Please note that the trauma of the economy is so severe that I am avoiding its existence much less ranting and raving about it.

Four SCD's. I am SCD IV. The gorgeous kid. My Dad is SCD Jr. seated on the left. My Grandfather is SCD Sr seated on the right. My cousin SCD III is standing behind. There is also an SCD V.

Anexplorer (http://anexplorer.blogstream.com/) is journeying through his family's roots in Scotland. Must read. In one of his chapters, he compares himself to his father. Oh dear, another one of those thought provoking things. Everyone ought to do this and put it into writing.

I found more similarities than differences. Nature or nuture? And what gets passed down to the next generation? And the differences and similarities are not really spectacular or a good story. Interesting nonetheless.

Differences? There is a big difference between the 1930's and 40's and now. That is a big reason.

Dad was athletic in school (all around sports) and as an adult (golf). I was not. Lack of depth perception is somewhat of an excuse (started wearing glasses at six) but should have pushed more. He told Mom that she could have us (I have one younger brother) until we got to eleven and then he would take us out to the golf course. But by then it was too late. My brother and I never did want to play golf. Read what you want into that.

The optometry office Dad started at first did OK. He went to pharmacy when optometry was not bringing in enough. Dad was a good pharmacist. My brother is a good pharmacist, as were/are my grandfather, great aunt, and son. I enjoyed science but if you put me into a pharmacy, there would be bodies all over the landscape. My first career in the Navy showed that it was not for me nor was I for them. But teaching in private schools worked out fine. And teaching chemistry is somewhat of a redemption.

Dad remembered every joke he ever heard. Really dry sense of humor. Kept us in stitches. Wish I could do that. My brother got this. I did not.

Did not divulge his feelings or his relationships with his brothers or parents. I obviously am.

Kept the financial business of the family to himself. A starving school teacher must involve the kids in the solution.

But lots of similarities.

Both of my parents were competitive in bridge and other games. Me, too. They were both very honest and straightforward. Strive for this. Good parents. Even with Dad spending so much time on the golf course. Understanding yet demanding. My wife and I really worked at this and have great kids to show we some things right. Dad was friendly and outgoing. As am I. Churchgoer but not religious. Liked discussing politics but not a zealot. Liked a good joke and story especially if a little bawdy. Enjoyed male type books and pastimes. Moi aussi. Dad enjoyed music. I can hear him singing “Mood Indigo” and “Smoke Gets In You Eyes”. Mom's family were the real musicians. I like the same kind of stuff they did. Not artists but liked it. Mom fussed with it a little and Dad did one landscape. I like the same kind they did. And enjoy art and music as they did.

I am certain that this list will become better and clearer as the little man in the back of my brain finds and refines the memories.

As I said at the top, everyone ought to do this and put it into writing.

The really difficult question. How about differences from and similarities to Mom?

Anexplorer (http://anexplorer.blogstream.com/) in today's post gave a very interesting account of tracing down genealogy. It prompted me to tell the story of our trip to Copenhagen.

My wife was born to an American mother and a Danish father, Knud. The photo above is of them. They met in Alabama, and then went to Copenhagen in the late 30's to live. In 1939, when my wife was one, her mother brought her back to Alabama for a visit. The Nazi's (look up the nazi occupation of Denmark for a fascinating story) and a variety of reasons kept them here and Knud in Denmark.

Along with visiting a daughter spending a semester in Florence a few years back, we went to Copenhagen for several days in the beginning of November. Tivoli was closed for the winter and the sun went down in the middle of the afternoon – and it was cold. One of the goals of going there was to see what we could find of Knud and of my wife's birth. We had an envelope with a return address, Strand Vej 4. We looked it up on a map but it was in the middle of an industrial section. It was late and cold and dark and we were tired and discouraged. And there in the middle of the warehouses was a bowling alley. A Danish bowling alley! It was at least a bright light and warm. The Danish people are by far the friendliest we ran across and they all seem to know English. A couple looked at the envelope and immediately knew where the address was, Strandvejen 4. Went to their car and found a map which we copied. They told us where the bus stop was and we returned with hope to the Copenhagen Crown Hotel where we were staying. The next day, we took the trolley out to Charlottenlund and found Strandvejen. Number 4 turned out to be an office building with an American car dealership, however. Another discouragement but it had been sixty years.

We then tried to find something about Knud. A trip to city hall led us to the folkesregesteret, an office building where all of the records are kept. Knud's name is a very common, like John Smith, but we know his middle name, Warburg, and they could trace down that he was born May 18th, 1899 and had died November 23rd, 1984. His address at that time was Niels Ebbesen’s Vej, named for a Danish 19th Century patriot. We had to go to another district called Fredericksburg to find details of his family. The building was centuries old but all of the offices were bright and colorful Danish modern. Turned out that Knud had a second wife, Carla, who was still alive! But no other children. We went back to the hotel, found Carla’s number and called her. She was suffering from cancer, however, and caught off guard by our call, reluctant to consider “the other wife”, and even after an hour long phone conversation would not consent to meet with us. We could have learned so much but it was not to be. We wrote a couple of times in the following years but never received a response even though my wife was his only child.

Birth records in Denmark are kept by the district churches. The church keeping the records for the Osterbrogade area was Lutheran, Sion’s Kirk, but they did not have records for Episcopal churches. Osterbrogade is a main street that runs out from Copenhagen to Charlottenlund and other suburbs. It changes its name to Strandvejen just a few blocks from where we had been looking the previous day. My wife knew her parents went to the Episcopalian Church and there is only one in Copenhagen, St. Alban’s in Churchill Park. It was all closed up but the helpful lady at Sion’s Kirk directed us to the apartment of a little old lady who kept their records. It was a few blocks up Osterbrogade. She looked up the names, made a copy, and my wife had her birth certificate! While we were chatting with the lady, she noticed the return address on the letter we had and commented that it was right next door! In 1950, street names and numbers were reorganized and this lady remembered the old way and it turns out that the apartment where my wife was born was just one door down. It was almost as if we were meant to find all of this. A splendid result after the disappointments. We found what we had been looking for and so much more. Some things are meant to be, anyway.

And, if you get the chance, go to Denmark. Even with Tivoli closed for the season and the short, cold days, it is a fascinating place.

Childhood

As much as a comment on the state of the economy is in order, it is too depressing. So here is something enlightening.

There are a couple of things that are rewarding to do in The Big City. One of them is the National Gallery. Have some of my favorites. Like the Pre-Raphealites. Another are the Hudson River painters.

Youth

One of the rooms has four huges paintings by Thomas Cole, The Voyage of Life. You really need to see all of the details in addition to standing back and taking in the whole thing. Found out just a year or so ago about the Hudson River School (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hudson_River_School) when they had a special and spectacular exhibit of them. Cole started the movement.

Manhood

Anyway, the four works in today's post are some American paintings. Hudson River School. Thomas Cole. The Voyages of Life. Visit the National Gallery and see them in real life.

Old Age

This thought came to me after seeing and hearing a couple of videos on Hawk's (http://isntlifestrange.blogstream.com/) 23 February post. Excellent videos, everyone needs to visit them.

In my high school years, had two music heroes. Benny Goodman and Louis Armstrong. Mom and Dad knew I was on the road to rack and ruin. Saved up my pay, five dollars a week, from ushering at the Campus Theater, and the Roxy for the westerns on Saturday afternoon. Got all the records I cold afford. 33 1/3's were a boon. Even got a portable radio. It had tubes, of course. Was as big as a small suitcase. Huge battery. Weighed a ton. But it worked and was “portable”.

When the Class of '58 graduated, Louis played at the dance. Can you picture Louis playing to Dahlgren Hall full of Midshipmen in their full dress uniforms and their dates in formal dresses? When we had dances, we had dances. Can not remember my date, back then it was normal to date a bunch of girls at the same time, but I can certainly remember Louis playing.

Here is Louis and Jack Teagarden:

And got to close with "Muskrat Ramble":

Back on 22 January, made a post on the subject of shaggy dog stories. Here is a good one. You might call it a shaggy cock story. For those with filthy minds, a cock is a male chicken. Thanks to my Cousin Charles for this story.

John the farmer was in the fertilized egg business. Several hundred cute young layers, pullets, and horny old cocks to fertilize the eggs. John kept records and any cock no longer performing went straight to the soup pot to be replaced by a handsome young stud. These records took a lot of John's time so he bought some tiny sets of bells and attached one to each cock. Each bell had a different note so John could tell from a distance which rooster was performing, letting John sit on his porch and fill out his report by simply listening to the tintinabulation.

John's favorite cock was Old Butch, and a very fine cock he was. But one morning John noticed that Butch's bell did not tinkle. On investigating, John noticed that all of the roosters were charging around, bells all atinkle. But the pullets, being the wiser sex, heard the bells, ran for cover. But Old Butch, being a very wise and experienced cock, would hold his bell in his beak so it did not ring, sneak up on an unsuspecting pullet, do his duty, and move on to another.

John was so proud of Old Butch that he entered him in the County Fair. Old Butch was an overnight sensation to judges and spectators. This resulted in Old Butch being awarded ... you guessed it.... The No Bell Piece Prize. Not only that, Old Butch received .... and another one, two for the price of one ..... the Pullets Surprise Award.

Old Butch obviously was a politician in training. Only an experienced politician could find a way to win two coveted awards by being the best at sneaking up on the populace and doing nasty things to (please notice that in the interest of not getting apprehended by TAB's (http://shameonyou.blogstream.com/) NBWSC committee, I have not used the word “sc---ing”) them when they were not paying attention.

When voting time comes, remember that the bells are not always audible.