Scotty too, I'm afraid. And Kirk is in the Nexus, he's not coming back either. I guess this means that the Romulans can't be that far away. Brace yourselves, gentlemen.

Folks,

MG:

Yup. Maybe old Scotty succumbed to a serious overdose of radiation from all those extra Dylythian Crystals he always carried in his pocket in case the Enterprise ran low. I believe he was the first of the cast members to go where so many men (and women) have gone before.

Death is nothing new to any of us. The population is aging and people all around us are dropping like flies all the time. We see their names in the obits and unless they are family or co-workers hardly take notice though, in reality, they are far closer to us than anyone in Hollywood. Why is it then that we feel such a loss when an actor, a man or woman whom we have never met and who wouldn't recognize us if he or she tripped over us in a phone booth, passes away? It must have to do with the frequency of their visits into our homes via TV and the popularity of the character they play on that medium.

Yet John Wayne never was on TV very much and I felt a real sense of loss when he died of lung cancer. In that particular case I had a back story with Mr. Wayne. He was my dad's favorite western star and as a child growing up, when he was at home (He was a captain in the Merchant Marines) and a John Wayne film was playing at one of our local theaters, he would always take me to see it. It was one of the few things I ever shared with my dad over the years.

When someone famous passes we are reminded of our own mortality knowing full well that if so-in-so died with all that money, power and talent there is precious little to protect us average folk from the bony clutches of the Grim Reaper.

Each year we lose more and more of our aging population of stars and minor stars. People so familiar to us. Each year that film of remembrance shown at the Oscars seems to grow longer. The recent passing of Mickey Rooney surely heralded the passing of nearly all those great stars that permeated the Technicolor skies of Hollywood in the 40's and 50's and perhaps even the 60's.

Other performers of later days will come and go and we may also miss them too. I don't think we'll ever see the likes of many of the stars of the "Golden Age" of Hollywood and TV again. At least not those of us who are almost as long in the tooth as they were.

Gents,

JRT,

I sure do remember those exploits you mention. In fact, it was only the other evening as I sat slumped in my Victorian rosewood parlour chair, sipping a particularly pleasant 1938 Burmester port when similar memories came flooding back.

Like that time we attended the Kent Farmers Midsummer Ball. We both made our grand entrance with Nurses Sybil Wagpole and the regular squadron favourite, Ophelia Hardrod. The band were halfway through the military two-step when Olga spotted us and staggered from the prizewinning cider barrel. She didn't need to remind us about the invites she had received from both you and I as she picked up the bung hammer, wiped the slops from her chin stubble and lurched directly towards us. The girls quickly made themselves scarce as we dashed for the latrine window and got firmly wedged in the frame as Olga caught up. What was the number of that ward we were in at the Great Studley War Emergency Injuries Unit?


Loss of life is to be mourned but only if that life was wasted.

Spock: Son of Sarek and Amanda.

Folks,

Dux:

As usual, your steel trap memory for the details of times long gone is utterly amazing. Well, amazing that is because of the details you left out.

A great telling of the story Old Man. But you seem to have completely forgotten that it was you who escorted Olga to that ball. It was you who dared her to remove the hard driven bung from that huge cask or barrel of Rod Guttz Prize-Winning Hard Cider with just her teeth.

Olga was, if nothing else a good sport. While she was gnawing so suggestively upon that large, wooden bung, you couldn't have watched for more than a moment because, having noticed me arriving with those two young..er..ladies in tow, you were across the dance floor and beside us in a flash. Not waiting for an invitation, you instantly shifted into unctuously friendly mode as you ignored my strong protests and began chatting up the lovely Miss Hardrod. Miss Wagpole was lovely of course but somehow not really my cup of tea.

At that precise and pregnant moment we heard a loud POP from across the room as Olga finally freed that well stuck bung with her bare teeth. There was a shout of glee from the crowd that had gathered 'round her and there followed a loud and enthusiastic applause as Olga of Minsk raised the entire barrel above her head and, tipping it up on one end, she began to pour the contents down her gullet.

That was impressive even from a distance I can tell you. For a moment we stood in shock and awe (we were the first to use that term). We watched in disbelief. Before I could give you a much deserved poke on the nose for poaching Dux, several things happened all at once.

Friends, Olga saw Dux pawing Miss Hardrod. Dux saw from a distance Olga's beady eyes narrow as she tossed that almost empty barrel right through the nearby latrine window. Olga saw Dux turn white as a sheet and, remembering a pressing engagement elsewhere turn to make a hopeless run for it. Someone nearby (we may never know who) reached out a size 9 hobnailed boot (No, I cannot say how I know the exact size of the boot, I just do) and caught Dux's right ankle causing him to sprawl headlong upon the floor.

Finding himself splayed out on the floor and feeling the floor shake with every one of the jealous Olga's approaching footfalls, Dux, who happened not even to be a Catholic, began giving himself the "Last Rites". The girls and I dashed for cover. I, not wanting to see the carnage, and the girls, not wishing to risk getting blood on their rented, drastically marked down since the war began, Hannah Reich ball gowns.

The girls went one way and I another. Somehow Dux regained his composure, his feet and enough speed to attempt to outdistance Olga. A munificent Fate intervened for the effects of all that hard cider began to take hold. Olga slowed, lumbered on for a few more steps and then, out cold, she stumbled and landed on the floor with a great and thundering bounce that knocked the very breath out of her at one end and a huge and offensive fart was blasted right out the other. That odoriferous blast cleared the packed room as efficiently as a dozen dead skunks sewn inside a rotting hippopotamus caucus would have.

Dux, holding his nose, passed me high stepping at a gallop without so much a tip of his service cap. The yawning broken latrine window looked like a sure way to safety to both of us at about the same time. Dux got there first and plunged right through it. I, on the other hand, screeched to a sudden halt my size 9 hobnailed service boots leaving several long grooves in the floor. I had stopped short when as soon as I heard a loud splash and Dux screaming obscenities that would have made a drunken sailor blush.

My composure thus restored, I looked around me and saw an empty room save for the still form of a peacefully slumbering Olga sprawled upon the floor. Dux was still floundering around in that horrible effluent whilst continuing to show off his amazing talent for obscenities. I, holding my nose, strolled right out the nearest exit and then upon the grass where I got a good lungful of fresh air and rejoined the girls who had located a full bottle of Château Thames Embankment, Vin. this morning. We had a lovely time after that Dux but you wouldn't be expected to remember that would you dear boy?

Oh yes, I forgot to ask, is it true that it was a hung over if not contrite Olga who finally pulled you tired but still spluttering curses out of the horrible bog? How did that go for you?

Gents,

JRT,

Well, maybe one or two of the less salient incidents have faded from memory.

Still very cold here with light snow flurries every now and again. How nice it will be to once again walk out without being muffled up with layers of winter togs. Meanwhile, that camping trip looms ever larger...

I have received an email pic from you showing houses, presumably near where you live. Obviously a recent development but I was wondering if your are close to the natural world which I have heard you comment on so much when you were at your previous address. I have never wanted to be out of sight of the countryside wherever I have lived - ever since we spent several of the final and post-war years in Manchester. Glad I wasn't raised there and even more pleased that I don't live there now.

Folks,

Dux:

As usual you are far too modest.

I thank you for letting me know that I had another senior moment last night. That mail was supposed to go to C51 in Toronto. We all make that kind of mistake now and then. In my defense I had just had far too much good food and drink. E-mail addresses always look a bit blurred through a large Margarita glass anyway.

An unsuitable e-mail has just been dispatched to your snow and ice coated mailbox. At least I meant to send that to you. If you haven't received it by noon my time (-5 GMT) contact C51 and ask him to read it to you.

I'm watching a rather interesting program about the battle of the Chosin Reservoir on TV. In many ways Korea is still a "forgotten war". There is not one book on the air war over Korea in the public library even now after several plaintive requests from me.

Folks,
Dux:

I have received a coded communication from C51. He did get his e-mail last night after all so it seems the mail that you received was indeed meant for you. You must have been speaking of something I sent to you several days ago, not last night. I keep forgetting that you don't check your mail every day.

Another collection of trivia has been dispatched in your direction. Look for it in your frozen mailbox. Don't forget to take your ice pick.

Folks,

Apropos to our recent conversation regarding storing the contents of a human mind; I read this morning on FlipBook interesting news that researchers are now mapping rat's memories. This led me to wonder just how interesting and diverse a rat's memories could actually be. A bit of cheese found here a scrap of something stinky over there, where the cat sleeps, which lady rats are especially friendly.....?

This begs the question will human memories be next? They indicate scientists have cracked the code of memories by tracing how they are imprinted on the brain. Researchers found how nerve cells changed when rats made decisions. For decades scientists have been trying to map memories in the brain. Now they seem to be on the cusp of fantastic and perhaps (though not for rats but certainly for man) chilling breakthroughs into the mysteries of the mind.

I watched a very interesting TV program last night. The program was all about the restoration of one of the last two Lysanders still existing. Number 416 was beautifully restored to flying status at Canada's Vintage Wings Museum.

There were interesting insights as to the inner workings of the historic kite. The museum staff certainly had a lot of volunteer help completing the job. I did not realize that the Lysander engine was so powerful and that it could fly as slowly as 45 MPH or as fast as a bit over 300 MPH. Neither did I know that, according to the program, it was a Lysander that bagged the first enemy plane in WW2. Those external MGs placed in the wheel boots must have been quite lethal to overly curious German pilots. I believe there was also a 30. cal. Mg inside the rear canopy that could be brought out to protect the tail.

As you all would already know, the sturdy Lysander made a real name for itself landing behind enemy lines supplying partisans and dropping off and picking up spies. What a distinctive silhouette the plane had with those big gull wings and those aerodynamic wheel boots. The museum's annual air show was also featured. Several Spits and other war birds, including a Lanc and the restored Lysander were flown. It was an enjoyable hour for me.

Folks,

Here is a Lysander link sent me by C51.

http://www.vintagewings.ca/Aircraft/tabi...ander-IIIA.aspx

Chaps,

JRT,

Thanks for that Lysander link. I saw one flying at Duxford some time ago. I don't know if it had the Bristol Perseus or the Mercury engine but it gave off a healthy, guttural roar during the demo.

Over 20 years ago, J and I stayed at a B&B in Wells-next-the-Sea, north Norfolk. The proprietor had flown Lysanders during the Battle of France and he recounted the story of his near demise.

He was stoogeing about at a fairly low altitude when the nav/gunner reported (less than casually) that three Bf110s were coming up behind them in line abreast. The two outriders were there to cut him off in any turn he may have attempted, so, with self preservation at the top of the agenda he took the only course of action open to him. He stuck the nose down and hurriedly landed in a field. They scrambled out and legged it for cover. A 110 came in firing and W saw tracer hitting the ground between him and his gunner who was only a few yards ahead. One of the rounds took his little finger off but they both made it to cover. All three 110s then circled round and blitzed the 'Lizzie', big style. They don't come any closer than that.

JRT,

I will be emailing you some pics for C51 of the branch line buildings I made some 12 years ago.

They were for the GWR Lambourn branch which never got finished but I hope to use them in some capacity before long..

Folks,

Dux:

Gotcher mail and an unsuitable reply complete with illustration is even now wending its circuitous way across the big wet spot to your own rusty, crusty, snow decorated mailbox.

Excellent craftsmanship. We have, of course, come to expect nothing less from you. Thanks for sharing. I have, per your instructions, forwarded same to C51 for his late night viewing pleasure.

JRT,

Thanks for the email, comments and pictures. Some I have sent on to 'M' who is now fully convinced that she has friends in NC.

I have encouraged that belief, which had its origins in those contacts of a few years ago!

Folks,

Dux:

"M" is quite correct in that belief. And, yes, when I look back upon those days 3 years ago this past February I feel I too have very good friends across the big wet spot.

In Other News
Say it ain't so Jumbo. Unless I misheard or they misspoke, according to public radio news, executives of "The Greatest Show on Earth" have announced that elephants will no longer participate in that long running circus show.

To be fair, I have not asked an elephant about this yet. Until a circus comes to town they are rather scarce around here. An elephant would surely know if this news is true because elephants never forget, right? Maybe there's a comment by an elephant online? I'll look on Google. Without the circus to rely upon what work is there for elephants today? There may well be long lines of unemployed, under employed and or homeless elephants at the temp. agencies soon. Tragic I say.

Not that the circus has always been an ideal place of employment for the magnificent pachyderms. We've all heard of cases of terrible cruelty and pitiful suffering. I'd guess (again I have not asked an elephant) most of that would have occurred in one of those very small circus shows that proliferated in the 50's and 60's and not in great shows like TGSOE".

Those shows probably took great care in caring for their considerable elephantine investment. Even with the best of treatment and soothing TLC, I'd also guess that elephants not born in the circus might yearn for the unemployed freedom they once enjoyed in the jungle. On the other hand, so many elephants were also pressed into trunk breaking service in India where there was no local office of the ASPCA to look out for them there.

So, no elephants will be performing in "TGSOE". Sacrilege. How can that be? To my cluttered mind, elephants and the circus are as inseparable as are popcorn and a movie or a baseball game and peanuts or hotdogs. By tradition elephants have not only performed in the circus they have also always done a prodigious amount of the hard work. What little boy hasn't ridden his bike out to that big field at the edge of town where the circus was setting up just to watch the Indian elephants carrying heavy loads and doing other bone breaking chores? I certainly did.

Is nothing sacred anymore? Before you know it they'll no longer be putting a neat magnifying glass or a colorful top or other worthwhile toy in boxes of Cracker Jacks.... what's that? They haven't done that for years? Really? Fancy that.

Roger; It should be fairly easy to ask this "elephant in the room" I always hear and read about. Remember folks, you heard it here first!

In other news, today was "springy" and I developed a spring to my step, hopped on the old blue french with the "rattler" field mod and proceeded to wiggle and woggle all over the local parishes. The coming week bodes well with equally impressive weather; 11-12 Celsius and little wind. I may go out again, if only I can move my legs and blood circulation will once more be restored to the nether regions.

Who needs a circus when I'm around! Huh!?

Chaps,

JRT, Jens,

This talk of the circus and elephants immediately reminded me of a quote which took me back many, many years - like a drawer opening to reveal a long forgotten memory.
It was proffered by the great jazzman, Stan Kenton and went something like this:

'Brass bands should only be heard in the presence of elephants and the company of clowns'

Folks,

Jens:
The pachyderm in one of several square divisions of a domicile, you say? I like that. LOL.

By now perhaps you have been standing long enough that the blood is once more coursing through you brain.

SO that is spring in Denmark. After weeks of temps way below average or what I'm told would be called a warm spell up in Canada, things have warmed. We have had temps as high as the high 70's F. lately.

Couple the unusually warmer weather with the unavoidable fact that someone has apparently moved the sun, and we are perhaps likely to say goodbye to winter very soon. It's all a bit unnerving. Moved the sun? Well it ain't where it usually is when I rise at my regular hour. Wait, we're on daylight savings time now, I heard someone say. Yes, that might explain it as well.

Dux:
Old Stan was quite a jazz musician. So you are a knowledgeable jazz aficionado? Felonious Monk haled from my hometown. He was also a fair hand at musical improvisation.

We have a rather good brass ensemble here in town. My optometrist is a charter member of that brotherly band of blowers. Their performances are well attended and they have won several prizes. How they have managed that with nary an elephant nor an obvious clown in the audience is perhaps baffling. C51 was a music teacher/band instructor. He can play just about any instrument not normally found in an operating theater.

I, on the other hand, can only play the drums, radio and the TV and that's the sad extent of it.

Folks,

According to the "Guardian", scientists at CRNS in Paris have succeeded in creating false but happy memories in mice. Supposedly this is the first demonstration of memory manipulation during sleep.

This indicates, it is said, to herald the possibility for a new treatment for depression..... Those of us with skeptical minds might wonder if there might also be other, far less acceptable and sinister possibilities for this technique?

Relatively easy manipulation of emotional memory smacks of the movie "Eternal Sunshine" in which the Jim Carey character has all his painful recollections of a failed relationship purged from his memory using fictional mind reading technology.

Do you fellows know what this means for me? In no time at all, the terrible and debilitating anguish of wetting my pants in kindergarten class could be no more, entirely replaced by the manufactured but infinitely more pleasant memory of kissing Emma Lou Cowcudd, aged 5, in the darkened cloakroom.

Ooops. I probably shouldn't have admitted to the wetting pants part. I can hear the snickering. I'm soooo humiliated. Promise me you'll all have your own memories of that event replaced at your very earliest inconvenience.

I have no memory of that event. But I would remember Emma's stand-in in my own life. However, that's not possible since I started at an all-boys elementary school. I know I didn't kiss any of my classmates, but I will admit to trading more than a few punches with a couple of them. Guess I didn't like bullies even then. The reception I got after my parent got home when she saw the swollen eye or red spots on my body did not include kisses.

It's nice to drop in and share a cup of java with you guys.

Folks,
Fittop:

You and your posts are always welcome at HWH Hall.

Just step right over the recumbent Dux and pull up a stool at the bar. Java you say? Hmmmm. We must have an un-chipped china cup or maybe a large stoneware mug in the kitchen somewhere. You heard the man LeRoy, get you to the larder and see if there isn't a small package of Arabica (Coffea Arabica) beans hidden behind that large case of moonshine C51 sent to us from Canada. Careful my friend, if you should break even one Mason jar of that potent stuff Dux may rouse himself just enough to kill you. Sorry, there was no coffee brewing my friend. The sun being over the yard arm there was no expected call for it. LeRoy will have you a steaming cupa brewed in a jiffy.

I had several run-ins with bullies as a lad. Usually I found I could outrun the ones wearing high heels. The others proved to be cowards at heart once you stood up to them and took their heavy purses away.

I recall one serious bullying instance in high school. The fellow sat behind me in a class. He was known to be a heartless bully. The guy took great offense at a few words he overheard me say one afternoon. Punching me in the back, he angrily challenged me to a fight right after school. This boy was 3 times my size from the neck down but I greatly outweighed him from the neck up. Nevertheless I was in deep fertilizer as everyone went to great lengths to point out once the news got around.

You don't run from a fight where I come from and bullies shouldn't be encouraged, right? So I agreed to meet the big guy on the chosen field of battle. I had to admit he had some grounds for offense since what he had overheard was my telling a chum I had a date with the bully's girlfriend.

It was a long two periods before the final bell rang out up and down the halls. At the tolling of the bell everyone in school knew by now that it tolled for me. I walked slowly to my locker and, though it took longer than usual to get the combination lock open, I eventually put my books inside and re-locked it possibly for the last time.

Only one pal spoke to me...with words. He greatly encouraged my confidence when he asked me if I was really determined to commit suicide? Other friends said nothing at all as they passed me in the hall that afternoon. Their eyes and the expressions of pity on their faces said more than enough. Every nerve in my being seemed to be deserting me and I yearned for flight rather than for a fight. I had no doubt he'd beat the hell out of me.

Going to that fight may well have been the bravest decision that I have ever made in my long life. I was already fighting. I fought back the dreadful fear as I made my way to the back of the school. Finally I stood before the heavy, green double fire door that opened to the practice football field. I stood there contemplating the complete massacre that was about to happen. I stood there racking my brain unsuccessfully for some sort of strategy that might give me even a tiny chance of survival for several long minutes. I knew that huge guy that everyone knew as a bully was confidently waiting for me on the other side of that door. I had proved I was no coward. I can't say I died a thousand deaths at that moment... just one death over and over. Mine.

Finally, I took a great lung full of air, and pushed hard against the, cold, brass fire bar on the door. The heavy door flew open much faster than I had expected. To my surprise, there stood the only fellow in school bigger than the bully that I was to fight. He smiled at me and I stepped aside so he could pass me by.

As he disappeared without a word into the hall extending behind me, I looked out upon a completely empty field. I could not believe it. There was absolutely no sign of my expected opponent. I looked left, I looked right and then I even glanced behind me. The big, angry fellow was not to be seen. I waited, poised at that heavy door, for a long and respectful 30 seconds. I did that just in case the bully was running late you see. Remembering the lateness of the day, I then quickly departed. My honor, as far as I was concerned, was still intact.

Next day, the bully was not in class. When I saw him again he was no longer seated anywhere near me. In fact, I cannot recall that he even spoke to me again. He certainly never mentioned the fight that did not take place nor did anyone else. For my part, neither did I. Contrite for poaching, and perhaps taking care not to press my luck one girl too far, I never dated that girlfriend either.

To this very day I do not know, nor care very much, what changed that bully's mind about our fight. Maybe he was scared of me? Scared he'd kill me, that is.