PERSONAL NARRATIVES ROOM

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My brother Alfred’s early life was connected to both the First World War and the Second World War. His middle name, Harold, was in memory of his maternal grandfather Harold Sparrow, a fact that Alf often proudly reminded me of. Harold Sparrow served as a soldier in the trenches in France during WW1, died just a few days before the war ended and is buried in France. 

We were a working-class family, living in the East End of London. Alf was born in 1936, and I was born in 1947. I grew up hearing Alf’s vivid accounts of what it was like being a child in London during the Second World War. Like many other Londoners his family would often sleep in a rough shelter in the back garden, called an Anderson shelter. It was really just a hole in the ground, covered by corrugated steel sheets and soil from the excavated hole. Alfred remembers his dad would leave the shelter during the night to join with his neighbors in extinguishing incendiary devices that rained down on them.

Every kid in our neighborhood had a prized shrapnel collection. In the morning after an air raid, my brother would join his friends in the streets, searching for bomb fragments to add to his own box of shrapnel.

The final years of the war, 1944 and 1945, brought a different kind of menace from the skies to Alfred’s neighborhood in the form of flying bombs, the V1 and V2. The V2 rocket was especially devastating. One landed in our neighborhood and destroyed a large area of streets and houses. At school assembly the next morning, my brother was shocked to see that almost a dozen of his classmates were missing, and possibly dead. 

When I think of Alf’s life and what it has meant to me, I think of his 2 years of National Service in the Royal Air Force and his love of flying. I think of his love of classical music. I fondly remember my trips with Alf to the Promenade Concerts at the Royal Albert Hall in London. I think of his love of poetry and literature, which played a large part in the development of my own love of literature. He was responsible for introducing me to Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories, which have become a lifelong interest of mine. I think of his loving and devoted marriage of 68 years to Betty. I think of his pride in his family and the personal and professional achievements of his children Mark, Liz and Paul. I remember his passion for short story writing. If you go to the Amazon website, you will see there many examples of his work.

In remembering my brother, the words of Hamlet paying tribute to his deceased father come to mind: “He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.”

Roy Sargeant, November 2024 

 I was an Early Adopter of adventures that went on to become common  place. Here are a few examples of being ahead of the curve: 

As a toddler I identified with recalcitrant star of The Poky Little Puppy. Later, I  became famous as Procrastinus in high school Latin. “I’ll turn in my homework when I  feel like it!” Sounds like Gen Y, doesn’t it?

 In 1947 I was enraptured by a reading of Dr. Seuss’ And to Think That I Saw It on  Mulberry Street. I identified with the protagonist, whose story got better with each  retelling. So, I went on to tell stories, myself. 

• Once in the first grade, my daily story audience of 5 and 6 year-olds were so  mesmerized that we failed to return after lunch. Worried teachers found us in the  bushes as I held forth. 

• In the seventh grade, I found the suddenly attractive girls enjoyed my retelling of  off-color jokes. Sample from a dude range exchange: “I just saw a cowboy packing a  38’s.” “That’s nothing. I just saw a cowgirl go by with a pair of 44s!” Titter, titter. 

• I diffused many violent teenage situations with humorous quips and stories. Better a  punch line than a punch out. Eddie Murphy used this trick as a teenager. 

• I would buttonhole high school friends on the street to regale them with condensed  versions of The Canterbury Tales. 

• In the Army, I would amuse my colonel with personal anecdotes over coffee each morning. I discovered later that this kept me from being deployed to Viet Nam. 

• I used stories to win jobs and girlfriends, to close sales, even to understand the  Hierarchy of Knowledge. This is a universal field theory I developed in the early 90s. It  says that observed and recorded Nature becomes Data, when categorized becomes  Information, when interpreted becomes Knowledge, when interrelated becomes  Understanding, when contemplated becomes Wisdom, when lived becomes Godliness,  which ultimately leads to the ability to create Nature. (Yes, this will be on the test.) Identified with Ferdinand, The Bull who would rather lie under the cork trees than  fight. Escaped from a criminogenic Junior High in an Illinois factory town to a lily-white  California suburban high school experience. (Thanks for moving us, Pop.) I identified  with James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. Began a life-long career as a dilettante and enthusiast. If there was something to do, I  tried it with gusto. Then I spun my experiences as entertainingly as possible. I  identified with George Plimpton and the hipsters in Kerouac’s On The Road. Or maybe  even Tom Hanks as Forest Gump. Partied in high school. After seeing Crazy Larry escape from the police cruiser into the  woods behind Carolyn Kelloway’s house, I identified with the Michael Cera character  in Superbad. Perfect four-year record of NEVER eating lunch in the high school cafeteria. Instead, I  patronized the walk-up window for junk food and strolled around, “eating street” as  they say in New York. Doubtless my youthful appearance is the result of consuming  over a thousand preservative-laced Hostess Twinkies. Read Elmtown’s Youth in high school. Milestone on journey from Good Methodist to  Anthropologist/Sociologist. Played in rock bands and MJQ cover quartet. Learned that fights at parties spared the  band. Identified with musicians in The Blues Brothers. Self-Reliance, Adolescent Style. Got high school student body to adopt a Code of  Conduct in return for new privileges. One such was sitting wherever one wanted in  the bimonthly school assemblies. So, every two weeks I stood in front of 1,200 kids  who politely listened to my updates. Without any adults in the auditorium! I pitched  this story at every college interview. No one had ever heard of such thing. It got me  admitted to schools in Portland, Berkeley, Claremont and Hanover. Off to a stretch choice college. Heretofore only for the privileged, I was one of first  regular folks to go. I identified with Richard Dreyfuss in American Graffiti. [Turned  out Dr. Seuss went there, too.] Bizarre college experiences. Example: waking up among plush curtains and plaster  columns in NYC. How did I end up in a photographer’s studio? I identified with the  protagonist in Dylan Thomas’ Adventures in the Skin Trade. More likely, I was creating  a character for Animal House. [As it happens, Animal House is based on events during  my freshman year at Dartmouth. I may have been the inspiration for D-Day, the  motorcyclist/ mechanic!] After graduating, I identified with Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. Served my country yet avoided combat. What’s luck got to do with it? Maybe it was  the lesson from Ferdinand, The Bull. Partied with divorced beauticians and mail order  brides in the greater Tacoma area. Quit smoking in 1967 by exercising to the point of nausea before lunch each day.  (Thank God for handball.) Became anti-smoking zealot in the 70s, not allowing guests  to smoke in our home. Now France has quashed those stinky Gallouises in all public  places. Take that, Jean Paul Belmondo. Became an entrepreneur when the label was only used in France. With 60s  appropriate facial hair, I was called a Hip Capitalist. (I was born 9 months after Pearl  Harbor, so of course I had a Japanese motorcycle shop. Good thing Pop beat ’em.) Pioneer in the LTA Movement. LTA = Living Together Arrangement. Became only a “serial monogamist”. Never made it to the “casual sex” level. Not for  lack of trying, but too much of a romantic. However, I was able to delay marriage:  too much of a hedonist. One of the few unmarried classmates at 10th high school reunion. One attendee asked  my girlfriend, “Are you liberated?” Duh. Raced motorcycles way passed the point of common sense. In fact, I Peter-Principled  with multiple contusions, fractures and concussions. On my Triumph twin I identified  with Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, not Marlon Brando in The Wild Ones. On my  400cc Suzuki motocrosser I identified with Evel Knievel, shouting “Oh no, not again!”  (Knievel is well known as the inspiration for the Britney Spears chartbuster, “Opps, I  Did It Again.”) Was experimenting with Excess Leisure Time when I met future wife. Got picked as  husband by this tall, pretty, brainy, cutting edge, bank officer who was a closet  Alternative Lifestyler. Oh my! I believe she liked my stories. Bought leather running shoes by Adidas long before jogging craze began. (Sister once  told me ADIDAS is a mnemonic for All Day I Dream About Sex. Alright!) Number Two in family home building business. I identified with oldest brother  in Arrested Development. Owned two homes by the fourth year of marriage. No money down. Went on to be a  pioneer in both adjustable rate mortgages and the Refi game. And why not? Who  wants to leave their home equity to their children? Experienced mid-life career change into Sales. Most other folks where chaining  themselves to their desks by then. Delayed children for many years. Then attended Lamaze, LeLeche and actual  delivery. Why? To have one perfect little pun'kin, whom we sent to private schools  because only the best was good enough. Fortunately, the kid got my wife’s good looks  and my math skills. Usually did everything My Way, to varied degrees of success. Later learned this was a  song by Frank Sinatra. Never identified with him. Became wine maker with grapes from my estate. I found the vines under the weeds in  my front yard. The product is yet to be palatable. Bacchus anyone?  Found work at the oldest software company in world. Eventually, organized the folks  there to great success, which led to being acquired. This made so much money for so  many people, that during the acquiring company’s final week, many salespeople approached me at the Court of Two Sisters in New Orleans. They would kneel by my  table and express their thanks. I should have worn a ring for them to kiss. Laid off in the Dot Com bust and never got back on the horse. Blogged against Illegal Immigration before it became fashionable. In August 2007, the  public overwhelmed their elected officials in agreement. Problem solved. [Update:  No, it’s not.] Realized in 2005 that human-generated greenhouse gases causing Global Warming was  mass hysteria. Humans cause 0.28% of all the greenhouse gases surrounding the Earth.  A rounding error! This silliness will fade into oblivion during Hillary’s first term. I have  already moved on. [All confirmed in Unsettled by Prof. Steven E. Koonin, 2021] Way behind the learning curve for my age: while parental concern goes on forever,  control disappears before you know it. Planning my Next Act, delaying the front porch and rocker as long as possible. Perhaps  forever. 

Dan,

Here's some sketchy memories of being in Siem Reap (spelling throughout may be faulty).  The year was 1970 Maybe as late as 72 perhaps?  (in 1969-70 I spent 13 1/2 months traveling around the entire globe--I didn't go everywhere but I came pretty close. I'm pretty sure I flew from Singapore to Siem Reap, perhaps with a plane change in the Pnom Pen.  I got an inexpensive room in an almost empty high end hotel.In the morning I rented a bicycle which I had for the next 4 or 5 days.  Daily I covered a lot of ground and visited most of the noted temples.  The French who had ben doing restorations had recently returned to France, but they let it all pretty magnificent.. The paths were all easily navigable by bike. I often saw friendly children playing in the temples, and inevitably the central chamber of temples featured newly lit candles.,though apart from the children one saw no one. I only saw other tourists in the main most famous temple. There was way more than enough to occupy me for 4 or 5 full days.

A minor river flows down the main thoroughfare of Siem Reap and I was befriended by a Cambodian student and we had cokes together on several days of engaging conversations which I have surely completely forgotten. Montezuma's revenge didn't touch me until I was out of the country,in a hotel room in Bangkok.

It was decades before I discovered that Sihanouk was deposed shortly before or after I flew from Siem Reap to Thailand. I learned only later that I was probably still in Cambodia when we started the carpet bombing in the North.

Years later I was on a Dartmouth Travel trip to Viet Nam with '64-clasmates who had fought in that war. I was one of only three in the group who had not served.  I could not begin to depict the complexity of that trip for me, and I was very very glad to have done it, and still glad to have experienced Angkor and Siem Reap in what were probably its final days before the war inevitably widened.

Fred Kolouch '64, still traveling! 

It’s a hot summer night inside a Sacramento rodeo arena. An oval of hay bales has turned it into a motorcycle track. Dust, noise and exhaust fumes flood my full-face helmet. Sweaty black leather armors my nether regions. I look like Darth Vader with his head stuck in a wastebasket. Why am I doing this?

Nine fellow masochists and I are a tableau of anticipation. In two rows of five riders, we lean over our gas tanks and rev like banshees. Each rider is on his toes, elbows out, staring bug-eyed at the narrow entrance to the first turn.

I had won the fastest heat, so I sit on the pole for the main event. The starter’s shoulder begins to move. I see it first. Instinct takes over to coordinate clutch engagement with a butt bounce for traction. I had to get my second trophy ever. Right NOW!

My first trophy was for Dartmouth crew. It was a copper mug inscribed “Fall Championship 1960.”

Oarsmen are basically galley slaves victimized by a sadistic Mini-Me with a megaphone. November practice on the Connecticut River added the thrill of ice. Not bergs – not yet – but a film of ice that began to form on the shell. Our gang of 8 and ½ (no offense, Cox) grew stronger each evening as we carried our frozen vessel back to its house.

Rowing is perfect teamwork or it just doesn’t work. In our final race each stroke lifted the bow above the river. Our outboard arms Popeyed as we twisted our oars to feather the blades. The water dimpled with eight perfect pools as we pulled ahead. “Drive Ten,” bellowed the little fellow in the back. We strained the oars, raised the bow even higher, and roared first under the bridge to Norwich. We earned victory and free beer on the coxswain.

Ó Ó Ó

Six years earlier, my athletic career had begun in Junior High in a tough town near Chicago. By the 7th grade I had attained my full height. I was the biggest kid in the school who was not married.

The basketball coach drafted me as visions of winning danced in his head. Unfortunately, a congenital lack of both coordination and binocular vision (amblyopia) made basketball problematic. My first practice was my last. “Try football,” the coach suggested.

Next Fall I suited up in all kinds of neat football gear. First, we had to joyride the coach around on the blocking sled. This resembled an overturned automobile hood with padded poles. Then the players joyfully practiced pounding each other into the mud.

In Illinois, tackle football was played in Junior High. Also, real men did not wear facemasks. Nothing like a bust in the mouth to get your motor running. I started as nose tackle and the right side pulling guard. The nose tackle’s job is to slam the opposing center to the ground, then vault over him to grapple whoever has the ball. The offensive role of pulling guard was even more fun. When the play worked, you would go left and charge down the line of scrimmage to T-bone your unwary target.

These contact skills prepared me for competition down theroad.

Blessed with lightning reflexes, I am a length ahead into the first turn. I usually led in the beginning then “worked my way back.” But not tonight.

I downshift to third, steer right and lean left, and extend my left leg to plow my steel shoe. High revs drive the back wheel out the other way. A classic dirt track power slide. This scrubs off just enough speed to get around the corner. Good thing: flat track bikes have no brakes.

The second place rider comes in way too hot and highsides into the wall behind me. Hasta la Vista, baby.

With only ten laps on a tiny 1/10th mile oval I don’t have to be fast. I just have to stay first. Dive for the groove. GO LEFT.

I moved to California the Summer before high school. When football started, I was the freshman team’s only experienced tackle ball player. I averaged over a sack per game.

In the Spring I made the freshman track team. Ran the 100 and threw the little 8 pound shot a mighty 30 feet or so. This was OK until a pair of hulking Neanderthal adolescents appeared at one meet. They threw in the 38-39 range. I was so steamed by their performance, I scooped up the steel ball, pirouetted like Discabolus and threw 42 feet to win the event.

My joy was short-lived. The coach had seen my throw and royally chewed my posterior for “cheating.” Allegedly, I had failed to “put” the shot and was disqualified.

I chewed back, demanding he prove it. He produced a rulebook and terminated my track career on the spot.

By the second lap I am hitting 50 mph in the straight-aways. I grandly slide the turns for both debonair photo ops and to block passers. Several riders behind me get tangled up. They go down in a heap. Via con dios, muchachos.

One rider keeps challenging my lead. Outside. Underneath. Even banging into my back tire. No way, Jose! This trophy is mine.

As my high school teammates grew larger, my injuries increased. When the pain began to disrupt my sleep, I decided to become an operetta star. So much for sports.

Ó Ó Ó

Dartmouth rekindled my sporting instincts. During Carnival there were acrobatics on snowy hills and striking a pose for visitors on the ice statues. Of course, any outdoor beer was discreetly consumed from a coffee mug. Other winter sports included sidewalk ice sliding, bicycle racing in the dorm and diving out windows into snow of hopefully sufficient depth.

A warm weather favorite was body surfing in Queechy Gorge. Just like riding the breakers in California until you came upon a rock. Then one attempted a dolphin leap over the mossy obstacle, slithering like Plastic Man.

In the motorsport realm, I once made it to Colby Jr. in 29 minutes. That was on a 500 Triumph twin. Four years later I opened a motorcycle shop. Who says you cannot develop vocational expertise in the Ivy League?

Everything hurts from concentrating so hard. A blink of inattention and you get passed. Or worse.

I still lead into the final turn. The crowd is on its many feet. I extend my left leg for the picturesque dirt track slide. My steel shoe sparks. I’m sideways. I see the checkered flag 40 yards ahead. I’m gonna win! What the Hell is that?

Repeated blows pound my outstretched leg. I look down to see an ugly black thing grow under me. Nasty Number Two wedges his front tire up next to my sliding motorcycle, pushing me out of the groove. This spinning wheel of death is headed for my crotch!

Buzz saw images flood my brain. Will it chew into my privates? A childless future flashes before my eyes.

Forget that. I am going to Make My Day.

Entwined closer than a Green Key couple, we slide around the last turn. My mind shuts out all sound and slows the action. I force my bike to lean even further, pushing against the competitor’s wheel until it washes out. Number Two separates and goes down hard. I gas my bike to wheelie across the finish line. The crowd roars.

I somehow slow down without falling off, get back to the Trophy Girl and pop my helmet for the smooch. After a daughterly peck on the cheek, she hands me a dazzling two-foot tall First Place trophy. I jam its simulated marble base into my leather jacket and take off around the track, waving to my newfound fans. The trophy’s goldtoned shaft hangs out in front, a manly confirmation of my awesome skill, at last.

This was my first and final racing victory.

Legendary motorcycle racer Dick Mann once said that this sport was made to order for competitive guys with little athletic ability. It worked for me.

Chuck Carroll

Walnut Creek, California December 2006

 MY DAY ON A DOODLE BUG 

Spring, 1956. Kankakee, Illinois.

 I am training to  be a juvenile delinquent and auto mechanic. Of  course, I was getting straight A’s in Jr. High  because that’s what our family did.

Through a random genetic occurrence I had  reached full adult height the year before. I was  the tallest kid in the school.

Combing my DA one day, I was reading the  latest Junior Scholastic. The cover story featured  guys my age doing motorcycle drill team stuff on  “Doodle Bugs.” They weren’t kidding: these  scooters were bug-like. But it sure looked like  fun!

 I forgot about it. My Dad had taken a job in  California, and we were going on An Airplane  (!) to join him in June.

 We moved into a place big enough for all of us  in Walnut Creek, CA. School hadn’t started, and  I didn’t know anybody. I read the local paper out  of boredom. Wait! What was this? Rhett-White  Ford in Walnut Creek sponsored THE Doodle Bug Club of America.

 That afternoon I biked to the Ford dealer. He told  me about the club and invited me to go along  when they performed at an AMA mile race at  Bay Meadows.

 On Race Day all the members and their Doodle Bugs met at the Ford dealership. An old  Greyhound bus with a crane on the roof was  loaded up with scooters, some on top, some  inside. 

On the way Pete Jensen told me he could help  me mount a bigger carb when I got my Bug. Jim  Howe told me we could “whip out the cam and  grind more duration into the intake lobe.” This  was hot stuff! 

During warm up I was taught how to ride. This  consisted of “go down there, turn around and  come back.” Everything was fine until turning  and stopping exceeded my skill level. My shoe  jammed into a retaining wall and the sole came  loose. But I didn’t damage the Doodle Bug. 

Before the Main Event, the club performed. My  job was to ride a back-up Bug to the drill team  area, then crouch out of the way.  

The team did its maneuvers including the figure  8. Eventually Dave Pringle jumped over four  guys laying on the asphalt. Everyone remounted  and The Club rode off to applause. 

“Quick,” the sponsor told me, “You’re supposed  to go with them!” OK, sure. Now how do you  start this thing? “Push me,” I yelled. “Can’t do  it,” was the reply, “Centrifugal clutch.” 

Several dozen kicks later I took off after the  Doodle Bug formation, now 200 yards ahead. I  got down low over the handlebars, accelerating  over 20 MPH. Being tall, I hung out some  distance ahead of the Doodle Bug. The sole of  my shoe, damaged during the training session,  flapped in the breeze. One lone Doodle Bug,  playing catch up. A noise filled my ears. I looked  back to see 5,000 race fans laughing at me. 

I was never able to afford a whole Doodle Bug. I  did buy an official motor complete with the  kickstarter. I bolted it to the bench in our garage  and serenaded the neighborhood for months,  until I got the burned-up Cushman. But that’s  another story.  

Chuck Carroll Walnut Creek, California 1993  

The author went on to race short track and  moto-cross and even opened his own shop in  Davis, CA. He recently ran into Club member  Jim Howe. Jim goes to Bonneville every year  and holds a class record just shy of 300 mph.  Not on a Doodle Bug, however 

 THE RED 1968 PONTIAC  CATALINA

The 1964 movie “The Yellow Rolls-Royce” portrays the life of a uniqueluxury automobile through three owners and their adventures, starting withits initial purchase, brand new, at a Rolls-Royce dealership in London. Irecently watched this movie for a second time and was struck by the waysin which it recalled my history and experiences with my mother-in-law’s red1968 Pontiac Catalina over a period of ten years.In December of 1968 I was finishing my first term of teaching at FletcherCollege in Corozal in the Central American country of Belize (or BritishHonduras as it was known then). The teaching staff at Fletcher Collegeconsisted mostly of volunteers from the UK (like me) and the USA. Ourscience teacher, Jeanne, was a US Peace Corps Volunteer, and waslooking forward to her parents visiting for Christmas, driving all the waydown from their home in Denver. Reverend John Makey, who was theMethodist missionary in Corozal, as well as the Principal of FletcherCollege, had arranged for Jeanne’s parents to stay at the Methodist manseduring their visit. Shortly after Jeanne’s parents arrived, I stopped by themanse and Rev. Makey said to me “Come and see their car.” Parked in thesingle car garage of the manse was a massive vehicle with only inches tospare on either side. We were both Englishmen used to small,underpowered cars. I don’t think either of us had ever seen an automotivemonster like this one, bright red, lots of chrome, and with a V8 engine,power steering and power brakes. After Christmas Jeanne’s parents drovehome, and I never expected to see their Pontiac Catalina again.Never say never. Fast forward to the summer of 1971, and Jeanne(Fletcher College science teacher) and I were celebrating our wedding inDenver! A second “adventure” reminiscent of the Yellow Rolls-Royce storytook place as follows. The same Pontiac Catalina I had seen first in Corozalplayed a significant role in our wedding because it was the vehicle mymother-in-law loaned us to go on our honeymoon in the Rocky Mountains.My third “adventure” with the Pontiac Catalina occurred in 1976. Jeanneand I had emigrated to the US and after a month in Denver I was preparingto drive our newly purchased VW car to Wisconsin to start a new job. But
my father-in-law saw my UK driver’s license and quickly pointed out twoproblems that could land me in jail if I was stopped for speeding as I drovethrough Nebraska. For one thing, it was in Welsh as well as English (it wasissued when we lived in North Wales) which would likely cause confusionand suspicion. Second, it was out of date. I tried to explain that in the UK1/10/76 meant October 1,1976, not January 10,1976 as it would in theUSA. “No one is going to believe that!” was my father-in-law’s response.What to do? I would have to quickly take the driving test in Denver with justa few days left before leaving for Wisconsin. Once again the PontiacCatalina came to the rescue. I drove it to take the test, and despite theunfamiliarity of its size, power steering and power brakes, I managed topass.By 1978, the red Pontiac Catalina had been given to Jeanne’s brother Danand his wife, who drove it with their family to join us on a camping trip innorthern Wisconsin. It was starting to show some wear and tear, but its sizemeant it was ideal for transporting their two young children and all theircamping gear, along with us and our two young children.From my first sight of the Pontiac Catalina in 1968, who could haveguessed it would be the start of an amazing ten-year journey?Roy SargeantOctober 2024 

THE FIELD

“This house,” said the realtor, “comes with the adjacent field that you share with eight other houses.” We stood on the deck and looked at the acre of raw land that the realtor was pointing to. I had recently been hired by the state of Idaho and  we were excited to be leaving Seattle and moving to Boise. After a long day viewing houses for sale, my wife and I sat in a bar in downtown Boise to talk about what we had seen and make our decision. What we came to refer to as “the house with the field” turned out to be our unanimous first choice. But this had nothing to do with the field, and more to do with the house’s scenic location in the foothills overlooking Boise, its accessibility to the Bogus Basin Ski Resort, and its proximity to my office.

As anyone who watches re-runs of the classic TV series “Gunsmoke” knows, the rights of land ownership have always been a contentious (and sometimes deadly) issue in the western USA. As we got to know our neighbors in the eight other houses surrounding the field, we began to understand the truth of this. 

It was the custom for all nine families to hold a monting ever get resolved about the field?” I asked him. “Yes,” was his reply. “It turned out that it always belonged to the City of Boise.”

Roy Sargeant, September 2024.hly Friday evening pot-luck supper, taking turns to host and provide the beverages. Conversation invariably  turned to “What are we going to do about the field?” We held a series of meetings in the ensuing months attempting to answer that question, with our neighbors taking turns to function as host. It always seemed to me that everyone was working hard to prove to everyone else that they knew how to run a business meeting. Using an easel, flip chart and marker pens, attendees expressed their opinions and suggestions, and minutes of the meetings were transcribed and distributed. Suggestions for the field included building a tennis court complete with floodlights, building a children’s adventure playground, allowing everyone to claim one ninth of the land by moving their property fence lines, or creating a community garden.

These meetings and discussions went on for almost a year, but we were unable to reach any consensus. Several neighbors became frustrated with our indecision and decided to act unilaterally. In one case, a neighbor moved his large recreational vehicle onto the land. Another neighbor just moved his property fence line (under cover of darkness) to claim his share.

When we moved from Boise nine years later, the acre of raw land was in the same condition as when we arrived. 

 Last year, we were in Boise visiting our son and his family, and I happened to run into one of our old neighbors. “Did anything ever get resolved about the field?” I asked him. “Yes,” was his reply. “It turned out that it always belonged to the City of Boise.”

Roy Sargeant, September 2024. 

 Hadrian's Wall
In the spring of 2017, my brother-in-law Dan and I walked Hadrian’s Wall,which extends 73 miles from Newcastle on the northeastern coast ofEngland to Bowness-on-Solway on the west coast (the width of the countryat those two points). In the words of one travel writer, the wall was built “byorder of the Emperor Hadrian in the second century AD as a defensivefortification to keep out the Celtic barbarians to the north and to protect thesuperior civilization of a great empire.” Construction began in 122 AD, wascompleted six years later, and represented the most northerly frontier of theRoman Empire. In 1987 Hadrian’s Wall was declared a UNESCO WorldHeritage Site.Anyone walking the Wall (more correctly the Hadrian’s Wall Path) as we didcannot fail to be impressed by the amazing feats of engineering andlogistics that Hadrian’s Wall represents, with much of the wall still existingin its original form and appearance today after almost two thousand years.The wall was designed to be ten feet wide, with a maximum height of 15feet. A ten feet deep ditch was dug on the northern-facing side, to makereaching the top of the wall even more challenging for invaders. On thesouthern-facing side of the wall the Romans constructed a military-graderoad to allow for the swift deployment of cavalry from their garrison inCarlisle in the event of threats or incursions from the “barbarians.” TheRoman cavalry soldier was equipped with only a long spear and trained tokill with a single thrust of the spear into the assailant’s chest.But Hadrian’s Wall is more than an enduring example of Roman militaryskill, engineering and world view. For me, it is a unique reminder of theinfluence, power and prestige of the Roman Empire itself. When travelingacross the Roman Empire and the rest of the known world, a Romancitizen’s safety was guaranteed for anyone who was able to declare “civisRomanus sum” (“I am a Roman citizen”). Retribution by Rome wasuniversally understood as certain should any harm or injury befall even oneof its citizens.Roy Sargeant, August 2024. 

DR. JOHNSON’S MONUMENT

My mother qualified as a registered nurse in 1939, just before the outbreak of the Second World War, and spent her entire career in the hospital-based care and treatment of the mentally ill. Not surprisingly, the field of mental illness was therefore one that I was attracted to, and like it was for my mother it became a life-long vocation. 

I began my career in 1972 as a trainee in the Department of Psychiatric Social Work at the North Wales Hospital (NWH), a 600-bed psychiatric hospital in Denbigh, North Wales. I clearly recall my first sight of the hospital when I arrived for my job interview, a foreboding, massive grey stone Victorian structure, opened in 1848 (it closed permanently in 1995).

But first impressions can often be misleading. What I gained during my two years at the NWH was an invaluable exposure to the diagnosis and treatment of mental illness, ranging from mild neuroses to the most severe psychotic disorders.

Some aspects of the hospital were stark reminders of a bygone era. There was an entire ward of institutionalized male patients who had undergone the surgical procedure of lobotomy, now universally discredited but a common treatment for severe mental illness in the 1940’s and 1950’s in both the UK and the USA. Lobotomy involves severing connections in the brain's prefrontal cortex. According to one expert, “The lobotomy procedure could have severe negative effects on a patient's personality and ability to function independently. Lobotomy patients often showed a marked reduction in initiative and inhibition.”

I happened to be on this ward one day to arrange a home visit for one of the patients. “We can’t do it on a Thursday,” the charge nurse told me, “Because that’s the day the entire ward walks over to work on Dr. Johnson’s monument.” “Dr. Johnson?” I exclaimed, “you mean the famous writer?” I soon discovered that the patients were involved in a project to clean, repair and restore a neoclassical stone memorial to the 18thcentury writer, essayist and lexicographer Dr. Samuel Johnson, located a short distance from the hospital. It is no small irony that Johnson himself suffered from mental disorders, including depression, for most of his adult life.

After some research, I learned that the monument was erected in 1775 by a local admirer to commemorate Dr. Johnson’s visit to Denbigh in 1774, a visit that occurred just one year after his famous visit to the Scottish Highlands with his biographer and friend James Boswell. 

Last year I read an article in the Guardian newspaper about places for the tourist to visit in Denbigh, North Wales. To my delight, I saw that Dr. Johnson’s monument still exists, is in good repair and is a “must see” for any visitor.

Roy Sargeant

July 2024 

“THIS BE THE VERSE” BY PHILIP LARKIN

Some years ago, I was in the famous Powell’s City of Books bookstore in Portland, Oregon. I was in the poetry section, where a sizeable shelf was devoted to Larkin’s poetry and other writings. Two young men walked by the Larkin section, and on seeing Larkin’s name one of them spontaneously quoted to the other the first lines of this poem. I remember thinking at the time that of all the 170 or so poems written and published  by Larkin, would this be the one he’d most want to be remembered by?

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.   

   They may not mean to, but they do.   

They fill you with the faults they had

   And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

   By fools in old-style hats and coats,   

Who half the time were soppy-stern

   And half at one another’s throats.\

Man hands on misery to man.

   It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

   And don’t have any kids yourself.

Roy Sargeant, June 2024.      

WHEELCHAIR ASSISTANCE

Delta Airlines has long been my favorite airline, but their competence and usual high level of quality customer service was recently put to an unexpected test. 

Returning from a trip at Christmas, my wife Jeanne fell and cracked her kneecap in two places. Her recovery has been slow and arduous, with her bravely progressing from using a wheelchair to a walker to a cane.

By the beginning of April, Jeanne was still largely incapacitated, but we were reluctant to forgo a planned trip to Boise, Idaho to see our grandchildren, which included celebrating our grandson’s second birthday. What to do? My mind went back to the many times I have flown and seen passengers in wheelchairs being pushed by contracted airline staff through the security checkpoint and all the way to their aircraft. Waiting to board a flight to Tampa, Florida last year, I saw no less than six passengers in wheelchairs lined up at the boarding gate, patiently waiting to be taken aboard.

The Delta website is an amazing source of valuable information and reassurance  about traveling as an individual with temporary or permanent disabilities. Delta proudly states: We believe travel is for everyone. It’s our priority to deliver the best service and ensure accessibility for all Delta customers. Before boarding, in the air, at your destination and anywhere in between, our gate agents and attendants will be available to assist.

At the time of purchasing our tickets online, we were asked to select the level of wheelchair service we required. At Delta, if you wish you can have the wheelchair operator take you all the way from the booking hall, through TSA security to your departure gate, down the ramp and finally to your seat. You are free to select any or all of the parts of the ticketing and onboarding process you need assistance with. 

Wheelchair assistance on our return flight almost a week later was equally efficient and well organized. Delta’s wheelchair assistance program added greatly to a travel experience that significantly exceeded our expectations. 

Roy Sargeant, May 2024

“SAY GOODBYE, YOU MAY NEVER SEE THEM AGAIN”

We were a working-class family, living in the East End of London. My brother Alfred was born in 1936, three years before the start of the Second World War, and I was born in 1947, two years after it ended. So I grew up hearing Alfred’s vivid accounts of what it was like to be a child in wartime London.

The indiscriminate bombing of a civilian population by a military air force originated in the Spanish Civil War, with the aerial bombing of the Basque town of Guernica in 1937. Within a few short years, Nazi Germany’s Luftwaffe were using the same tactics to terrorize and demoralize the populations of London and many other British cities. During the period known as the Blitz, (between September 1940 and May 1941) some 40,000 British civilians were killed, almost half of them in London.

Alfred told me many stories and recollections about the horrors of life under almost nightly bombardment and fear of imminent death. Like many other Londoners, his family would often sleep in a rough shelter in the back garden, called an Anderson shelter. It was really just a hole in the ground, covered by corrugated steel sheets and soil from the excavated hole. Alfred remembers his dad would leave the shelter during the night to join with his neighbors in extinguishing incendiary devices that rained down on them.

Every kid in our neighborhood had a prized shrapnel collection. In the morning after an air raid, my brother would join his friends in the streets searching for bomb fragments to add to his own box of shrapnel.

The entire populace lived under constant fear of poison gas and German invasion. Even children were required to carry their gas masks with them at all times. The prospect of German invasion led the government to create a simple catchphrase to help the people cope with their fears: “Stay calm and carry on.”

Children were evacuated out of London and other cities. Leaving family and friends behind, Alfred was sent to live on farms in different rural parts of the country. For him, these placements were miserable, and rarely lasted long. There are many photographs of long lines of children boarding evacuation trains at one or other of the main line railway stations in London. One official is reported to have told grieving parents seeing off their children, “Say goodbye, you may never see them again.”

The final years of the war, 1944 and 1945, brought a different kind of menace from the skies to Alfred’s neighborhood in the form of flying bombs, the V1 and V2. The V2 rocket was especially devastating. One landed in our neighborhood and destroyed several city blocks. At school assembly next morning, my brother was shocked to see that more than a dozen of his classmates were missing. 

Finally, peace returned to the land.

Roy Sargeant, April 2024.  

A SELF-MADE MAN

At one of my first jobs in the USA, I worked with a psychiatrist who, like me, was a fairly recent immigrant. I will call him Vishnu (not his real name). He graduated from medical school in India, and before coming to the USA he had lived in London and done postgraduate training at the world-famous Maudsley Hospital. As a Londoner myself, we therefore had something in common from the start of our working relationship. 

One day, Vishnu told me, “You know, Roy, we are both self-made men. We have no reason to feel inferior to anyone. We are professional men who have got where we are entirely by our own efforts and determination.” For me, this was a new and flattering idea, and for a while it was an idea that caused me to see myself and the world differently. But after a time, I came to a profound realization: There is no such thing as a self-made man. We all must acknowledge that we have been guided and supported by many others in getting to where we are today. 

Now, as I look back over the years, I feel deeply grateful to all the individuals who have given me opportunities to learn, grow, succeed and have a better life.

I remember when, at the age of ten, a family in my neighborhood took me on my first visit to our local public library, leading to a lifetime love of books and reading.

I remember Mrs. Leonard, the teacher who prepared me (at the age of eleven) to be successful in the national examination that led to me being awarded a scholarship to our local grammar school.

I remember my high school English teacher, who inspired me to want to be able to talk about English Literature in the same scholarly way that he did.

I remember Bruce, who willingly took the risk of hiring me for my first job in the USA and continued to take an interest in and encourage me throughout my subsequent career.

I remember Tom, a Harvard MBA graduate himself, who was instrumental (in my opinion) for my acceptance into the MBA program at the University of Washington in Seattle.

I just hope that in my own way I have been 

able to “pay it forward.”

March 2024 

Roy Sargeant

A SMALL, ROUND TABLE

Generally considered to be the first ever feminist novelist, the reputation of Jane Austen (1775-1817) is based on six novels: Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Emma, Northanger Abbey and Persuasion. Only the first four titles were published in her lifetime.

I read my first Jane Austen novel, Pride and Prejudice (1813), when I was sixteen years old, and she has been my favorite English novelist ever since. I have always enjoyed her skillful use of humor, social satire and irony. But at the all-boys high school that I attended in London, I usually avoided expressing my admiration for Jane Austen’s novels. When I did reveal it, I often met with scorn and derision from my classmates for liking a “minor” novelist. (At that time, they were more likely to be reading Hemingway, Steinbeck and Kerouac).

But during my adult lifetime, Jane Austen’s popularity has undergone a sea change with scholars and the general reader alike. I like to date this change from the 1995 movie of Jane Austen’s 1811 novel Sense and Sensibility, directed by Ang Lee. This beautiful movie met with universal acclaim, and helped propel an unprecedented interest in Jane Austen, her life and her novels. 

From 1809 until her death at the age of forty-one, Austen (who never married) lived with her sister and mother in a cottage in the village of Chawton in the English county of Hampshire. The cottage is open to the public and has been restored to the condition and appearance when the Austen family lived there, and when Jane was busy writing the six novels that her reputation is based on. I have visited the cottage on three or four occasions, and my imagination has always been stirred by the small, round table in the front room. Legend has it that this is the very table where Austen sat and created the novels that are now read and admired throughout the world.

After a short illness, Austen died in Winchester in 1817, and is buried in Winchester Cathedral.

Roy Sargeant

February 2024 

MICHAEL MARTIN

I graduated from the University of Hull in England in July of 1968, and soon afterwards left home to work for three years as a volunteer teacher in Belize in Central America. I was assigned to work at Fletcher College, in the small seaside town of Corozal, close to the border with Mexico.

Fletcher College was staffed mainly by volunteer teachers from the USA and the UK. It was the custom among the volunteers to use the summer at the end of their first year of teaching  to travel in Central America, typically journeying  by bus through Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama.

I don’t recall exactly how I met Michael Martin for the first time. Like me he had grown up in London and had been a volunteer teacher at Fletcher College some years before. He was back in Belize for a few weeks and suggested we make the journey through Central America together. His plan was to get to Panama City and then fly from there to visit friends in Jamaica. 

So for three weeks we travelled together by bus through Central America, stopping for two or three days in each country’s capital city: Tegucigalpa, San Salvador, Managua, San Jose and Panama City.

In Costa Rica, we hiked to the rim of the active Irazú volcano, and we were the honored guests at a party on a coffee plantation. In Managua, we smoked cigars in the lobby of our hotel, surrounded by the high command of the Nicaraguan Army. In Panama City we went out to the Canal Zone and watched ships pass through the Miraflores Locks on the Panama Canal. On many evenings we sat outside in the coolest time of the tropical day, drinking beer and exchanging stories of good fortune and unrequited love.

After a few days in Panama City, I went out to the airport with Michael to see him off on his flight to Jamaica. As I watched his plane take off, I reflected that in life there are times when you get to know someone quite intensely for a short period of time, and then they disappear from your life forever. I certainly never expected to see Michael again.

Two years later, I was back again at the University of Hull, beginning a one-year postgraduate program designed to convert an English major like me into a social scientist. At registration I learned that there were book lockers in the basement of the Social Sciences building that could be rented for a small annual fee. I paid the fee and went down to find my new locker. I opened the locker to make sure the key worked, and as I closed the door I noticed someone was opening a locker a short distance from mine. That someone was: Michael Martin again!

Roy Sargeant

January 2024

GAMAGES DEPARTMENT STORE

Gamages Department Store, located at Holborn Circus in the heart of central London, proudly served its customers for almost one hundred years. It opened in 1878, and finally closed its doors in 1972, when it was demolished.

In a television version of the Sherlock Holmes story “The Cardboard Box”, his housekeeper Mrs. Hudson advises Sherlock Holmes to buy Dr. Watson's Christmas present at Gamages Department Store. Later, we see Holmes arrive home with a parcel with the Gamages label. 

According to Wikipedia, “Gamages had many departments, a much larger number than modern department stores. There was a substantial hardware department on the ground floor which included specialist motor parts and car seat cover sections. There was a photographic department, and camping, pets, toys and sporting goods departments, the latter selling shotguns. The toy department was extensive and there were substantial fashion, furniture and carpeting departments.”

I have many fond memories of the two summers that I worked at Gamages, spanning my last two years at high school. Six days each week I travelled by commuter train from my home in the outer suburbs to Liverpool Street Station, one of London’s storied main line terminals. I would then always walk the rest of the way to work (about two miles), crossing streets and seeing buildings familiar to all readers of the novels of Charles Dickens: Threadneedle Street, the Bank of England, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Ludgate Hill, The Old Bailey, Cheapside, Holborn and Chancery Lane. On my way back to Liverpool Street Station on those hot summer evenings, I often stopped for a drink at one of many pubs along the way (my favorite was the Mitre Public House, built in 1773). 

My employee classification was “contingency,” which meant that from day to day I could be assigned to any department where staffing was needed due to sickness or vacations. I started in office supplies, and spent time in sporting goods, pets and camping. Sporting goods was a challenging assignment because I knew nothing about, for example, fishing. In response to questions as to “what type of bait/size of hook/weight of fishing line do you recommend?” I would ask “what have you been using?” and then reply with feigned confidence, “then I would stay with that if I were you”.

The Wikipedia entry I quoted earlier reminded me that we sold shotguns in the sporting goods department. The only staff person authorized to sell them was an elderly gentleman retired from a long career as a game warden in one of the former British colonies in Africa. When business was slow, he liked to regale us with unlikely stories of his exploits and adventures there.

This story from my youth has the happiest of endings. Each year around the middle of August, national examination results were published that determined university entrance. After all these years I can still remember my joy the day I arrived at work with the letter in my pocket telling me my grades (after twenty-seven hours of exams) were good enough for a university place.

Roy Sargeant

November 2023   

 Chapter 51

In the early 1970’s the Wisconsin legislature made a comprehensive system of community care and treatment for mental illness, drug dependency and developmental disabilities the responsibility of each county in the state. These laws, contained in Wisconsin statutes Chapter 51, included the process (known as a 72-hour emergency detention) under which an individual can be involuntarily detained by law enforcement and transported to a locked treatment facility for initial evaluation. But this is only if the individual is mentally ill, drug dependent or developmentally disabled, and there is a substantial risk of physical harm to self or others, and the individual is unable or unwilling to cooperate with voluntary treatment.

Taylor County, in north central Wisconsin, is one of the smallest counties by population in the state. Its current population of almost 20,000 is unchanged since I was hired there in 1976 as a psychiatric social worker. When I arrived, the county was just starting to establish its Chapter 51 programs and services, and there were many challenges (and rewards) associated with providing services to individuals who typically had never received treatment before. Often, even the most florid symptoms of mental illness in an individual had been tolerated by the community for many years. 

One of my earliest cases, for example, was an elderly man who for many years never left his house without wearing a hat lined on the inside with aluminum foil. He explained to me that he did this to protect himself from dangerous rays from outer space.

It was in responding to potential emergency detention cases that long-standing, untreated mental illness or drug dependency were most frequently encountered. Our department established a cooperative agreement with the Taylor County Sheriff’s Department to accompany them, 24/7, on calls involving potential emergency detentions. Our role was solely advisory since the decision to detain always rested with law enforcement.

Sometimes in the four years I worked with emergency detention cases in Taylor County, things went wrong. On one memorable night, I was one of two social workers with a deputy transporting a man to a treatment facility. We stopped on an isolated rural road surrounded by cornfields, because the individual we were transporting was complaining his handcuffs were too tight. A struggle with the deputy outside the squad car ensued. I remember thinking to myself, “If he gets hold of the deputy’s gun, we’re all dead”. Somehow, we managed to subdue him and complete the drive to the treatment facility at breakneck speed.

In another case, I assured the sheriff’s deputy I went on a drug dependency call with that there was “substantial risk of physical harm to self” when in fact the actual evidence was very weak. The next morning, I found myself in the Circuit Court Judge’s chambers, receiving a harsh reprimand over the seriousness of depriving anyone of their liberty without adequate legal cause.

After 4 years I left Taylor County and was hired in a county in another part of the state. To my great relief I was informed that in their county, emergency detentions were left entirely to law enforcement. 

Roy Sargeant

October 2023   

CITIZEN ROY

I like to say (whenever anyone asks me about my path to US citizenship) that I became a US citizen during my lunch hour, although this comment is never meant to dishonor the process or the achievement in any way.

I arrived in the USA with my wife (a US citizen, born in Ohio) and baby daughter in 1976. From time to time, I explored becoming a US citizen, but always rejected it on the understanding that dual citizenship was not possible. Becoming a US citizen would require me to give up my British citizenship (I recall that the requirement was swearing to something like “I hereby renounce forever my allegiance to all foreign princes and potentates”). So for 20 years I lived and worked in four different states with the status of Resident Alien, ready to show my “green card” whenever requested (it hardly ever was).

Then, in the 1990’s, three events occurred that led me to become a naturalized US citizen.

The first event was a change in the US Immigration Service’s laws and regulations, that for the first-time permitted nationals of certain foreign countries, including Britain, to be granted dual citizenship.

The second event was my admission to the two-year Master of Business Administration (MBA) program at the University of Washington in Seattle. I had for many years thought that the MBA degree would be a valuable complement to my MA in Social Work degree from the University of Wales, especially as I rose through the ranks of psychiatric social worker to middle management to agency leadership. Shortly after we arrived in Seattle in 1990, I visited the university and was discouraged to learn that the fees for the MBA were $47,000 (in 1990 dollars!). But I also learned that a scholarship was available to one person working in the nonprofit sector to join the 30-person class. After achieving a good score on the Graduate Management Admission Test, and submitting some very supportive reference letters, I was awarded the scholarship and entered the 1992-94 class. Who would not want to be a citizen of a country whose higher education system was so welcoming and generous to me?

And the third event? In 1994 the State of Idaho hired me to be Chief of the Bureau of Mental Health and Substance Abuse Services in the Department of Health and Welfare in Boise, Idaho. One of my responsibilities was to bring proposals to the State Legislature for changes or additions to the state’s laws regarding mental health or substance abuse. We successfully brought forward to the 1998 legislative session several significant changes and one completely new law (outpatient civil commitment for mental illness). But for some reason I didn’t feel right about my part in the process. I concluded (rightly or wrongly) that I would feel much better changing or creating Idaho’s laws in the future if I was doing so as a US citizen. 

I completed the naturalization process some months after the conclusion of the 1998 legislative session. The Federal Courthouse in downtown Boise was just a few blocks away from my office, so it really was possible for me to attend my naturalization ceremony in front of a federal judge during an extended lunch hour. I was honored to be one of fifty individuals from countries all over the world who became new US citizens that day.

Roy Sargeant

August, 2023.

Martyn Thurston

I first met Martyn in 1958, when we were both 11 years old, just starting our academic careers at Leyton County High School for Boys in London. Martyn became one of my oldest and dearest friends. I’m incredibly thankful for the many years of humor, conversation and friendship that we enjoyed together.

I fondly remember, while we were still at school, our walking holidays in Dorset & Devon, on the Pennine Way, and on the islands of Mull, Skye and Iona in western Scotland. Equally memorable were the trips we made together to Stratford on Avon to see performances by the Royal Shakespeare Company.

I’ve lived in the United States for over 40 years, but we managed to stay in touch and always spent time together on my visits to the UK. In recent years, this included time together in the English Lake District and in North Wales. Martyn was always a most gracious and generous host, for whom nothing was too much trouble. I could always count on him to share my passion for visiting the cottages of famous (deceased) writers: Jane Austen’s cottage, Thomas Hardy’s cottage, Lawrence of Arabia’s cottage, and William Wordsworth’s cottage, to name just a few.

Martyn died on March 2, 2022 after a long illness. In keeping with his wishes, his ashes were scattered on a mountain in his beloved English Lake District.

In thinking about Martyn, the words of Hamlet paying tribute to his deceased father come to mind: “He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.”

Roy Sargeant May, 2023

THE ESSEX WAY

“Now you’re here, Roy”, my sister Valerie asked, “which tea shop do you want to visit this time?” It was 2012, and I was on one of my regular visits to family and friends in the UK. Valerie, a lifelong resident of the English county of Essex, had some years before discovered a book with the title something like “Tea Shops and Walks in Rural Essex”. The location and description of a dozen delightful tea shops in villages throughout rural Essex were followed in each case by a map and guided walk starting (and ending) at the tea shop.

It was on this tea shop excursion in 2012 with my sister that, by accident, I discovered the Essex Way. After leaving our tea shop and walking some distance, we made our way up a steep hill. At the top, the guidebook informed us we were now crossing the Essex Way. ”The Essex Way?” I thought to myself, “Never heard of it.” Back in the USA, I did some research (there are many resources on the Internet and on YouTube) and decided that walking the entire length of the Essex Way would make an interesting and challenging retirement project.

The Essex Way is a waymarked, long-distance footpath some 81 miles long. The trail starts in Epping, 20 miles north of the center of London, heads in a northeasterly direction across the county, and ends at the port of Harwichon the North Sea coast. In the words of one writer, “It leads through ancient woodlands, open farmland, tree-lined river valleys and leafy green lanes, unveiling historic towns and villages and charming inns along the way”.

Of all the history and scenery that I have enjoyed while walking the Essex Way, there are two recollections that are especially memorable. For history, it is hard to beat Greensted Church, which is said to be the oldest wooden church in the world. It is also the oldest wooden building in Europe, with part of the building dating to between 998 and 1063 AD. For scenery, the area known as “Constable Country” stands out. This is because the trail goes through the village of Dedham and the Vale of Dedham, both made famous by the paintings of one of England’s leading landscape painters, John Constable (1776-1837).

I hate to walk alone, and I have been fortunate to always have companions on every section of the Essex Way that I have walked. These companions include mysister Valerie, my niece Joanne (a long-distance runner who has participated withher running club in the annual Essex Way Relay Race), and my friend Ian, who lives in a cotage some miles from the trail.

I must admit that my retirement project of walking the entire length of the Essex Way has yet to be completed. A painful episode of plantar fasciitis, hospitalization with a blood clot in my leg (technically known as deep vein thrombosis) and constraints imposed on travel by the COVID-19 pandemic have all conspired against me. But I take solace in the words of the novelist Robert Louis Stevenson that “It is beter to travel hopefully, than to arrive.”

Roy Sargeant

July 2023.

THE FIELD

“This house,” said the realtor, “comes with the adjacent field that you share with eight other houses.” We stood on the deck and looked at the acre of raw land that the realtor was pointing to. I had recently been hired by the state of Idaho and  we were excited to be leaving Seattle and moving to Boise. After a long day viewing houses for sale, my wife and I sat in a bar in downtown Boise to talk about what we had seen and make our decision. What we came to refer to as “the house with the field” turned out to be our unanimous first choice. But this had nothing to do with the field, and more to do with the house’s scenic location in the foothills overlooking Boise, its accessibility to the Bogus Basin Ski Resort, and its proximity to my office.

As anyone who watches re-runs of the classic TV series “Gunsmoke” knows, the rights of land ownership have always been a contentious (and sometimes deadly) issue in the western USA. As we got to know our neighbors in the eight other houses surrounding the field, we began to understand the truth of this. 

It was the custom for all nine families to hold a monting ever get resolved about the field?” I asked him. “Yes,” was his reply. “It turned out that it always belonged to the City of Boise.”

Roy Sargeant, September 2024.hly Friday evening pot-luck supper, taking turns to host and provide the beverages. Conversation invariably  turned to “What are we going to do about the field?” We held a series of meetings in the ensuing months attempting to answer that question, with our neighbors taking turns to function as host. It always seemed to me that everyone was working hard to prove to everyone else that they knew how to run a business meeting. Using an easel, flip chart and marker pens, attendees expressed their opinions and suggestions, and minutes of the meetings were transcribed and distributed. Suggestions for the field included building a tennis court complete with floodlights, building a children’s adventure playground, allowing everyone to claim one ninth of the land by moving their property fence lines, or creating a community garden.

These meetings and discussions went on for almost a year, but we were unable to reach any consensus. Several neighbors became frustrated with our indecision and decided to act unilaterally. In one case, a neighbor moved his large recreational vehicle onto the land. Another neighbor just moved his property fence line (under cover of darkness) to claim his share.

When we moved from Boise nine years later, the acre of raw land was in the same condition as when we arrived. 

Last year, we were in Boise visiting our son and his family, and I happened to run into one of our old neighbors. “Did anyth

Consider Geezerhood. I think about it a lot while doing cognitive assessments of patients being evaluated for possible dementia. Some 60-year-olds are already geezers – some 90-year-olds are not. What’s the difference? Not health status (some non-geezers are mentally energetic but walking medical disasters); not intactness of cognitive abilities (some patients with moderate Alzheimer’s disease look just fine - until you ask them what day it is). The main thing that distinguishes the geezers from the non-geezers is how they see their lives and their futures. Are they ready to die? Geezerhood is knocking on your door. Looking forward to years of decades of interesting life? You will barely recognize what geezerhood is, much less act the part. The Life Report touches on this, and I’m hoping my fellow classmates are going to focus on what we did well, even while acknowledging that there were some things (maybe a lot of things) we didn’t do so well, and that we have learned a lot along the way and are still lifetime learners. For my part, I’ll start with the last question - what have I learned along the way? I've learned the truth of the aphorism that we don't get wiser as we age, we just run out of stupid things to do. Well, in my case, I guess I still have a few stupid things I haven't done yet, but they are definitely fewer in number. I have learned that there are some behaviors that just don't have a good outcome. In personal relations, you just don't do something behind someone's back. You apologize if you are in the wrong, and sometimes even when you aren't - revenge is out (I like the Chinese expression that if you are planning revenge, dig two graves). Thank people who deserve it, especially those who helped you get where you are - even if it was in the remote past (I learned this from Positive Psychology, which is worth exploring). I've also learned that people who are nominally at the bottom of the hierarchy can be very powerful; they just might not know it (and of course there are times to express your power and times when it will backfire). In this context, I've learned that you have to choose your battles, and that you can't expect to win all of them. I've learned that you should ask your questions when they occur to you; don't wait - I frequently think of things I wish I had asked my parents and other relatives and friends before they died. Especially things that help define you, like half-remembered events from childhood - "What was that all about?"

My mother cautioned us more than once not to brag - she would tell us that people in high places fall the farthest. This was usually said in the context of a mildly self-praising statement uttered by my sister or me. Having absorbed this lesson means that saying what I did well goes against the grain. But I will say that I am content as I look back at my contributions to a healthy family (wife, two children and three grandchildren) and to a healthy science (contributing to the scientific literature working on the editorial boards of two journals). I think I have helped many students realize that communication is everything in both research and clinical work (I am a clinical neuropsychologist, formerly an experimental neuropsychologist). I have developed a good sense of how a reader might find a sentence hard to understand, and what questions might come to the clinician's mind while reading a report. I teach students how to avoid providing irrelevant information in a report, because this just makes more work for the reader who will tuck the useless information away for possible future reference, wasting energy and causing the report to be mentally and physically tiring. I think and hope I've been a good father and husband, though we aren't the best judges of that. My wife and I certainly have taken more interest in what our children are doing and thinking than my parents did; Margaret and I feel we understand their hopes and fears - we reward often and offer advice (often unsolicited) when we see something that's not going well.

I don't focus on things done badly, but I frequently become painfully reminded of a faux pas from years ago. I wish I had taken an active role in the civil rights movement (classmates went to Mississippi to help with voter registration - why didn't I?). I have mixed feelings about “our” war – I was lucky to be in graduate school and then too old to serve, so I survived but I can’t say I’m proud of having stayed out of harm’s way. I still think it was a war that shouldn’t have happened, and I see the damage done to bodies and minds every time I work with a veteran from the Vietnam War, but many of our classmates fulfilled their duty and I wish I had too. Those are the major lapses - the others are really minor but it’s amazing how I remember the mistakes even if the people present at the time don’t. I am reminded of Mark Twain’s observation that humans are the only animals that blush, and the only ones that need to! I guess I shouldn’t assume that we are all equally sensitive to past mistakes - this is probably one of those personality quirks that reflects birth order (I was the youngest, so I had to watch out or be put in my place by my older siblings). 

If I had to choose one pivotal period in my life after the four years at Dartmouth, it would be my living and working in Europe for nine years (bookended by five then two years in Montreal). This experience opened me up to worldviews different from my narrow Denver upbringing and made me more appreciative of diversity and definitely more wary of patriotic impulses that lead to death and destruction. 

Retire? Maybe some day. But not any time soon. Work is still too interesting and rewarding, and my impression is that retirement is dangerous - likely to open the door to geezerhood, and I'm not ready for that yet. My new projects are learning how to use the modern social media for family and science (blogging and Twitter, which almost count as new languages), and teaching my granddaughter to play the piano. I wish my classmates a mentally healthy 8th decade and look forward to renewing friendships at our 50th. So, consider geezerhood, but reject it.

Gus

PostScript: Gus writes that he did in fact partially retire in 2017 and completely in 2020. What it feels like now is that there is still a lot of work to be done (on the editorial board of two journals and lots of work curating two Web personal pages and one Alumnus Web page and one professional (International Neuropsychological Symposium); all without pay, of course!