pauline’s game, a surprising play was guaranteed to generate the phrase.

The boys had heard her say it often, so when Pauline’s double told her husband that she felt a jackpot in her future, I couldn’t resist– “Well, goodnight Agnes,” I said. The boys would have spit up their drinks if they’d had any. They showed remarkable restraint by not laughing out loud– but best of all was the woman. It was as if she had known Pauline, as if she’d been in on our private communications from the beginning, she laughed and said, “Yep, that’s right.”

Tom Brokaw calls it the Greatest Generation. I call it the clean-plate generation. One thing is certain–the experience of growing up during the depression is still with them. Waste not, want not is now part of their DNA.

Waste not, want not moments are a regular part of our annual trips to Yuma to visit Gail’s Dad. I don’t know whether things go better with Coke, but I do know our family drinks its share and wastes a fair amount in the process.

Pauline discovered a nearly full can of Diet Coke with no apparent owner, and put it in the refrigerator. Immediate action was needed if we were to avoid a nasty situation. No one wants to drink a flat, half-full Coke, but with Pauline on the prowl there would soon be a six-pack of them in the fridge. We all knew what we had to do, and started working to lessen the damage. We secreted flat, half-full drinks into the sink, emptied them, and carefully placed the cans in the recycling bin.

But, it wasn’t long before Earl joined in Pauline’s effort not to waste a single drop. He came through the living room in inspection mode, and quickly spotted several unattended cans. He scowled, raised his arm, and pointed to each can in turn as though he expected the can to identify its owner. I think he was ready to suggest name-tags for the cans. Tim did the next best thing when he immediately claimed ownership of the can nearest him, and when Earl pointed to another at his right, he said he was watching it for his brother. The can across the room belonged to Gerald, who was in the bathroom, and when Earl pointed to a fourth can Tim found an owner for that as well. Earl continued to scan the room, and Tim who had run out of potential owners was more than a little relieved when he didn’t find any. I entered the room ready to claim a can, and Earl gave me his your-son-is-a-bullshitter smirk. I responded with a whatever-do-you-mean smile.

I don’t know if there is a moral to the story, but it was Gail’s Sunday morning chat with her dad that brought it to mind. Earl had told her that he needed new tires for his car; his code for there is a new car in my future. Earl may be frugal, a certified member of the Greatest Generation, but he also has a thing about cars. A couple of Sundays later Gail passed along the news that her dad had a new car. “Wait till Norm finds out,” he had said. I’m not sure how to respond, hey Earl my tires are looking pretty worn, or waste not want not. They say that Coke adds life, but it’s the Greatest Generation that keeps it interesting.

We arrived at Heathrow 45 minutes early at 6:10 a.m. Chris said we could simply take the underground from Heathrow to Kings Cross the connection to St. Pancras and a train to Sheffield. Everyone knew exactly where they were going on the underground except three from Utah with oversize suitcases.

There were few on the train upon boarding but that quickly changed. At first it was students going to school, no problem we had seats and it was a 50 minute ride to Pancras Station. At the following stations the morning business crowd poured onto the train. They all exhibited an incredible sense of balance while standing in the aisle reading The Daily Something with the headline blaring “Blair says Saddam Has To Go” One young bloke wearing black slacks with a white tweed jacket, his air lightly spiked, and a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul in his lap was totally engaged in his reading. He looked up at us, the what the hell are they doing on the underground look, neither angry nor bemused. I can’t imagine what he was thinking.

The train kept getting more and more crowded I couldn’t imagine how another person could board, but somehow they did. I started wondering how the hell we would ever get off the train our suitcases pinning us in our seats, a mass of humanity between us and the doors, and trains that wait for no one. I could see two of us making it off while the third continued to ride the underground forever. A Kingston Trio tune, M.T.A., running through my mind. At the moment when panic was beginning to set in, the Leicester Station, a fair number of passengers departed. It was still quite crowded however. Luck was on our side when additional passengers departed at Russell Square making our task easier as we pulled into Kings Cross and exited the train.

Chris had told us that there was construction taking place and we would probably have to go outside. Just follow the signs were his instructions. Up stairs with stares from the Brits we trudged our 70 pound bags in tow. After waiting for a gap in a line of suits coming down the escalator we crossed to the stairs and the way out. The way to the surface was a little like using a Stairmaster while carrying a suitcase Chris had saved us money, at that moment I would have hired help, if any was available. We huffed and we puffed but finally made it to the above ground Pancras Station and the above ground train. Chris had scored a real bargain on our tickets from Pancras Station London to Sheffield $25.00 each. He purchased them on the Internet. He was concerned that we might have unexpected delays so scheduled our departure for 12:25 p.m. it was barely 9:00 a.m. when we arrived. I saw that a train was leaving at 9:55 a.m. and decided to see if I could exchange our tickets. “Internet tickets no exchange” she said and $250.00 if we wanted new tickets. Suddenly a three hour wait didn’t seem that long. A sandwich shop, a decent cup of coffee, and Allan Faust’s Dark Star in my bag would make it tolerable.

There are only a few in the passengers lounge waiting. A fellow bent over feeding a child in a carrier and a pigeon picking up after anyone that dropped a scrap of food. A businessman had commandeered the corner of the shop spreading his papers out all around him, and on his cell phone for the next 45 minutes trying to convince a customer that what he was selling was exactly what the customer wanted to buy. It was obvious even hearing only one side of the conversation that he had a long way to go. I switched to reading and the time passed much more quickly. It was not long until the train to Sheffield was ready to depart. We were ready too.

Most summers during the nineteen fifties I boarded a bus in Salt Lake City, the leave the driving to us Greyhound type. I liked riding the bus. I met people I would never have met otherwise. They were not like my friends or my parents, or anyone I knew. I fancied I was traveling in a foreign country. The passengers certainly seemed foreign to me.

Some hours later I would arrive in Idaho Falls. There were no freeways then, and the trip from Salt Lake took six or seven hours, it now takes four or five. My Mom’s parents, the Borrowman’s, lived in Lincoln, a small town on the outskirts of Idaho Falls. I never worried about my Grandma being there to pick me up since I knew her phone number, Jackson 2-7717. Grandma arrived right on time, driving her new 1955 Ford Victoria. I would spend a week visiting. I liked visiting. I especially liked being the only grandchild there. Usually we would travel to Island Park Reservoir. Island Park was not what you would normally think of as an island, but rather an island of lakes, woods, rivers meadows and mountains. It is twenty miles South of West Yellowstone. The fishing is great at Island Park. Grandpa and his friends liked to fish the Henry’s Fork of the Snake River or one the reservoirs or lakes in the area.

The summer of 1955 it was my favorite, Island Park Reservoir. We left early in the morning, it was cold and still quite dark, it felt even colder as we glided over the surface of the reservoir at 15-20 miles per hour. I snuggled behind my Grandpa trying to stay warm. I was anxious for the sun to rise, and for the fishing to begin. Grandpa had taught me how to put a worm on my number ten snelled hook. “If you’re going to fish you have to learn to bait your own hook,” he said. The others were using spinners, spoons, and other gadgets I didn’t even recognize in their attempt to catch a few of the many trout found there. No one had any luck at the first spot we tried so we moved on. The sun was higher in the sky now and it was no longer cold. We slowed, killed the motor, and glided to a stop. The anchor was dropped over the side. I attached a worm to my hook and cast near the boat. A few moments later I caught the first fish of the day. “Good going little guy.” Said one of Grandpa’s friends. “Looks like your Grandson is a real fisherman Lorus,” he said. A few minutes later I caught another fish, and another, I was really enjoying fishing and the praise of the expert anglers. Grandpa gave me a chain to put my fish on showing me how to put the hook through the mouth and out the gill and snap it closed. I was still the only one catching any fish.

Now two things happened. First I realized I needed to pee, and at the same time one of Grandpa’s buddies asked me what bait I was using. We were in the middle of a reservoir; I’d just have to hold on no problem. I told Dale I was using a worm. He said, “Oh God not a worm, that’s not fishing. Use a spinner, a spoon, anything, but not a worm. I’d rather not catch a single fish than have to use a worm.” Five minutes later I caught another fish and another of the purists said, “Hell I want trout for dinner pass me one of those worms.” I caught my fifth while he was still baiting his hook. Grandpa laughed and said, “Pass the worms, and started changing his gear to accommodate hook and worm. The first fellow to switch caught a trout, that convinced the others to change but not the diehard. I still needed to pee. “How long are we going to fish,” I asked Grandpa. “If we start catching them as fast as you are it won’t be long,” he said. “We’ll have our limits in no time.”

I really needed to go, but was to embarrassed to tell anyone. We would have to return to the dock. We would never find this great spot again. I could hold on for a little longer. My sixth and seventh fish came as fast as I could cast and reel them in. The others had all switched to worms. Mister I-don’t-use-worms, said “I don’t like it but Mable will never forgive me if I don’t come back with some dinner.” Everyone was rapidly catching their limits, but there was no way I could wait, my pants were wet. I remember thinking, I hope they dry before we have to get out of the boat and everyone sees what I have done. Not five minutes after I had given up the fight with my bladder. One of the men said, “I need to pee.” He stood and peed over the side of the boat. I couldn’t believe it, all I had to do was stand and pee over the side of the boat.

I quickly caught my limit as did the others in our party with the exception of you know who. He did catch enough for dinner, but not his limit. Grandpa started the Evinrude and we cruised across the reservoir back to the dock and the car I held my chain of fish in front of me as I got out of the boat. I don’t think anyone noticed. When we returned to the cabin Grandma came out of the cabin with her Brownie Camera to take a picture of my string of fish, the fish I was still holding in front of me. Boy was I proud of the fish and the embarrassment they were saving me. Back in the cabin Grandma told me how proud she was of me, and suggested that perhaps I would like to change my clothes for dinner, grandmas.

Note: The picture is of all of the Borrowman grandchildren taken sometime in the fifties, in front of Grandma’s house, from left to right. Back row: Steve’s friend Gene Hennen, Steve, David, and Keith Front row: Norm, Wayne, Doug, Betty Jo, and Janna Lee The little guy up front: Jerry