Human Serengeti

It was the Rotary International Meeting held in Asia that year. Since Sharon was Rotary Governor for her district, she was invited to attend. I came along as her spouse. It was our first trip to the Far East and what a memorable trip it was.

Singapore, with its skyscrapers, teeming masses on every street, and modern amenities, proved to be the perfect first step in a broad sweep over the South China Sea. Back then, when the sense of adventure was still strong and body willing, Sharon and I were venturing near and far from crowded food markets to high-end shopping centers to cultural attractions found nowhere else in the world.

I found it interesting that around that time, President Obama decided to use Singapore as his meeting place with the dictator from North Korea. Singapore is a fascinating country in that it chose, a long time ago, to follows its own path into the Twenty-First century.

Some of its strict laws have been criticized by Westerners as barbaric and cruel by our standards. But their adherence to conformity hasn’t diminished their success in the marketplace; regionally or worldwide. I found Singapore to be at once, modern and ancient, congested and clean. It felt extremely safe for a large metropolitan area.

After Singapore, we traveled to Bali. Unfortunately, I couldn’t escape the music of ‘South Pacific’ playing in my head the whole time we were there. Author Michener with his best-seller ‘Tales of the South Pacific’ didn’t help bring clarity to what I was experiencing.

On one hand, Bali is no different than a hundred thousand other island scattered throughout the Pacific basin. It’s people, culture, weather, infrastructure, amenities may vary from shoreline to shoreline but the atmosphere is still the same. It’s an island in the South Pacific with all the attributes those images can conjure up.

My one memorable experience on the island happened at the exclusive resort we stayed at. At that time, I was deep into producing cable television programs for several clients. I thought footage of exotic places like Bali would add credence and credibility to my programs.

So, with video camera in hand, I was strolling the shoreline, taking in the sights. Folks walking on the beach, sea birds fighting for space in the surf, kids playing in the sand, and ‘topless women’ lying on couches taking in the sun. I stopped my panning of the scene, looked out of the viewfinder into the eyes of several men about the leap out of their chairs for taping their half-naked girlfriends or wives.

A quick retreat was the only answer and, thank heavens, no one came after me. I had foolishly forgotten that a large percentage of tourists at the resort were French and German. Both groups espoused and embraced naturalism (nudism) as a natural way of relaxing on the beach. My bad, I could have been assaulted just for the sake of some great footage of birds, beaches, and breasts.

Then it was on to Hong Kong. Before the Chinese government cracked down on dissidents and systematically began to remove all vestiges of hundreds of years of British rule, Hong Kong was a wide open, cosmopolitan cornucopia of ethnic brands, sights and sounds. It was just as old Hollywood movies had portrayed it. The ancient Hong Kong all wrapped up into bright colors, banners, and costumes.

From the towering heights above the city, to the oceanfront board walk, to the ferries funneling folks back and forth between shorelines, Hong Kong was every cliché that’s been attached to it. It was at once, large, teeming with people but still offered quiet, (semi-secluded) corners from which to watch the world of people swirl by.

Yet, of all the sights and sounds of Asia, it was the quiet solitude of an ancient battlefield that held the most poignant memories for me. It was the realization of a fantasy I’d harbored since reading several novels back in high school. Two books by one of my favorite English authors, Alistair MacLean, began this life-long interest with World War Two; especially the early stages of Japanese conquest of the Far East.

Alistair MacLean’s first novel was entitled ‘H.M.S. Ulysses.’ It was based on the infamous Murmansk run. A dangerous convoy trip from America and England to send supplies to Russia. One of the most lethal convoys was the Murmansk Run across the North Atlantic and from Iceland to the Russian ports of Murmansk, Archangel, and Kola Inlet. It involved more hazards than in any other kind of naval duty. And, prior to the spring of 1943, when an effective Allied antisubmarine offensive got underway, ships and men making the so-called “Murmansk Run” had only a one in three chance of returning alive.

The icy waters of the North Atlantic and hunter-killer U-boats meant certain death to any crewman unlucky enough to have his ship torpedoed during the trip. Hence the great song by Woody Guthrie ‘The Rubin James.’

The second novel which tied directly to the fall of Singapore was entitled: ‘South by Java Head.’  Winston Churchill had called Singapore the “Gibraltar of the East.” An impregnable fortress at the heart of the British empire in the Far East.

Using the battlefield guide, I was able to retrace some of the more famous battle scenes and locations during the fall of Singapore. It was a surrealistic mental imagination-fueled return to the sights and sounds of those famous battles.

When the island fortress fell to Japanese forces on February 15^th 1941, it marked the beginning of the end for the British Empire’s extended colonies. The ‘jewel in the crown of the British Empire’, India, gained independence in 1947. Other British holdings followed: Burma in 1948, Malaya in 1957 and Singapore soon after. And it all began with the fall of Singapore.

I’ve already written a 30-page treatment for my own novel about the fall of Singapore. It’s entitled: ‘Siloso’, named after the last British fortress on the Island to fall to the invading Japanese soldiers. Right now, it patiently waits behind other treatments for plays, screenplays and novels each shuffling around in my brain, trying to grab my full attention and a place at the head of my ‘to do’ list. I’d like to believe that sometime soon I’ll be able to return to Singapore and begin retelling another exciting chapter in the history of that famous country.

Little French Church

Grade schools today come in all sizes and shapes. Most are large sentinels of education complete with gymnasiums, cafeterias, front offices and teacher’s lounges. My grade school squeezed two classrooms per room, an asphalt playground that over looked downtown Saint Paul and a sinister-looking police station next door. It was older than many of the buildings downtown and had served its students for well over a hundred years. At times, it seemed as if some of the nuns had been there even longer than that.

The Church of St. Louis, King of France Catholic Church, affectionately known as the ‘Little French Church,’ was founded in 1868. It was built to serve the French-speaking citizens of Saint Paul. Five years later, the church built a school called Ecole St. Louis.

I knew none of this when I first trudged up those stone steps as a first grader in 1949. It started with an early morning streetcar ride from Highland Park and culminated in sixteen years of Catholic education.  The whole experience proved a proverbial mix of academics, socialization, discipline, and a suppressive culture that was the clay that formed the person I am today.

photo credit: St. Louis Church

The grade school was beyond ancient by the time I got there. There were two classes per room.

The bathrooms were in basement along with the cafeteria with a kitchen smaller than most in modern homes today. The cloak room, if you could call it that, was in the back hallway and exits were old wooden rickety steps to the ground level. It was a fire trap waiting to happen which thankfully never happened.

My memories are sketchy from that period in my life. Augmented by old black and white photos and chats with my sister, images arise from which I can paint a picture of life as a grade schooler in old downtown Saint Paul.

photo credit: St. Louis Church

My memories of the nuns are the most poignant. There was the rotund Sister Paulet who shamed me in 2nd grade for sneaking a peek at my Davy Crocket comic book stashed in my desk. Sixth grade teacher Sister Roselia let me hang out the second story window and clean it after school. Fortunately another student was holding my legs so I didn’t drop to the asphalt below. There was the new nun who made a disparaging remark about our poverty because my sister and I were getting free clothes for confirmation. Finally I remember how I admired Sister Alfred Marie who was strict and stern but fair. The rest were all forgettable. They were some of the last stewards of Catholic education before major changes and upheavals shook their world of teaching. Their style of Catholic Education had reached its zenith and was slowly dying out.

Seven Corners from Cathedral Hill [photo credit: Jean Day]

As deeply ingrained as those memories are, so too are the long since forgotten or remembered landmarks along the way. There was the Tastee bread factory across the street whose whiffs of freshly baked bread distracted even the most ardent scholar of education. A large stone edifice to fighting crime was on the corner. Our asphalt playground offered sweeping view of old downtown Saint Paul. Tenement housing snaked its way up to the capitol while the last remnants of old turn of century mansions slowly crumbled away behind Capitol. The Nuns Rectory was across the street and Mechanic Arts High School several blocks away up the hill.

photo credit: Minnesota Historical Society

The one landmark I remember best was the new W.T. Grant Department store that I cut through each afternoon to catch the bus back home. A streetcar token cost ten cents and offered a daily tour of a changing cityscape. If I had time, I would walk a half block to Saint Paul Book and Stationary. I loved the smell of new books and exploring the myriad of titles awaiting me.

One book in particular stood out. It was a first novel by an English author named Alistair MacLean about the battle in the North Atlantic during World War Two. The book was entitled: H.M.S. Ulysses. I was hooked except that the three dollar and ninety-five cent price tag kept me at bay.

The city was on the cusp of major changes to its downtown core. There was just the beginnings of a shifting population away from the cities to the suburbs and social undercurrents that only hinted at the disruptions ahead. For a hungry horny youngster the siren call of rock and roll only added to the angst and anxiousness for the years ahead.

It was the beginning of the end of an era of pre-world war II buildings and an entire way of life for downtown residents. The first suburb, Roseville, was just beginning to grow and Larpentuer Avenue was no longer the end of civilization.

Walking along Seventh Street [Photo Credit: Minnesota Historical Society]

Walgreens [Photo Credit: Minnesota Historical Society]

White Castle [Photo Credit: Minnesota Historical Society]

Seven Corners in 1954 [Photo Credit: Minnesota Historical Society]

Grabbing the bus gave me a birds eye view of Walgreen Drugs with its ten cent candy bars. The Orpheum and Paramount theaters which I frequented in high school. Bridgeman’s Ice Cream for treats afterwards. White Castle and the Edsel dealership were down the road. Seven Corners was a crossroads with its old grocery story on one corner and the Wilder Youth Center across the street. Further down the road, Anchor Hospital was about to close and the Schmidt Brewery was bottling some of its last brew. The Pitney Building survived them all and still stands.

Graduation Photo - Class of 1957

Eight years of traveling on wicker-seated streetcars then graduating to leather-seated buses brought an end to my daily urban jaunt. No more year round altar boy duties every Sunday. No more sweating out those math tests. It ended my infatuation with fellow student Elaine in the third row-fourth desk down.

Cretin Military Officers Ball - 1961

The years ahead would prove more fortuitous with a Christian Brother education, military discipline and a first introduction to the opposite sex. It would go on to include military service, living abroad, career development and a hungry life never quite satisfied.

Postscript:

Not long ago the St. Louis church choir tried singing a few nontraditional songs. It didn’t last but for one Sunday. Pastor John Sajdak explained that “It’s the people who like traditional church music like the Gregorian chants, hymns and the traditional liturgy who come here.” I could only smile. Nothing much has changed after all these years.

I shed my vestments of obedience a long time ago; about the time I finished high school. Yet I can appreciate the rote and routine, the traditions and blind obedience that was demanded of us kids. It didn’t hurt and probably helped us in the long run.

Thanks for the memories, Sister Alfred Marie. Beneath that cloak of black and white, I’ll bet you were probably a pretty cool lady.