i often rode the train out from london and walked up the hill to my brother's art gallery. from my standpoint it was beautifully situated - between a pub and a betting shop. after a beer and a bet [the bookmaker often disclaimed in disgust "here comes that bloody yank again"] i would retire to ed's white walled gallery to study the racing papers.
one day, quietly sitting, contemplating, i was confronted by a public servant looking type - cheap shirt, dirty knot in his tie, spattered pants - "you pollard?" the creature inquired..."i am," i replied. "got something for you," and he thrust a bunch of papers in my face. "ed," i called out. "there's a delivery for you," for our friend was followed by another sort wrestling a carton laden trolley in the door.
"what's this all about, then?" asked my brother. "don't know. sign here," replied our new found friend. signature and cartons exchanged, we looked at each other, puzzled. when examined the cartons proved startling. what we realized, after much deliberation, was that we were being sued for 600,000,000 english pounds - 1,000,000,000 american dollars!
"call dolman," we both said at once, dolman being our solicitor, a partner in the law firm our family had used for over 140 years. "this can't be true!"
it was true we were being sued - but the reasons were murky. our father was a great sailor and had a norwegian friend with whom he often sailed the fjords. the norwegian - and here's the murky part - was a spot player in the oil market...one day worth a billion, the next day worth nothing, or in the hole. unfortunately, he died one day when he was in the hole. his heirs didn't know that and were turning over every rock to find the money. our father, the oil baron's banker, was dead as well so they pounced on the next tier. sadly, for them and for us, we didn't have it. even the interest would have been satisfactory.
the suit was summarily dismissed.
that was my only experience in big banking and wildcatting.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
parents
my father was a prick - and my mother was an idiot...to further complicate matters they were both intelligent. they were married in 1933, totally unsuited for each other. my father was from an uptight, aristocratic british family who didn't want him marrying an american to start with, rose to run a big merchant bank in london, and hadn't much of a sense of humor. my mother was from philadelphia by way of baltimore and providence, rhode island, the youngest of three, a debutante and, as she later proved, an alcoholic. she had, not long before she met my father, been jilted by the son of the doctor to italy's king ferdinand. my parents each misjudged the others potential inheritance.
somehow, i came into this union in 1943.
by 1948 they were divorced - by 1950 my mother and i were in the states where to me, age eight, people spoke a foreign language and drove on the wrong side of the road.
the reason i maintain my father was a prick is because, after the divorce and for the rest of his life he disengaged himself from my existence. he wrote me the occasional letter - usually castigating me for some adolescent sin - forgot my birthdays, and didn't bother with christmas or things like graduation from various schools. i even discovered that he had frequently been in new york city on business as i grew up and had not called. in short, not there. as a consequence i was always looking for mentors and found a few - some good, some bad. the bad ones were usually sexual predators, easy enough to fend off but disquieting none the less. [we all knew about the roman church and its problems.] the others, even the good ones, often got sick and tired of an unwanted puppy panting at their heels all the time and brushed me off. when he died, i, my half brother and his third wife in attendance, i felt little sadness and no loss, which i have since learned is unusual. he did leave me a few nice bits of english furniture which, because it's veneered, is falling slowly to pieces in our hotter and drier climate than that of its origin.
my mother was an idiot because she squandered all sorts of opportunities to lead a happy life after she returned to the states. as a single, slightly exotic, forty year old woman with a wide circle of upscale, high society friends in her adopted hometown [to live in philadelphia was to be too close to her older, dominating sister] she had everything going for her - and the gentlemen callers were legion. they soon fell away - as did her influential friends - because she decided, almost at once, to kill herself with drink. eventually, even i fell away - absconding in the family car to a lake below dover where i fished for two days [until my money ran out] then returning home to a house full of stunned friends and relatives. "i want out of here..." or some such, were my homecoming words. i soon was. she died, alone, on a new year's eve, a very old 58.
these are some of the reasons i swore - after my divorce from their mother - i would never abandon my children as my parents had abandoned me.
somehow, i came into this union in 1943.
by 1948 they were divorced - by 1950 my mother and i were in the states where to me, age eight, people spoke a foreign language and drove on the wrong side of the road.
the reason i maintain my father was a prick is because, after the divorce and for the rest of his life he disengaged himself from my existence. he wrote me the occasional letter - usually castigating me for some adolescent sin - forgot my birthdays, and didn't bother with christmas or things like graduation from various schools. i even discovered that he had frequently been in new york city on business as i grew up and had not called. in short, not there. as a consequence i was always looking for mentors and found a few - some good, some bad. the bad ones were usually sexual predators, easy enough to fend off but disquieting none the less. [we all knew about the roman church and its problems.] the others, even the good ones, often got sick and tired of an unwanted puppy panting at their heels all the time and brushed me off. when he died, i, my half brother and his third wife in attendance, i felt little sadness and no loss, which i have since learned is unusual. he did leave me a few nice bits of english furniture which, because it's veneered, is falling slowly to pieces in our hotter and drier climate than that of its origin.
my mother was an idiot because she squandered all sorts of opportunities to lead a happy life after she returned to the states. as a single, slightly exotic, forty year old woman with a wide circle of upscale, high society friends in her adopted hometown [to live in philadelphia was to be too close to her older, dominating sister] she had everything going for her - and the gentlemen callers were legion. they soon fell away - as did her influential friends - because she decided, almost at once, to kill herself with drink. eventually, even i fell away - absconding in the family car to a lake below dover where i fished for two days [until my money ran out] then returning home to a house full of stunned friends and relatives. "i want out of here..." or some such, were my homecoming words. i soon was. she died, alone, on a new year's eve, a very old 58.
these are some of the reasons i swore - after my divorce from their mother - i would never abandon my children as my parents had abandoned me.
Friday, February 24, 2012
rain
it rained twice on us - more on jimbo than me because he was driving the open, old style jeep when the first storm hit just north of lewes, and i was safe and dry in the pontiac, setting the pace. i watched in the rear view mirror as he got deluged and laughed as he swiped at his glasses, futilely, to push away the water.
we were on our way to assateague to surf fish and planned to camp on the beach for a night or so.
we made the transition in rehoboth easily and were soon on our way to the island. no rainstorms plagued us on the trip and pie was waiting to ferry us across the bay.
once on assateague we turned south, heading for the virginia line where we were going to camp near the three house outpost that marked the southern end of maryland.
tent pitched, we fished, wonderfully alone - there were no visitors in the houses - well into the evening. a meal of some sort was eaten and we fished again. at some point one of us looked west - at the ominous approaching cloud cover. wind preceded the rain and we just had time to secure our rods and dive into the tent. lightning crashed around us as the rain fell in torrents. we were dry until i touched the canvas inadvertantly - disaster...water poured into the tent. we decided to make for one of the stilted houses and ran, carrying the only light source we had, a lantern, and arrived, sheltered from the rain for the moment, at the foot of the stairs that led to a small landing from which - locked - doors led to, we supposed, the living quarters. jimbo fumbled with the lantern while i tried the door handles.
the rain was still hammering down so we decided to stay where we were - on the little landing, lit by dim lantern light. after about a half hour jimbo suddenly said, "i feel sick." "i do too," i replied. "what do you suppose got us. something we ate." "no. it's carbon monoxide," he stammered. "we''ve got to get out of here. we'll die!"
by that time - just seconds - we were both too weak to stand. i remember rolling down the stairs, retching and coughing. jimbo followed and we lay together panting, headachy on the cold damp sand under the house, the deadly lantern still burning above us. it was some time before i could gather myself, hold my breath and retrieve it.
the rest of the night was a blur. dawn finally arrived, grey and murky. we looked at each other, at the fishing rods, grimly packed up the sopping tent and made our way north to the ferry landing. on the way back across the bay we agreed we were damn lucky to be alive.
jimbo left us some years ago - at the start of a fishing trip, but, thankfully, not in a driving rain storm.
we were on our way to assateague to surf fish and planned to camp on the beach for a night or so.
we made the transition in rehoboth easily and were soon on our way to the island. no rainstorms plagued us on the trip and pie was waiting to ferry us across the bay.
once on assateague we turned south, heading for the virginia line where we were going to camp near the three house outpost that marked the southern end of maryland.
tent pitched, we fished, wonderfully alone - there were no visitors in the houses - well into the evening. a meal of some sort was eaten and we fished again. at some point one of us looked west - at the ominous approaching cloud cover. wind preceded the rain and we just had time to secure our rods and dive into the tent. lightning crashed around us as the rain fell in torrents. we were dry until i touched the canvas inadvertantly - disaster...water poured into the tent. we decided to make for one of the stilted houses and ran, carrying the only light source we had, a lantern, and arrived, sheltered from the rain for the moment, at the foot of the stairs that led to a small landing from which - locked - doors led to, we supposed, the living quarters. jimbo fumbled with the lantern while i tried the door handles.
the rain was still hammering down so we decided to stay where we were - on the little landing, lit by dim lantern light. after about a half hour jimbo suddenly said, "i feel sick." "i do too," i replied. "what do you suppose got us. something we ate." "no. it's carbon monoxide," he stammered. "we''ve got to get out of here. we'll die!"
by that time - just seconds - we were both too weak to stand. i remember rolling down the stairs, retching and coughing. jimbo followed and we lay together panting, headachy on the cold damp sand under the house, the deadly lantern still burning above us. it was some time before i could gather myself, hold my breath and retrieve it.
the rest of the night was a blur. dawn finally arrived, grey and murky. we looked at each other, at the fishing rods, grimly packed up the sopping tent and made our way north to the ferry landing. on the way back across the bay we agreed we were damn lucky to be alive.
jimbo left us some years ago - at the start of a fishing trip, but, thankfully, not in a driving rain storm.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
writing
as a professed writer - at least of short pieces - i have always ascribed, in the very face of somerset maugham's advice*, to the practice of beginning somewhere in the middle, proceeding to the beginning, and hying from thence to the end.
*always write pieces that have a beginning, a middle, and an end.
*always write pieces that have a beginning, a middle, and an end.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
valentine's day
good morning - this is going to be a rant...it's 4:00 a.m. and i can't sleep because of this damn twitching. i'm having a drink [which would make my doctors crazy] and bemoaning the fact that, because of my epilepsy [the other half of my afflictions] and my inability to drive i can't even get my wife a valentine's card. i made one yesterday - like some kindergartener - with a plain piece of paper and some different colored pens. i hope she likes it.
the most frustrating thing about these diseases is one's loss of independence. we live far enough in the country that i can't walk to get the papers - or coffee - or lunch, whatever. thank god for computers and tvs...without them, and the odd book or crossword puzzle, i'd go nuts. i don't know how in "the old days" people survived this kind of mess - but i suppose they didn't.
this business puts a hell of a strain on sally, too. she's got a complicated company to run - not to mention a "complicated" husband to run.
i know i sound as if i'm feeling sorry for myself and there are a hell of a lot of people in this world who are worse off than i, but i am feeling sorry for myself - and not a little pissed off. like arno, at sea drifting on a flipped zodiac, i haven't many attractive possibilities. unfortunately, there are no friendly seafarers in the area to come to my rescue so i can "return to camp and go on fishing."
nope. this is it - this is the way it will end. slowly, i'm sure, but inevitably. and it won't be graceful - and grace is what i suppose we all hope for.
i told you this would be a rant...i only wish i felt better for it and that i could come to better terms with my condition.
the most frustrating thing about these diseases is one's loss of independence. we live far enough in the country that i can't walk to get the papers - or coffee - or lunch, whatever. thank god for computers and tvs...without them, and the odd book or crossword puzzle, i'd go nuts. i don't know how in "the old days" people survived this kind of mess - but i suppose they didn't.
this business puts a hell of a strain on sally, too. she's got a complicated company to run - not to mention a "complicated" husband to run.
i know i sound as if i'm feeling sorry for myself and there are a hell of a lot of people in this world who are worse off than i, but i am feeling sorry for myself - and not a little pissed off. like arno, at sea drifting on a flipped zodiac, i haven't many attractive possibilities. unfortunately, there are no friendly seafarers in the area to come to my rescue so i can "return to camp and go on fishing."
nope. this is it - this is the way it will end. slowly, i'm sure, but inevitably. and it won't be graceful - and grace is what i suppose we all hope for.
i told you this would be a rant...i only wish i felt better for it and that i could come to better terms with my condition.
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