We got a phone call this weekend from a candidate seeking our respective votes in the presidential preference primary. Oops, my mistake, we actually got 24 friggin’ calls from several candidates seeking our votes. That’s 24 calls, all perfectly timed around supper, doing the dishes, watching Olivia DeHavilland and Montgomery Clift in The Heiress (our latest NetFlix film), reading the paper, visiting with friends, and just about everything else you’d rather not stop doing in order to hear what were mostly prerecorded messages.

One call was actually a real, live person. I envisioned, based on the enthusiastic tenor of his voice, an avid College Republican in his starched white shirt and red tie, earnestly at his phone, wondering if Senator McClain (or was it Governor Romney? They all blur together.) could count on my vote.

The truth is, I had already voted early, and it wasn’t for either the senator or the governor. (It was for Ron Paul, if you really must know. He was the only candidate that didn’t disturb us in the privacy of our home. And I’ve always been fond of underdogs.)

But since I had a real live person on the phone, and not a prerecorded robocaller, and since I had already dried my hands, having been doing the dishes, I took the opportunity to chat with him. He obviously didn’t like it, because I was supposed to just shut up and listen to his spiel and then promise to vote as he directed. He wasn’t prepared to be engaged in conversation, especially when he started getting a spiel. “Do you really think interrupting people at dinner time will make them more sympathetic to your candidate?” I asked him.

“Well sir,” he explained, “we need the grassroots support of people such as yourself. We don’t have all the Hollywood celebrities and left-wing media support that the Democrats have.”

That was news. The party of Enron, Huliburton, the oil industry and Fox News needed my grassroots support.

I pointed out that our home phone is listed on the National Do Not Call Registry. This, I probably don’t need to point out to you, matters not a whit to politicos. When they passed the law, they made sure they, their minions (such as the earnest young man who was allowing my dishwater to get cool) and their pollsters were exempted from the very relief from intrusive phone calls that taxpayers demanded.

The College Republican apologized, sounding almost sincere, and offered to take us off the Republican Party’s calling list. I thanked him and resumed doing the dishes.

The big issue here is politician’s complete and shameless ignorance of our clearly stated preference to be left alone. Even if they did exempt themselves from obeying the Do Not Call Registry–which was such a blatant, shameful and insultingly contemptible thing to have done–you’d think they’d respect why we, and millions of our similarly assaulted phone service users, signed up for it.

Did we put ourselves on the registry because we like having our homes invaded by unwanted pitches, either sales or political? Are politicians so dimwitted that they actually believe, as was explained to me by Kristi Campbell, Mitt Romney’s Florida communications wonk, that we desire “information” that can only be delivered by a recorded message delivered in the middle of dinner? Do they think we don’t read newspapers, visit Web sites, gather campaign literature and otherwise educate ourselves as responsible voters should?

No, we put ourselves on the registry because we don’t want politicians intruding into our lives when we’re in the comfort and security of our homes, any more than we wanted the sales pitches for the shady vacation “deals” to the Bahamas we used to get before public outcry resulted in the registry’s creation in 2003.

Even though politicians exempted themselves from the National Do Not Call Registry itself (forever earning the contempt of the citizens who demanded the relief it has partially provided), they will never be morally exempt from the spirit of the registry. If they really wanted to earn the respect of voters, candidates should proudly declare they acknowledge and respect the reasons we put ourselves on the registry, and pledge to use it to scrub their phone lists of those citizens who have clearly said they don’t want to be disturbed.

A slightly smaller, but no less important, issue is the matter of respect. If a politician respects your Do Not Call preference as little as his campaigners respect laws against posting his yard signs all over public right-of-ways, why should you trust him to represent you on bigger issues once he’s in Washington (or Tallahassee), or, for that matter, why should you trust him to obey major laws if local sign pollution ordinances mean so little?

Incidentally, since Kristi Campbell sees no problem with using your phone to give you “information” about her boss’s campaign, maybe you’d like to share some information of your own about the practice with her. Her cell number is (850) 491.4295. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind hearing from you as she’s obviously a very  big proponent of using the telephone to share “information.”

By the way, we also kept track of our “real” phone usage over the weekend. We received five calls from family and friends between Friday and Tuesday nights. We placed four of our own. Hence, we used our phone nine times for legitimate calls. Politicos, who made 24 calls to us, usurped our phone for almost 73 percent of its usage last weekend. Our phone bill, excluding internet service, is about $45 a month. I figure we’re well within our rights to bill the Republic Party for that 73 percent of our phone usage that they hijacked. That’s about $32.73.

I wonder if they’ll pony up their share of our bill? Oh, silly me. I forgot. They don’t have the support of rich Hollywood celebrities. They probably don’t have the cash.

Oops! I accidentally linked to the unedited first draft of this story instead of posting the final version. Here’s the real version! Sorry ’bout that!

When I moved over here from New Orleans, I was assured that I was plunging into a whole new culture than that with which I was familiar in New Orleans. I have, but I love it. I have tried and seen all sorts of wonderful and intriguing new things.

Two weekends ago, my roommate Leon, his sister Tracy, their mom and I went up to Montgomery, Ala., as Leon and Tracy’s cousin Roger’s daughter Allyn (follow all that?) was representing Covington County in the Alabama Junior Miss competition. As a rule, I hate beauty pageants. First, they’re inevitably sexist. If you’re intent on objectifying young people, at least include the guys. Second, pageants are usually boring and shallow.

But the Junior Miss competition is different.

Specifically, it is not a beauty pageant, Roger’s wife Cathy, herself a former Junior Miss, insisted. It is a scholarship competition. Well…OK, it’s a scholarship competition in which the competitors still wear expensive gowns, jewelry and accessories. Apart from the top finalists and the girl finally selected as Alabama Junior Miss, I don’t think anyone won scholarships sufficient to cover the expense of being in the competition. Fortunately, they had already won some prizes, scholarship money and accolades at the county level, so maybe they were breaking even by the time they got to Montgomery.

They offered some interesting acts for the talent portion, each of which was limited to 90 seconds. Most of the performances involved playing classical piano pieces (I pitied the stage hands who constantly had to wheel the grand piano on and off the stage), doing classical or jazz dance, or singing. (We agreed that some of the “jazz dancing” was just plain silly looking.) I really wish the only girl who did a really unique talent, a karate demonstration, could’ve won something for originality. One girl, who ought to have received something for sheer audacity, performed “Lime Jello, Marshmallow, Cottage Cheese Surprise,” which would’ve been pretty funny if she was about 25 years older. (There’s a good rendition of it on YouTube.)

Five girls did dance routines to the song “You Can’t Stop the Beat” from “Hairspray,” and three more did routines to two other songs from the show.

Two, including Allyn, did routines to Linda Eder’s version of “I, Don Quixote” from Man of La Mancha. Allyn’s was beautiful, evocative of a graceful Spanish flamenco dancer, but a very lovely en pointe classical dance routine, which was very creative and elegant. (The other girl used the exact same edit of the song for a twirling routine, but dropped her baton midway through it, bless her heart.)

Those of us cheering Allyn were all issued glow-sticks to wave whenever she was on stage. People representing other counties had different light-up things to wave, distinguishing them from the others, so their representative could see them in the darkened hall. One county’s cheering section had green glowing necklaces that they twirled above their heads. The audience really was getting into the spirit of the competition. In fact, I felt something of the same thrill I had as a kid when Mom and Dad would take us into The City to see the Ringling Bros., Barnum & Bailey Circus at Madison Square Garden. They would buy us Bic-lighter-sized flashlights on a plastic string that we would twirl whenever the lights went down. It was hard not to get swept up in the excitement.

In addition to talent, there was a vigorous fitness routine each girl did, in groups of 12 or 13, to the song “Bounce” from The Princess Diaries soundtrack. There was another segment in which, wearing their evening gowns, they had to promenade elegantly around the stage to show their deportment. Then each girl had to deliver a 20-second statement of belief, many of which began, “So-in-so famous once said…” (Why didn’t the famous person just say it? Why did every last girl who borrowed someone else’s thoughts have to say he or she once said it?) Allyn’s statement, I thought, was refreshingly original and showed real thought and maturity.

There were some academics involved, but, as best as we could determine from what the MCs told us, this was limited to a review of each girl’s high school transcripts and SAT/ACT scores. I found it odd that a scholarship competition had absolutely no public exhibition of scholarship. In the past, one MC related, the girls had to draw a topic from a bowl and then speak extemporaneously on it for one minute. A segment like that, or perhaps a sort of Junior Miss College Bowl would’ve been an interesting way of emphasizing the “scholarship” aspect of a “scholarship competition” that otherwise, for the public segments at least, had many of the trappings of the beauty pageant it purported not to be.

But at last, somewhere around 9.30 p.m. Saturday night, an Alabama Junior Miss was winnowed from the tulle-and-taffeta ensemble amidst the expectant tears and roses and group hug as proud parents and siblings rushed the stage, judges beamed, glow sticks waved, supporters shrieked and “Sweet Home Alabama” blared from the speakers. She won around $8,000 in scholarships and will advance to this summer’s National Junior Miss competition in Mobile.

Likewise exciting, though, was that we had snow Saturday morning! Montgomery is only about three hours north of us, and snow was also expected in the northern Panhandle. (When we got home Sunday afternoon there was ice in the cats’ water dish.) We were sitting in Ihop having breakfast when we noticed something mixed in with rain that had been falling that whole dreary, cold grey morning. Then it turned completely to snow. How fun!

So at last I can say I saw snow this winter. And I got to see a girl do a twirling routine to “I, Don Quixote.”

And in all honesty, I was pretty darn proud of Allyn, who deported herself very well through the whole thing, radiating a simple elegance and dignity throughout. Now that’s a real Junior Miss.

I recently did a story about the new state anthem proposed by Rep. Dave Murzin under HB 463, (See my story at www.crestviewbulletin.com.) a tune composed by Col. Graham Fountain, a Crestview native, and his church’s creative arts pastor, Warren Halstrom.

It’s a neat song, and as an anthem, is completely separate from the current tempest in a teapot over the charming old Stephen Foster ballad that currently serves admirably as our state song.

I wrote Don Gaetz, our state senator, to support the proposal wholeheartedly and hope when a Senate version is introduced, he will vote in favor of making “Oh Florida, My Sweet Home” the official state anthem. I hope you’ll write your state legsilators and support it as well.

I also express to Sen. Gaetz my support for keeping the current state song, “The Old Folks at Home.” I have listened to the proposed alternative, “Florida: Where the Sawgrass Meets  the Sky,” and find it not only sickeningly maudlin, but feel it would be a syrupy embarrassment to the state should it be adopted over the charming, historic Stephen Foster tune.

Following the debate, as I understand it, the main concern against Foster’s classic American tune is that some object to the line, “Still longing for the old plantation.” I agree that this can be construed to express sympathy for the antebellum era, which many citizens of our state find unpleasant. But rather than tossing the proverbial baby out with the bathwater, why not introduce legislation to just to change the line rather than replacing the whole song? I humbly submitted:

“Still longing for my dear old homestead.”

There is historic precedence for altering Foster’s admittedly dated lyrics: When the song was adopted by the Legislature in the 1930s as the state song, the word “darkies” became “brothers.”

Another argument I’ve heard is that Stephen Foster wasn’t from Florida. As a reminder, the author of our national anthem was a British nobleman, his words set to an English drinking song. (And the composer of the proposed “Sawgrass” tune is an Englishwoman!) As a child growing up in New Jersey, I couldn’t wait for the day when I’d get to visit Florida, never even daring to hope I might someday live here. One can develop a fondness and express affection for a distant place one has never seen, and as Foster has proven, one can do it eloquently.

Meanwhile, visit our Web site to hear an audio clip of “Oh Florida, My Sweet Home.” I think you’ll agree it’ll make a very suitable anthem. And if you happen to hear a clip of “Florida: Where the Sawgrass Meets the Sky,” be sure to spread something to protect your desktop from the torrent of treacle that’ll spew from your speakers.

Some borders are meant to be crossed. Here’s a good way to cross one we should all try, but locally.

I’ve often thought it’d be neat to visit the Holy Land for Christmas.

But then, maybe seeing the “actual” site of the Nativity might take some of the joyous mystery from the whole event. I mean, who determined the exact place where Jesus was born, anyway? Did archeologists unearth an ancient sign reading “Bethlehem Inn: No Vacancy Except for Stable” on the site?

A fundamentalist former colleague used to get terribly antsy over the holidays. “Christmas is a pagan holiday!” Charles would declare. “It’s based on an old Roman festival!” My office, which looked like someone (OK, me) had exploded a Christmas bomb in it, made him uneasy.

Still, I agreed with him that December 25 is an arbitrary date, and certainly Jesus wasn’t born exactly 2,007 years ago. In fact, astronomers at one point determined that Jesus was probably born around 35 B.C. based on the likely position of the North Star over Bethlehem. Historians suspect he was probably born in April or May because that’s when shepherds in the Middle East keep watch o’er their flocks by night as the ewes lamb.

But, I pointed out to Charles, we humans need for some definites in the nebulous realm of faith, and so created a date to celebrate one of the most momentous births in the history of mankind.

And what better way to lure those pagan, multiple-god-worshiping Romans to our side than to usurp their Saturnal holiday for our observance of the Messiah’s birth.
This somewhat placated Charles. He could at least stop by my office and admire my shimmering aluminum tree with less angst. (Mom purchased that heirloom during a late ‘60s lapse of taste. That would also explain the rust-red carpet and burnt orange colored drapes in the living room.)

But back to visiting the Holy Land: A pilgrimage to the birthplace of Christianity, for many, fosters an even stronger connection to their religion, and further satisfies the human desire for something “real” to identify with faith’s intangibles.

But with airfare as high as the Middle East’s political uncertainty, making a more local pilgrimage for Christmas makes a lot of sense from an economic as well as safety standpoint, and still yields similarly rich spiritual rewards.

Dogwood Acres, the 500-acre Christian summer camp and retreat center in Vernon (operated by the Presbytery of Florida), annually presents a heartwarming, inspiring Christmas nativity program.

“Christmas at Dogwood,” held nightly from 5:30 to 9 p.m. on Friday and Saturday, Dec. 7 and 8, begins with a welcome at the camp entrance pavilion. Then it’s off to Grandma’s house to hear the Christmas story, thence to begin your own, personal pilgrimage to “Bethlehem.”

As you follow the luminaria-lined path through the peaceful, still woodlands, you’ll encounter personalities from the Christmas story along the way. At the first campfire, Mary puzzles over the news that she will soon bear a child. Nearby Joseph anguishes over what his betrothed’s unexpected pregnancy means.

At the next fire, shepherds discuss wondrous news just announced by angelic heralds. A wily King Herod also lurks along your path, seeking any news of the newborn king who, he’s warned, will dethrone him.

The pilgrimage concludes at the manger in Bethlehem, but the evening is far from over. Music, snacks, and beverages — hot and cold — await at Dogwood’s congenial dining hall, where a fire blazes on the giant hearth.

This time of year it’s hard to avoid the frenzy of overcrowded stores that have been hawking Christmas décor since Labor Day. Christmas pop has been on the radio since mid-November. Visions of hard-to-please gift recipients and impending visits from ornery relatives dance in your head.

But it is still possible to relax, regroup and rediscover the true meaning of Christmas.

It’s waiting in a manger at Dogwood Acres, just over an hour’s drive from Crestview.

CHRISTMAS AT DOGWOOD:
Fri. & Sat., Dec. 7 & 8, 5:30-9 p.m.; free admission, parking and refreshments (donations are welcome), call local organizer Tracy Curenton for information or to volunteer, (850) 652-4162
DIRECTIONS: Take I-10 east to exit 112 (Bonifay). Bear right and follow signs to Vernon. Follow County Road 79 south into Vernon.
In Vernon, at the 2nd blinking light, turn left onto Country Road 279 (a.k.a. Moss Hill Road). Go about 4 miles; the Dogwood Acres entrance is on the left.

Recently I’ve seen a couple interesting letters to the editor in the Northwest Florida Daily News, our sister paper down in Fort Walton. Both writers, one from Laurel Hill, yesterday’s from a man in Mary Esther, espoused their right to fly the Confederate battle flag as an homage to their ancestors who fought in the C.S.A. Both offered passionate defenses for their display of the banner.

Their letters helped me with a comparable dilemma. I too, wish to show fealty to my nation yet celebrate the honor and bravery of fighting ancestors. My dad, you see, served in the U.S. Army Air Corps during World War II on Johnston Island, a Pacific atoll, where he was a radio operator in command of the island’s station. Johnston was a fueling stop between Hawaii and battlefronts to the west. One of the missions Dad guided through his zone was the first atomic bomb group. Dad entered the war in late 1944.

Simultaneously, my Onkel Friederich served in the Wehrmacht defending his German homeland against conquering Allies. He, too, entered the war late, and was stationed in the imposing Ehrenbreitstein fortress overlooking the confluence of the Rhein and Mosel rivers and the city of Koblenz, where my relatives still live today.

Just as the letter writers’ Confederate ancestors weren’t slaveholders, Onkel Friederich had nothing to do with the establishment and operation of concentration camps. Like Dad, he was just doing his duty when his nation called. Employing the logic and words of one of the letter writers, having “earned the right to display both flags,” I can proudly fly both my beloved Stars-n-Stripes and, if I had one, the swastika banner of the Third Reich.

Just as those who fly the Stars-n-Bars don’t mind that the Confederate battle flag is symbolic to their black neighbors of a sorrowful period in our nation’s history, I can in equally righteous indignation overlook that the Nazi banner is offensive to my Jewish, homosexual, Catholic and, if I have any, gypsy neighbors. As both writers observed, it’s “my heritage,” and that, apparently, trumps the feelings of others.

But I don’t choose to purchase or display a Third Reich flag. Instead I will continue to fly Old Glory, just as my family faithfully has done long before it became fashionable under our current régime to use the flag to determine who’s more patriotic than thou by how ostentatious one’s display of our flag is. It’s the one flag that encompasses all Americans, no matter their race, color, creed, sexual orientation, politics, or any of the silly hyphenates that only serve to further divide rather than unite us.

No, I’ll let the swastika flags stay in museums where they belong. There they may serve to educate and enlighten rather than to provoke and divide. I can still honor the bravery of Dad, Onkel Friederich and their gallant comrades in my heart even as I lament the foolishness of wars that divide families–and similar peoples–into opposing camps.

After nearly a century and a half, perhaps the Confederate battle flag finally deserves similar disposition.

I wanted a dog, plain and simple. A big dog. Last year while helping my buddy Leon pick out a couple goats for his sister as Christmas gifts, I fell in love with the Great Pyrenees dogs that herd and guard the flocks of goats at the Goat Lady’s farm past Holt. But Leon wanted cats and as it is Leon’s house, after all, cats it would be.

We’ve always been dog people in our family. In fact, cats were a problem in Highland Lakes, the rural mountaintop community in New Jersey in which I grew up. Summer people, usually from New York or New York suburban towns, would buy a kitten to amuse the kids during their summer at “the lake.” (Highland Lakes actually has five lakes.) Then, at the end of the summer, they’d just let the growing cat go when they’d return to the city. The cats would promptly turn feral, contract rabies, form prides, and maraud around the neighborhoods where they were a health threat to year-round residents.

Our dog Rocky didn’t like cats. The lady across the street had scores of felines, and unlike us, she didn’t obey leash laws and thus, her cats meandered all over the neighborhood. They’d sit and preen just out of Rocky’s range, as he was tethered to a run. Now and then Rocky would snap the rope that connected his collar to the metal cable. And naturally, when he thus attained his freedom, his first act was to generally seek retribution for the torment he’d suffered under the cats’ teasings.

One sunny spring day Rocky burst free. The timing was perfect. The lady across the street was hosting a cat party that Saturday afternoon, and had just set out numerous bowls of snacks and milk. Several dozen cats attended, many of them strays she regularly fed (thus attracting more cats to the neighborhood).

And then the uninvited canine guest crashed the party.

In a tremendous ruckus of howling and hissing, cats shot up trees, under the porch, up onto the roof, and anywhere else they could bolt. Rocky, of course, was delighted to be free to play with his little feline friends. While he didn’t actually kill any of the cats, he did spoil the party.

My dad and brother were working in the garage, blithely unaware of Rocky’s accomplishment across the street until the lady’s husband suddenly appeared. He rather apologetically explained the situation and asked if Dad and Evan could go round up the gleeful pooch as his wife was very distraught. Dad said “certainly” and reached for the leash we kept on hand. As the neighbor turned to leave, he stopped and said, “I gotta tell you, that was the funniest damn thing I’ve ever seen. There are cats scattered everywhere over there. I like your dog!”

Well, now I live in a house with two cats on the front porch. Tammy Jo and Wanda June are sisters from the same litter. They’re country girls from Wausau, Fla., each little white balls of fluff. Though Tammy Jo is now a bit bigger than her sister, as kittens and even today the only way we can distinguish between them is because Wanda June has a gray patch on her forehead. When they were kittens, Tammy Jo had an apricot-colored patch on her forehead, but it has since faded.

I wanted to call them Anni-Frid and Agnetha after the two women in ABBA, my favorite pop group after Gary Puckett & the Union Gap. But they’re Leon’s cats and he wanted to give them redneck names (I said we could’ve called them Frieda and Aggie for short and accomplish the same goal). We had met a large, fun boisterous girl from Georgia named Tammy Jo on the beach in Pensacola a couple years ago, and Leon liked the name sufficiently to assign it to his cat. He just made up “Wanda June” for the other cat.

We’ve entered Tammy Jo and Wanda June in the Northwest Florida Daily News’ “Best Pet” contest. They’re on page 56. Please vote for them! And you can vote as often and as many times as you like. (Gee, kinda like it was back when I lived in Louisiana!) Here’s the link:
www.nwfdailynews.com/bestpet/vote/?page=56

Tammy Jo and Wanda June appreciate your vote!

As a kid growing up on a mountaintop in rural northwest New Jersey (yes, New Jersey really does have rural areas!), the big city of New York was still only an hour’s drive away. Still, it was a mighty big border to cross, especially for a small country boy easily intimidated by its in-your-face hustle and bustle.

Since moving south, all my friends imagine I used to spend nearly every weekend in what we simply called “The City” (as if there were no other cities worth mentioning). On the contrary, during my childhood, we’d only venture into New York two or three times a year. Generally it was to see the circus, attend the Royal Scots Tattoo, or to see the shows at Radio City Music Hall.

But when I was really little, Mom belonged to a Broadway matinee club. Four or so times a year, she’d bundle me up in my going-to-The-City finery (those were the days when people dressed up smart to go into town), and we’d take the bus into Manhattan. Soon we’d be in a large, darkened auditorium. And I’d be entranced.

My memories are a kaleidoscope of lights and sets and music and actors. The main thing that struck me were that the performers were real, live people! They weren’t images on a movie screen or on the TV. And to a little person, despite the throngs of theatergoers seated around me, I still felt they were performing just for me. It was a magical experience, and live theater remains one of my passions.

Years later, having seen a local production, I’d report home to Mom about the experience. “Mom, last night I saw the greatest production of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying,” I’d say. “Oh,” Mom would reply, “you saw that on Broadway with Bobby Morse.” Or I’d call up and say, “Mom, let me tell you about this great local production of Cabaret I saw last night.” Mom would say, “Oh, you saw that on Broadway with Jill Haworth!”

I saw Cabaret with Jill Haworth? Yikes! The original Sally Bowles! And I saw it? But alas, with those tender young childhood memories all glittering in that wondrous kaleidoscope, there were few specifics. (Which is why I have no recollection of seeing Julie Andrews and Richard Burton in Camelot.)

Years later, when I lived in New Orleans, I could indulge in live stage productions to my heart’s content. Though not well known outside of town (and even sometimes within the Crescent City), New Orleans boasts one of the nation’s liveliest, most active theater communities. More than a dozen companies citywide produce scores of productions annually. For two years I had the rare treat of being a theater critic for Gambit Weekly, the city’s premier arts, entertainment and politics newsmagazine.

For 19 years, I hosted “Stage & Screen,” a 2-hour radio program on listener-sponsored WTUL-FM on which my co-host, Derek Toten, and I spun tunes from the musical theater, film and television. (I still contribute pre-recorded half-hour “Sets of the Week” to the show.) We’d frequently conduct live interviews with members of the theater community as part of our weekly program. During that time I sat on the local “Big Easy” Entertainment Awards theatre nominating committee, which meant I got to see even more productions.

But then came that fateful day at the end of August 2005, and the beginning of my citizenship in Crestview.

While I have nothing but praise and gratitude for the people of Crestview, particularly for those who have been so kind and generous to my fellow Hurricane Katrina refugees and myself, and while I love the peace and serenity I have found here in the north end of the county, one thing I do miss (apart from my New Orleans friends) is the glory of live theatre.

But, I just learned, it’s something for which I won’t be pining very much longer. Shirley Cadle, a former drama and music teacher at Crestview High School (and wife of our mayor, David Cadle), and Thomas Hood, a local theater enthusiast with a performance degree in stage and opera from Stetson University, among others, founded at the end of September the Crestview Community Theatre.

I can’t wait to get involved with their laudable effort to bring the magic, the thrill, the laughs, the tears and the joys of live theater to the Hub City, and urge those who also love the art to plunge in and support this new effort as well. If you’re at all a theatre enthusiast, whether from out in the audience, on the stage or behind the scenes, I encourage you to join them (their next meeting is at the Coach-N-Four Steak House on U.S. Hwy. 90 on Thursday, 25 October, at 6:30 p.m.). I can hardly wait for the curtain to rise on their first production in February!

A New Orleans theatre friend had a great T-shirt that read, “Theatre is life, film is art, television is furniture.” Truer words were never worn on a person’s chest.

My first trip to Europe was a summer of independent study in Sweden between my last two years at the Tulane School of Architecture. (Why someone with two architectural degrees is writing for a small-town newspaper and scribing a travel column—let alone a blog—is another story into itself. Maybe I’ll share it with you one day.)

Before I left, I spent weeks of anxious preparation quizzing anyone I knew who’d traveled in the Old World. Everything was going to be so new and exciting to me. I sat up late in Tulane’s Rathskeller (back before the administration renovated the University Center and made the Rat look like a chain sports bar) with my friend Kathy, who’d gone through the Junior Year Abroad program in France, and Susan, who was JYA in England. I picked the brain of my pal Nile, who lived in Ireland part of his life.

I prepped about as much as I could. The travels ahead of me, though, were still basically unknown. Fortunately, I was in the good hands of Curt, a Swedish guy I’d met when he was traveling around the U.S. on a Greyhound bus pass.

Here’s the back story: Curt had encountered Joe, the brother of my old school friend Rick, in San Diego. He visited Joe in Dallas, then was sent on to stay with Rick in San Antonio. One day Rick called me and said, “Joe met a guy from Sweden in San Diego who’d like to come visit New Orleans. Can he stay with you?” “Sure,” I said. I always enjoyed meeting Europeans, ever since I was a kid. But it was early on a Thursday morning when Rick called, my one sleep-late weekday, so I fell back to sleep and forgot all about it. Fortunately, I had the forethought to give Rick the phone numbers of several friends on my residence hall floor.

About two weeks later, on a Friday night, I returned from dinner at the Loyola University dining hall (it was cheaper back then for Tulane students on a meal plan to eat at neighboring Loyola than at our own meal plan. The food was better, too). Ron, one of the guys who lived next door, immediately popped into the hallway when he heard me opening my door. “Some guy from Sweden called,” he said. “Well, I think he was from Sweden. I couldn’t understand him. But he’ll be here in 20 minutes.”

Like a banshee I quickly straightened up my room. Fortunately, I like things (basically) tidy, so it was pretty easy. Just as I returned from carrying a bag of trash to the bin down the hall, there was a knock on my door, exactly 20 minutes after Ron had delivered the message. I opened it and there was a tall, cliché blond guy with a backpack and a friendly smile.

“Hallo, my name is Curt,” he said in that lilting accent of the Scandinavians. We became fast friends instantly.

Now, fast-forward about two years to the summer of 1980. Tulane’s architecture program had a summer study requirement for our last two summers of the five-year course of study. You could either study some aspect of architecture domestically or internationally, or you could work with an architectural or construction firm. I was on my last summer, having worked the previous summer with a roofing contracting company which, by sheerest of coincidences, was owned and operated by my father. (Needless to say I got a stellar review from my supervisor.)

After Curt (who, by the way, used to abbreviate his name “Qrt”) visited me for a week in New Orleans, he did more travel up the eastern seaboard (visiting my aunt, uncle and cousins in North Carolina en route) and then, as I’d finished the school year and returned home, stayed with my family and me in rural northwestern New Jersey for another week. (Where he also suffered for the first time in his travels a bout of homesickness, and our area of the country is, very much indeed, reminiscent of his homeland, as I soon learned.)

After two visits with me, he was quick to offer an invitation to visit Sweden. Sweden had never been high on my list of places to see in Europe, but I was keen to go anywhere in the old country, and having someone to show me around a new culture and land was a great incentive. My parents had been planning to give me a plane ticket to Europe as a graduation present, but when I told them I could get school study credit for going early, they agreed to advance the gift a year.

I submitted a purposefully vaguely worded proposal to study something about “Swedish domestic architecture” and “Swedish community planning.” The faculty board that reviewed such requests was apparently more pleased that a student was venturing out of the country and intent on experiencing a new culture and overlooked the vagueness of the proposal. It was approved wholeheartedly.

And thus, as the school year wound to a close, I found myself furiously taking notes in the dimly-lit Rathskeller (which we affectionately called The Rat) as Kathy waxed enthusiastically about her experiences in France.

Which kind of brings me to the point of this blog, which is to say, when planning your travels, particularly if you’re going abroad, don’t hesitate to pick the brains of those who have gone before you. All of us who’ve traveled love to relate our stories. Some of us get a little verbose, but when you travel, you’ll find out why, and will be permitted some verboseness of your own when you get back.

And if you really want to some good travel advice about planning independent travels, I just found out this morning that I’ll be instructing my “Europe Bound” travel seminar as a three-night, 6-hour, program at Okaloosa-Walton College in the spring of ’08. Mark February 13, 20 and 27 on your calendars, 4-6 p.m. each day. It’s part of OWC’s “Prime Time” education program. The catalog will be out soon, I’m told.

But if you don’t want to take the seminar, just shoot me an e-mail with your Europe travel question(s) and I’ll do my best to give you a sensible answer. ‘Cuz I love to blab about traveling! My address is brianh@crestviewbulletin.com

Next time: Some of my experiences during that first trip to Europe

Just back from Tallahassee, where we spent a fun-filled weekend exploring Florida’s sunny, green state capital, I checked my e-mail at home last night and found my box flooded with announcements of the Saturday death of Lois Hooker Maxwell Marriott.

Better known to legions of James Bond film fans the world over as Lois Maxwell, the Canadian actress originated the role of “Miss Moneypenny,” secretary to Bond’s boss “M.” A rabid smoker, she passed away from cancer at a hospital in Australia.

(No, she was most certainly NOT 007’s secretary, as some suggest. That was Mary Goodnight, portrayed in the 1974 Bond film, “The Man With the Golden Gun,” by Swedish actress Britt Ekland. Prior to Mary Goodnight, Bond’s secretary was Leola Ponsonby, who retired from the Secret Service midway through Ian Fleming’s book series to get married.)

With my good friend, lifelong Dallasite and fellow 007 buff Clyde Ponder, I had the sheer delight of hosting Mrs. Maxwell in November 1985 during her second visit to New Orleans. (She got food poisoning during her first visit many years before that!) As a longtime enthusiast of the James Bond books and films, I was giddily nervous upon meeting her at the airport, as after all, it’s not every day one gets to meet and escort an internationally renowned actress, let alone one intimately connected to a favorite film series.

By the time we had whisked her to Tulane University, where she was to appear at a reception that evening and would speak after a screening of her last Bond film the next night, the visit became more like a fun couple of days with a favorite auntie. The barrier between somewhat awestricken fans and movie star dissolved rapidly during the 20-minute ride from the airport.

Chain-smoking along the way (the only person I ever allowed to smoke in one of my cars), Mrs. Maxwell accidentally missed the ashtray and burned a hole in the armrest of Das Boot, my semi-restored 1974 Lincoln Continental Mark IV, which, in her “Moneypenny” column for the Toronto Star, she described as a “rickety behemoth.” She was simply aghast and offered at once to pay for the damage. I refused and her “signature” was a mark of honor for the rest of my ownership of Das Boot. (The car was finally creamed by the Broad Street bus the following Mardi Gras. New Orleans bus service had to buy it off me.)

After freshening up and dinner in the French Quarter, Mrs. Maxwell joined our friends, Tulane students and fans from the community at the Tulane University Center in observance of James Bond’s 65th birthday. (He was born on 11 November 1920, according to a “biography” of 007 written by John Pearson) During the course of the evening, our friend Lance Spencer, an Air Force ROTC student, ceremoniously presented Mrs. Maxwell with a saber (borrowed from a Navy ROTC friend as the Air Force doesn’t have a saber tradition) drawn from the belt of his natty dress uniform, with which she sliced the Union Jack-emblazoned cake.

As Mrs. Maxwell had expressed an interest in taking a Mississippi River cruise as well as seeing New Orleans’ award-winning Audubon Zoo, we combined the two the next day, and with Clyde and Lance in tow, off we went up the river. Along the way a gentleman sitting near us on the boat’s upper deck kept casting furtive glances at our guest. As we disembarked at the Audubon Park landing, he slipped up next to us and gave Mrs. Maxwell his business card. “You’ll note we’re in the same business,” he said with a smile. He was a U.S. Secret Service agent in town scouting locations for an upcoming vice-presidential visit.

Come lunchtime, Mrs. Maxwell insisted on buying us lunch. “I always buy my children hotdogs and ice cream at the zoo,” she explained. We enjoyed a sunny, warm New Orleans fall day in the company of exotic critters of various description as our friend took notes for her newspaper column.

That evening Lois Maxwell got pleasantly buzzed at a Cajun restaurant in preparation for her speech at Tulane. Using the theme “The Woman Behind 007,” she related stories of her extensive film career, leading up to her association with Eon Productions and the world’s most successful continuing film franchise. During her presentation she made “quick work,” as she described it in her column, “of a friendly heckler” who asked impertinent questions about Bond’s relationship with Miss Moneypenny.

Before landing the role of Miss Moneypenny—a casting decision lauded by Ian Fleming—she had won a Golden Globe for her performance in the Shirley Temple film “That Hagen Girl,” and had played opposite Sophia Loren in “Aïda.” She took the Moneypenny part to get some extra money to aid her husband, who was seriously ill and undergoing expensive medical care.

While the rest is film history—she appeared in every Sean Connery and Roger Moore James Bond film—Lois Maxwell ended up being typecast. To supplement her income between 007 films, she diversified from acting and at one point was president of Great Barrier Industries, a Canadian manufacturer of crowd control barricades. (Sniffing at the ubiquitous New Orleans Police Department barricades, familiar to any Mardi Gras attendee, she commented, “Mine are much better.”).

She also accepted roles that parodied Miss Moneypenny. Notably, she starred as a spy in the Italian spoof “Operation Kid Brother,” which starred Sean Connery’s younger brother Neil as a distinguished physician. “The poor man,” sighed Lois Maxwell. “He just couldn’t act.” In fact, Neil’s Scots accent was so thick that he was undecipherable, and he ended up being dubbed by an American-accented actor. The film also starred other Bond film alumni Adolfo Celi (“Thunderball”), Bernard Lee (“M” in all the 007 films to date), and Daniela Bianchi (“From Russia With Love”).

Lois Maxwell also made occasional TV appearances, guest-starring in episodes of two Roger Moore pre-Bond series, “The Saint” and “The Persuaders.” She and Moore were classmates in the 1940s at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts. “We really were old buddies,” Mrs. Maxwell reminisced when I interviewed her before her New Orleans visit.

Interviewed this past weekend on BBC Radio 5, Sir Roger Moore said, “She was always fun and she was wonderful to be with. She was absolutely perfect casting,” he said of her role as Miss Moneypenny. “It was a great pity that, after I moved out of Bond, they didn’t take her on to continue in the Timothy Dalton films. I think it was a great disappointment to her that she had not been promoted to play M. She would have been a wonderful M.” (The role since 1995 has been played by Dame Judi Dench.)

On her last day in New Orleans, Clyde, Lance (who today is a colonel in the U.S. Air Force) and I took Lois Maxwell to a Sunday jazz brunch before we went shopping at the famous French Market so she could buy a bag of pecans to take back for her daughter. Suddenly we realized it was getting close to her departure time. “We tore at tremendous speed” to the airport, she related in her column, but missed her flight. But Clyde magically got her on another connection and we bid a fond farewell to our new friend.

It was the only time I ever met Lois Maxwell, but we occasionally kept in touch for a few years. I understand she had moved to South Africa so she could be with her son, and subsequently wound up in Australia with him. The original, true Miss Moneypenny, she will be sorely missed by those who enjoyed her delightful company. It’s a big border she crossed at the hospital Down Under Saturday night, but it’s one we’ll all face sometime.

I’m sure she crossed it with the same grace and humor we enjoyed many years ago in New Orleans.

From Beograd, With Love

It’s possible to over-plan a trip abroad. I always try to keep my itineraries flexible, because you never know when something might pop up that will make you change your plans. And not all of our border crossings are as pleasant as the rest.

My most memorable change of plans happened while traveling with my pseudo-cousin Allen (we always liked his family much better than our real relatives).

We booked our train travel from Budapest to Athens while we were in Vienna, figuring we’d be more apt to find an English-speaking travel agent. We had to change trains in Beograd (Belgrade), back while Yugoslavia was still more or less intact. Knowing that major cities often have several train stations, our travel agent made sure our train from Budapest arrived at Beograd’s Central Station. But oops, he booked our train to Athens out of Beograd Centraal, a residential suburb.

The info desk clerk directed us to a bus outside of the station, but a taxi driver overheard us and offered to take us to our destination for $10 U.S. (American dollars are always popular in eastern Europe). Soon, though, we noticed signs for the airport.

“Not airport,” we shouted, “Train station!” The confused driver said, “You come from train station!” “Not Central Station, the other station!” said we. At the airport he refused to take us back to Centraal. So we grabbed our bags and refused to pay him. Finally we found another taxi driver, who for 20 U.S. dollars took us to Centraal. We emerged from the cab at a dusty construction zone, a large, open-air commuter station undergoing massive refurbishment.

As we trudged to the tunnel that passes under the tracks, workmen kept holding up four fingers. It turned out Track 4 was a common departure track for international trains, and apparently other bewildered foreign travelers had come this way before us. Clouds of cement dust billowed through the tunnel, erupting out of the entrances to the platforms down the line.

Then it began to rain. Unlike nice, big city center stations, Centraal had no friendly waiting room, no bistro, not even a covered platform at Track 4. Oh, and no W.C. (restroom) either. In fact, the only “facility” was a construction trailer that served as the railway office. Its hitch rested on a single cinderblock, so the polite girl working inside had to hike uphill to answer the phone on a desk at the high end. I showed her our tickets, pointed to my watch and shrugged? She understood, hiked up to the other end of the trailer, made a phone call and came down to where I waited. She wrote our train number on a scrap of paper followed by the scheduled departure time. Then added “+1.” Our train was an hour late.

The rain remained steady, Allen got grumpier as we hadn’t slept well on the train from Hungary, and soon nature was calling—really urgently. Fortunately there are some, ahem, private things boys can do easier than girls, and I confess that Pseudo-Cousin Allen and I took turns soiling Track Number 4 of the Glorious Peoples’ Republic of Yugoslavia, Centraal Station.

“Don’t worry,” I at one point consoled Allen. “Any country that would send us the Yugo can’t feel too badly toward Americans,”

We catnapped while sprawled on the steps, leaning against our propped-up backpacks, sheltered (except when the wind blew the wrong way) by the overhang covering the stairs up from the tunnel. Fortunately we were far enough down the line that we were not too affected by the billowing cement dust.

After “+1” came and went, the sun came out, and a local football team (Americans would call it “soccer”) showed up to catch a commuter train, putting on a lively footwork demonstration during which the ball periodically flew off the platform onto the tracks. Amid peels of laughter, one of the players would scramble off the platform to retrieve it, enjoying the thrill of being someplace that could pose a real threat to life and limb should an express thunder through.

I walked back to the railway trailer. The sympathetic attendant made another uphill trek, made another call, and this time added “+4.5” to the piece of paper. Our train, which had departed from Paris the day before, passing through several countries en route, was running four and a half hours behind schedule. Fortunately we had booked a couchette, or sleeper, car.

At last it rolled into Centraal’s Platform 4. We found our car and were schlepping our stuff down the narrow corridor to our compartment when we were halted by the authoritative voice of the wagon attendant, a young woman cladin the outdated livery of Yugoslav State Railways. She demanded our papers. “Ticket is not in order,” she instantly declared.

We had had enough with Yugoslav railroad inefficiency.

I grabbed the ticket from her hand. “Train number [whatever],” I read, pointing to the train in which we stood, “Train number [whatever!”

“Wagon number [whatever],” I further read on the ticket, following my progress with my finger so she wouldn’t miss it, then pointed to the floor of the wagon in which we were standing. “Wagon number [whatever]!”

“Compartment number [whatever],” I read, then pointed down the corridor. “Compartment number [whatever]. Ticket IS in order!”

With that I gave Allen a push down the corridor and while the attendant stood waiting for the bribe or whatever was up her craw, we took possession of compartment number whatever.

Five minutes later she reappeared. “Ticket is in order,” she confirmed, smiled, and left. “They really are such children,” said the older French lady who, with her equally understanding and smiling husband, shared our compartment. later she bribed the attendant with small sample bottles of perfume to assure they would be awakened on time to disembark at Thessoliniki.

We were ever so happy when the train at last began to roll and the primitive Yugoslav countryside began to pass by, taking us on to Greece and our destination.

The whole situation had the potential to be more nerve-wracking than we permitted it. We knew there was little we could do, and just rolled with the situation. No one died or got sent to a gulag, we retained all of our possessions, and fully six hours behind schedule, we at last arrived in Athens’ main station. There I instantly picked out from the throng on the platform my pen-pal of five years Andreas. It was our first meeting. Still, getting there was a bit uncomfortable.

But years later, whenever Allen and I get together, we always laugh and laugh over our visit to Beograd Centraal, and remember, almost fondly, the sad little Yugoslav State Railways wagon attendant who tried to extract a bribe from the wrong guys.

I promise you your inevitable travel mishap will end up the same way. You’ll be uneasy while it’s happening, but when you get home, it’ll be one of the highlights of your trip—and will evoke the most laughs whenever you recall it.

Keep crossing those borders–and keep smiling!